Page 4 of King of the Weld (The Morrison Brothers #1)

I lean against the wall of Ethan's bedroom, heart hammering in my chest as I listen to the brothers' conversation.

The room itself is pretty much empty: just a bed with a simple gray comforter, a dresser, and a nightstand with a lamp and a dog-eared paperback. No photos, no decorations, nothing that reveals the man who sleeps here.

Except for the smell. The whole room smells like him, metal and smoke and something deeper, earthier. It's strangely comforting.

When I hear the truck start up and drive away, I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Close call. I'm not ready to meet anyone else, to explain who I am or why I'm here. I barely understand it myself.

The door opens, and Ethan fills the frame, his massive shoulders nearly touching both sides. "He's gone."

"I heard," I say, pushing away from the wall. "Your brother seems... nice."

A hint of amusement crosses Ethan's face. "Jack's a pain in the ass, but yeah, he's alright."

"He cares about you," I point out, thinking of the concern in the younger brother's voice. "They all do, it sounds like."

Ethan shrugs, uncomfortable with the observation. "Family's complicated."

"You don't have to tell me that," I reply, following him back to the kitchen. "The Valentines wrote the book on complicated families."

He pours more coffee for both of us, then sits at the table. I join him, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.

"Tell me about them," he says. It's not quite a command, but there's an expectation in his tone that I'll answer.

I take a sip of coffee, gathering my thoughts. Where to even begin with the tangled mess that is the Valentine legacy?

"My great-grandfather built the family fortune in timber and mining," I start.

"Not exactly ethically, from what I understand.

My grandfather expanded into real estate and politics.

My father handles the empire now. Mostly investment portfolios, property development, and calling in favors from the politicians we own. "

"And you?" Ethan asks. "What's your role in all this?"

"Breeding stock," I say flatly, the bitterness I've spent years suppressing rising to the surface. "My only value to the family is in who I marry, what connections I can bring, what heirs I can produce."

Ethan's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping along his temple. "The man you were supposed to marry. Who is he?"

"Harrison Blackwood," I say, the name tasting like poison on my tongue. "His family owns banks, newspapers, half the commercial real estate in three counties. Old money, like us. The right pedigree."

"And he's a monster," Ethan says.

I nod, staring into my coffee. "He hides it well. Charming in public, generous with donations to the right causes. But I've seen what he does to women when no one's watching. How he talks about them. How he..." I swallow hard. "How he touched me when he thought no one could see."

Ethan's knuckles whiten around his mug. "Your family knows this?"

"They don't want to know," I correct him. "When I tried to tell my mother, she said all men have 'particular needs' and that a good wife learns to accommodate them." I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "She told me I should be grateful anyone would want to marry someone like me."

"Someone like you?" Ethan repeats, brow furrowed.

I gesture to myself. "Too tall. Too curvy.

Too opinionated. I've never fit the Valentine mold.

My cousin Isabelle is their ideal. Petite, demure, never questions anything.

She's married to a senator now, has two perfect children, and hosts charity luncheons where women like my mother can pretend they're making a difference while changing nothing. "

"There's nothing wrong with how you look," Ethan says, the statement so matter-of-fact that heat rises to my cheeks.

"Try telling that to my mother," I mutter. "She had me on diets from the time I was twelve. Nothing worked. This is just how I'm built. And the height..." I shrug. "Can't exactly make yourself shorter."

"Why would you want to?" Ethan asks, genuine confusion in his voice. "Most people would kill to be tall."

"Most women don't want to tower over every man they meet," I point out. "It makes men uncomfortable. Threatened."

Ethan snorts. "Weak men, maybe."

The simple dismissal of something I've been conditioned to see as a flaw leaves me momentarily speechless. I can’t help but stare at him. This man who makes me feel almost delicate despite my height, who seems completely unbothered by any aspect of my appearance.

"When was the wedding supposed to happen?" he asks, bringing me back to reality.

"Two days ago," I admit. "I ran the night before. They had me under guard at the estate, but I've been planning my escape for months. Small things—hiding away cash, learning the patrol schedules of the security team, figuring out which parts of the fence weren't monitored by cameras."

Ethan's eyebrows rise slightly. "Impressive."

"I had motivation," I say grimly. "Marriage to Harrison would be a life sentence. He doesn't want a wife; he wants a possession he can control and hurt whenever he feels like it."

Ethan is silent for a long moment, those intense eyes looking straight through me. "So what now?" he finally asks. "They'll be looking for you. The Valentines have resources, connections."

"I know." The thought sends a chill through me despite the warm coffee in my hands. "I need to get farther away. Change my appearance, find somewhere to hide until I can figure out a more permanent solution."

"Running isn't a plan," Ethan says. "It's a temporary fix at best."

"What choice do I have?" I ask, frustration creeping into my voice.

"I told you. I can't fight them legally.

My father has judges and lawyers in his pocket.

I have no money of my own, no friends they don't know about.

The only asset I have is my trust fund, and I can't access that until I'm thirty. Or until I marry," I add bitterly.

Ethan drums his fingers on the table, thinking. "You need leverage," he says finally. "Something that makes them back off."

"Like what? I don't have anything they want except me."

"Everyone has secrets," he replies. "Especially families like yours."

He's right, of course. The Valentines have generations of skeletons in their closets.

Deals made in shadows, problems that disappeared with the right amount of money or the right threats delivered to the right people.

But accessing that information would mean returning to the estate, to the family archives my father guards so jealously.

"Even if I knew their secrets," I say, "I don't have proof. It would be my word against theirs, and we know who society will believe."

Ethan nods, understanding the reality of power dynamics all too well. "Then we need to buy you time. Get you somewhere safe while we figure out next steps."

"We?" I repeat, not missing his choice of pronoun.

He looks almost surprised himself, as if the word slipped out unintentionally. "Figure of speech," he mutters, but I'm not convinced.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask, the question that's been on my mind since I woke up on his couch. "You don't know me. This isn't your problem."

Ethan is silent for so long I think he might not answer. When he does, his voice is low, almost reluctant. "I've seen what happens when people with power decide they own others. Seen it overseas, seen it here. Never sat right with me."

There's more to it than that. I can see it in the shadows that cross his face, the way his hand tightens around his mug, but I don't press. Everyone has their reasons, their history. Ethan Morrison certainly has his.

"I should go," I say, though the thought of leaving the safety of this cabin terrifies me. "I've put you at risk just by being here. If they track me to your property—"

"Let them try," Ethan interrupts, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. "This is my land. I know every inch of it, and I'm not afraid of men who hide behind money and connections."

The certainty in his voice should be comforting, but it only heightens my concern. "These aren't men you want as enemies, Ethan. My father doesn't fight fair. Neither does Harrison."

"You think I do?" Ethan asks, and there's something in his tone that reminds me he was a soldier, that he's seen and done things I can't imagine.

We fall into silence, the weight of the situation settling between us. Outside, clouds have gathered, darkening the sky. The distant rumble of thunder matches the storm brewing inside me—fear and hope and confusion all swirling together.

"I need to check those stitches," Ethan says eventually, nodding toward my feet. "Then we should talk about immediate next steps."

I extend my left foot, wincing slightly as he unwraps the bandage. His hands are a contradiction—huge and calloused from his work, yet capable of such gentleness. No one has ever handled me with such care before, as if I'm something valuable but not breakable.

"Looks clean," he says, examining the neat row of stitches. "You're lucky it didn't get infected out there."

"Lucky you found me," I correct him.

His eyes flick up to meet mine, and something passes between us. Then he looks away, focusing on rewrapping my foot.

"The rodeo job Jack mentioned," he says as he works. "It's in Pine Haven. I need to go there tomorrow to look at the project."

"I understand," I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. "I'll be gone before—"

"You're coming with me," he interrupts, surprising me. "Not safe for you to stay here alone, and even less safe for you to go off on your own with no money and injured feet."

"But won't people see me? Ask questions?"

He finishes with the bandage and sits back. "You need supplies. Clothes that fit, proper shoes, some basic necessities. And Pine Haven is small enough that strangers get noticed, but big enough that not everyone knows everyone else's business. We'll say you're my niece, visiting from out of state."

"Your niece?" I repeat skeptically. "I'm hardly young enough to be your niece."

Ethan shrugs. "People will believe what's easiest to believe. A single man my age with a beautiful young woman? They'll assume things I'd rather they didn't."

Beautiful. The casual way he says it, like it's an obvious fact rather than a compliment, makes heat pool between my legs.

"Besides," he continues, oblivious to my reaction, "it gives us a reason to be together without raising eyebrows. Family is simple."

I almost laugh at that. "Nothing about family is simple in my experience."

"Fair point," he concedes, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

I find myself wishing he would do it more often, then immediately chastise myself for the thought. This isn't the time to be noticing Ethan Morrison's smile, or his hands, or the way his voice drops lower when he's thinking deeply.

"We should leave early," he says, standing to clear our mugs. "Beat the morning traffic, such as it is."

I nod, then hesitate. "Ethan? What if they find me in Pine Haven?"

He turns to face me, his expression serious. "They won't. But if they somehow do..." He doesn't finish the sentence, but the set of his jaw tells me everything I need to know. Ethan Morrison would fight for me.

"Why?" I ask again, needing to understand.

He's quiet for a moment, considering his answer.

"Everyone deserves the chance to choose their own path," he says finally. "To be free. Some of us fight wars for that idea. Seems wrong to ignore it when it's happening in our own backyard."

It's not the whole truth—I can sense that—but it's enough for now. Enough to know that in Ethan, I've found not just shelter, but an ally. Perhaps even a friend, though I suspect he would balk at the term.

Thunder rumbles closer, and rain begins to patter against the windows.

Ethan moves to stoke the fire, his broad back to me as he works.

In the glow of the flames, I study the tattoo on his arm—Zeus, king of gods, his face etched in remarkable detail across Ethan's bicep.

The craftsmanship is impressive, but there's something sad about the god's expression, something that mirrors the shadows I sometimes glimpse in Ethan's eyes.

"You should rest," he says without turning around. "Tomorrow will be a long day."

"What about you?" I ask, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the tension he carries on his shoulders.

"I'll be fine."

The dismissal is clear, but I push anyway. "Do you ever actually sleep, Ethan?"

His hands pause on the poker, and for a moment I think I've overstepped. Then his shoulders slump slightly, a small concession.

"Not much," he admits. "Not for years now."

"Because of what happened overseas?" I ask softly.

He straightens, setting the poker aside. "You ask a lot of questions, Sophia Valentine."

"Sorry," I say, the reflex of a lifetime spent being told I'm too curious, too direct, too much.

"Don't be," he says, surprising me. "Just don't expect answers to all of them."

Fair enough. We all have our boundaries, our protected spaces. I'm learning that Ethan's are more fortified than most. Walls built not just to keep others out, but perhaps to keep something inside as well.

The rain intensifies, drumming against the roof in a soothing rhythm. Despite the uncertainty of my situation, despite the fear that still lingers at the edges of my consciousness, I feel safe here in this cabin with this enigmatic man who rescued me from the woods and my own desperate flight.

Tomorrow we'll go to Pine Haven. Tomorrow I'll take the first real steps toward building a new life, one where I make my own choices. But for now, I'm content to sit by the fire, listening to the rain and watching Ethan Morrison move about his cabin, a quiet sentinel against the gathering storm.