Page 8 of King of the Weld (The Morrison Brothers #1)

I guide Sophia into the cabin, aware of her weight against my side, the subtle trembling in her frame. The confrontation has shaken her, though not as much as it might have. There's steel in this woman. The same kind I've seen in soldiers who've survived against impossible odds.

"Sit," I tell her, easing her onto the couch. "I need to check if they got inside."

A quick sweep of the cabin confirms my suspicions. They'd tried to enter. The lock on the back door shows scratch marks from amateur lockpicking, but my security measures held. The windows are intact, and nothing has been disturbed inside. Small mercies.

When I return to the living room, Sophia is sitting exactly where I left her, staring at her hands in her lap.

"They didn't get in," I assure her. "Everything's secure."

She nods but doesn't look up. "This is just the beginning," she says quietly. "You don't know them like I do, Ethan. My father doesn't lose."

"Neither do I," I reply, though the bravado feels hollow even to my own ears.

I flex my right hand, feeling the sting of split knuckles from the impact with Richard Valentine's jaw.

Blood has dried in a thin crust across my knuckles, the ache of properly delivered blows settling into my bones.

It's been years since I've had to use those skills in civilian life, but the muscle memory never leaves you.

Sophia notices the movement, her eyes widening at the sight of blood. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing," I dismiss, but she's already on her feet, limping toward me.

"Let me see," she insists, taking my hand in both of hers. Her touch is gentle as she examines the damage, turning my hand to catch the light. "You need to clean this."

"I've had worse paper cuts," I try to joke, but her expression remains serious.

"Sit," she orders, using my own command against me. "Where's your first aid kit?"

I find myself obeying, sinking into the chair as she retrieves the kit from the bathroom. There's something disarming about her concern, about having someone fuss over injuries I would normally ignore.

She returns with the kit and a damp cloth, kneeling in front of me despite her own injured feet. Before I can protest, she's cleaning the blood from my knuckles.

"This isn't the first time you've done this," I observe.

A sad smile touches her lips. "My mother believed a proper lady should know basic nursing skills. 'You never know when you'll need to patch up a husband too proud to see a doctor,'" she mimics, her voice taking on a prim tone I assume belongs to the Valentine matriarch.

"Sounds like she was preparing you for Harrison," I say before I can stop myself.

Sophia's hands pause momentarily, then resume their work. "Yes," she agrees softly. "I suppose she was."

I watch her as she works, this woman who was raised to be an accessory to men like Harrison Blackwood—decorative, useful, silent. Yet here she is, defiant and determined, choosing a different path despite the forces aligned against her.

"Thank you," she says suddenly, still focused on bandaging my hand. "For what you did out there. For standing up to them."

"They were trespassing," I reply simply. "Anyone would have done the same."

She shakes her head. "No, they wouldn't. Most people would have seen my father's car, recognized who he was, and handed me over with apologies for the inconvenience."

She's not wrong. Edward Valentine's name carries weight in these parts. The kind of weight that makes people bend, accommodate, look the other way.

"I'm not most people," I say.

"No," she agrees, meeting my eyes as she finishes with the bandage. "You're not."

"Sheriff will be here soon," I say, standing abruptly. "I need to make a call to one of my brothers before he arrives."

Sophia nods, gathering the first aid supplies. "I'll put these away."

I step onto the porch, pulling my cell phone from my pocket. The number I need isn't in my contacts. I don't call often enough to justify saving it, but I've memorized it, along with the numbers for all my brothers. Just in case.

Michael answers on the third ring.

"Ethan?" His voice carries the surprise and concern that colors all our infrequent conversations. "Everything okay?"

"Not exactly," I admit, scanning the tree line out of habit. Old instincts die hard. "I've got a situation that might require your particular skillset."

"My skillset?" he repeats, suddenly more alert. "What kind of trouble are you in?"

"Not me," I clarify. "Someone I'm helping. Sophia Valentine."

There's a pause, then a low whistle. "Valentine? As in Edward Valentine's daughter?"

"The same," I confirm, surprised by his immediate recognition. "You know them?"

"Know them?" Michael laughs without humor. "Morrison International does business with Valentine Enterprises on three different continents. Edward sits on the board of a tech company I acquired last year. We're not friends, but we're definitely in the same circles."

"So, you won't help," I conclude, disappointment settling heavy in my chest.

"I didn't say that," Michael corrects me quickly. "What's the situation exactly?"

I give him the condensed version. Sophia's escape from an arranged marriage, her arrival at my property, her father's attempt to reclaim her by force. I leave out some of the more violent details, but Michael knows me well enough to read between the lines.

"And you're involved because...?" he prompts when I finish.

"Because she needed help," I say simply. "Because it was the right thing to do."

Michael is silent for a moment, and I can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose, a gesture he's had since childhood when thinking through complex problems.

"What do you need from me?" he finally asks.

"Leverage," I reply. "Something that will make Edward Valentine back off, let his daughter live her own life."

Another silence, longer this time. When Michael speaks again, his voice has shifted to what David calls his "business mode", focused and calculating.

"I might have something better than leverage. I have direct influence."

"What do you mean?"

"Valentine Enterprises and Morrison International are partners in a new development project in Singapore.

Hundred-million-dollar deal, with the potential for billions more in the Asian market over the next decade.

" Michael's voice takes on an edge I rarely hear from my typically easy-going brother.

"It's a deal Edward needs badly, more badly than he's let on to his business associates.

From what my team has gathered, the Valentine finances aren't what they once were. "

"Sophia mentioned that," I confirm. "Said the marriage was partly about the Blackwood money."

"That tracks," Michael says. "The Blackwoods are old money, conservative investors.

They've weathered economic downturns better than the Valentines, who've made some aggressive moves that haven't paid off.

" He pauses. "If I were to suggest that Morrison International is reconsidering its position in the Singapore project due to concerns about the Valentine family's. .. ethical standards..."

I catch his meaning immediately. "You'd threaten to pull out of the deal unless he leaves Sophia alone."

"Not threaten," Michael corrects. "Simply make it clear that our company values align with partners who respect individual autonomy and human rights. Including the right of a grown woman to choose her own path in life."

"Would you really do that?" I ask, surprised by his willingness to leverage a major business deal. "Isn't that risking a lot of money?"

Michael snorts. "The deal is more important to him than to me, Ethan.

Morrison International has diversified interests across seventeen countries.

We can absorb the loss of one project. Edward Valentine, from what my financial team tells me, cannot.

Especially not with the rumors already circulating about Valentine Enterprises' liquidity issues. "

I'm reminded once again that beneath my brother's charming exterior lies a shrewd businessman who built a global empire from the ground up. Michael plays in a different league than most, a league that includes men like Edward Valentine.

"No lawyers needed, then?" I ask, trying to process this unexpected development.

"Oh, lawyers are always useful," Michael says. "But in this case, I think a simple business conversation will be more effective. Edward understands money and power. Those are the languages he speaks fluently."

Relief washes over me. Not just at the potential solution, but at the realization that I'm not facing this alone. "Thank you, Michael. I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything," he counters firmly. "But Ethan, there's something you should know about Harrison Blackwood."

The shift in his tone puts me on alert. "What about him?"

"He's got a reputation in certain circles. Nothing that makes the papers, but... there have been women. Women who've been paid significant sums for their silence about his behavior."

A cold anger settles in my gut. "What kind of behavior?"

"The kind that leaves marks," Michael says grimly. "The kind that powerful men have been getting away with for centuries. If Sophia was trying to avoid marriage to him, she had good reason."

I think of the fear in Sophia's eyes when she spoke of Harrison, the way she referred to him as a monster.

"I know," I say quietly.

"I'll make the call to Edward today," Michael promises. "In the meantime, stay alert. Men like Valentine don't like to be cornered, and they often lash out before retreating."

"I'm aware of the risks," I say stiffly.

"Are you?" Michael challenges. "Because from where I'm sitting, this sounds like Afghanistan all over again. You throwing yourself in front of bullets meant for someone else."

The comparison hits too close to home. "This isn't a war zone, Michael."

"No," he agrees, "but wealth and power create their own kind of battlefield. And from what I know of Edward Valentine, he doesn't leave survivors."