Page 1 of King of the Weld
Chapter 1 - Sophia
I can't feel my feet anymore, which is probably a blessing.
The sharp pain of rocks and twigs has given way to a dull numbness that matches the fog in my brain. How long have I been running? Three days? Four? The woods blur together, an endless maze of trees and shadows.
My wedding dress, once a monstrosity of silk and lace worth more than some people's homes, hangs in tatters around my legs. I tore off the train on the first day, ripped away the layers of petticoats on the second. Now it's just a dirty white shift, stained with mud and blood. My blood.
"Just a little farther," I whisper to myself, though I have no destination in mind. Away. That's all I know. Away from the estate, away from my parents, away from Reginald Blackwood III and his cold, possessive hands.
Rain begins to fall, gentle at first, then harder. The droplets feel like needles against my skin, but I welcome the clean scent, the way it washes some of the grime from my face. I tilt my head back and let it soak my tangled hair, drinking what I can catch in my mouth.
I stumble, my legs trembling beneath me. How much longer before I collapse? Before they find me? Before I die out here, a Valentine who finally chose freedom over family obligation?
Through the curtain of rain, I spot something. A light. Warm and golden, cutting through the gray dusk. A cabin, nestled against the mountainside, smoke curling from its chimney.
People mean danger. People might recognize me, might call my father. The Valentines are well-known in these parts. Our family money touching everything, everyone. But my body makesthe decision for me, lurching forward toward that promise of warmth, of shelter.
As I draw closer, I hear a rhythmic clanging. Metal on metal, steady as a heartbeat. The sound grows louder as I approach what appears to be a workshop attached to the cabin. Through a large window, I see fire. Not a cozy hearth, but a blazing forge, sparks flying as a massive figure brings a hammer down on glowing metal.
I freeze, mesmerized. The man works with his back to me, shoulders broad as a mountain range, each movement powerful yet precise. He's shirtless despite the cool evening, skin glistening with sweat, muscles shifting beneath a canvas of tattoos. From here, I can make out what looks like the face of Zeus on his right shoulder, fierce and weathered.
Something about the scene feels ancient, mythical, like I've stumbled upon a God working in his forge. The thought almost makes me laugh. The gods haven't done me any favors so far.
A wave of dizziness hits me. I reach out to steady myself against a tree, but my hand slips on the wet bark. I fall to my knees with a cry I can't suppress, and suddenly the clanging stops.
I look up to see the man framed in the doorway of his workshop, hammer still in hand. He's impossibly tall. Taller even than me, which is saying something. For once in my life, I have to look up to meet someone's eyes. And what eyes they are—dark and intense, narrowed with suspicion as they take in the bedraggled stranger at the edge of his property.
I try to stand, to run, but my legs won't cooperate. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is the blacksmith moving toward me, an eyebrow raised.
I don't expect to wake up. Part of me hopes I won't. But consciousness returns slowly, bringing with it the sensation of warmth and the crackling sound of a fire. I'm lying on something soft—a couch, maybe—covered with a thick blanket that smells of wood smoke and metal.
"You planning on sleeping all night, or are you going to tell me why there's a barefoot bride on my property?"
The voice is deep, rough around the edges like stone, but not unkind. I open my eyes to find the blacksmith sitting in a chair across from me, elbows resting on his knees, those intense eyes staring at me.
Up close, he's even more intimidating. Jaw shadowed with a nice beard, lines etched around his eyes and mouth speaking of years and hardships I can only imagine. I'd guess him to be in his early forties, though something about him feels older, as if he's lived several lifetimes already.
"I'm not a bride," I say, my voice a raspy whisper.
One dark eyebrow arches. "That dress tells a different story."
I look down at the filthy remains of my wedding gown and feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I was supposed to be. I ran instead."
He doesn't smile. "Got a name?"
I hesitate. Giving my real name feels dangerous. "Sophie," I say finally, shortening it slightly. "Sophie... Vale."
I have the distinct impression he knows I'm lying, at least partially. But he nods. "Ethan Morrison."
Ethan. The name fits him—simple, strong, unpretentious.
"Thank you," I say, gesturing vaguely at the blanket, the shelter. "For not leaving me out there."
"Didn't have much choice. You were half-dead on my doorstep." He stands, and I'm again struck by his height.
My entire life, I've been the tall girl, the one who towers over others, who can never find a man to make her feel delicate. At six foot one, I've learned to slouch, to make myself smaller. But Ethan must be at least six-four, broad enough to make me feel almost dainty by comparison.
He moves to a small kitchen area, returning with a mug of something steaming. "Drink this. It's just tea, but you look like you could use it."
