Page 15 of King of the Weld
Three vehicles are parked in front of Ethan's cabin. A black SUV with tinted windows that I recognize immediately as my father's, a silver Mercedes that belongs to Harrison, and a blue truck that must be my cousin Richard's. They've found me.
"Stop," I gasp, clutching Ethan's arm. "That's them. My father. Harrison. We need to turn around."
Ethan slows the truck but doesn't turn around. His expression hardens as he takes in the situation, jaw tightening and eyes narrowing to dangerous slits.
"How many? My vision isn’t as good as it used to be." He asks, voice calm despite the tension radiating from him.
"At least three," I say, heart hammering in my chest. "My father, Harrison, and probably my cousin Richard. There might be others, security personnel."
Ethan pulls his truck to a stop about fifty yards from the cabin, assessing the situation. I can see figures moving on his porch. My father's tall, imposing silhouette unmistakable even at this distance.
"Stay in the truck," Ethan instructs, his voice taking on a quality I haven't heard before—commanding, absolute. "Lock the doors. If anything happens, drive away. Keys are in the ignition."
"Ethan, no," I plead, grabbing his arm again. "You don't understand. They're dangerous. My father—"
"Is trespassing on my property," Ethan finishes for me. "Along with the man you ran away from. I understand perfectly."
He reaches behind his back, checking the gun I know is holstered there, then meets my eyes. "Trust me, Sophia. Can you do that?"
I search his face, those dark eyes that have seen combat, that understand violence in ways I never will. After a moment, I nod. "Be careful."
"Always am," he says, then exits the truck.
I lock the doors as instructed, watching through the windshield as Ethan approaches his own home like a soldier entering enemy territory. Alert, controlled, dangerous in his calm. I've never seen him move like this before. The blacksmith I've come to know over the past two days is gone, replaced by the warrior he once was.
My father spots him first, straightening to his full height. Impressive by normal standards but still several inches shorter than Ethan. Even from this distance, I can read the dismissive assessment in my father's posture, the assumption that this mountain man is no threat to Edward Valentine's plans.
He has no idea what he's facing.
I can't hear the exchange that follows, but I can see my father gesturing, then pointing toward the truck where I sit. Harrison steps forward, his handsome face twisted with an expression I know too well—entitlement mixed with rage. Richard hovers nearby, hand inside his jacket in a way that makes my blood run cold. He's armed, almost certainly.
Ethan stands his ground, arms at his sides, seemingly relaxed but ready. He shakes his head once, definitively. Even without hearing the words, I know he's refusing to hand me over.
Harrison moves closer, jabbing a finger into Ethan's chest, a fatal mistake. Ethan's hand moves faster than I can track, capturing Harrison's wrist and twisting until my would-be husband drops to one knee, face contorted in pain.
Richard reaches into his jacket, but Ethan is already moving. He releases Harrison with a shove that sends him sprawling, then closes the distance to Richard in two long strides. A blur of movement, and Richard is on the ground, Ethan standing over him with Richard's own gun in his hand.
My father backs away, hands raised in a placating gesture that looks foreign on the man who has terrorized me my entire life. Ethan says something to him, pointing toward the vehicles with the gun still in his hand.
For a moment, I think it's over for now. They'll leave, regroup, come up with a new strategy. Then Harrison lunges from behind, attempting to tackle Ethan.
What follows is almost too fast to comprehend. Ethan sidesteps, and Harrison stumbles forward, off-balance, and Ethan redirects his momentum with a controlled strike that sends Harrison crashing into the porch steps.
Richard tries to rise, but Ethan delivers a precise kick that keeps him grounded. My father makes a move toward the SUV—for a weapon, I assume—but Ethan is there in an instant, blocking his path.
Words are exchanged. My father's face darkens with fury. Ethan stands immovable, a mountain against my father's storm.
After what feels like an eternity but can only be minutes, my father signals to the others. Richard helps Harrison to his feet, both men moving gingerly, pride wounded more severely than their bodies. They retreat to their vehicles, casting venomous glances back at Ethan, who watches impassively, gun still in hand.
My father is the last to leave, saying something to Ethan that makes the blacksmith's posture stiffen slightly. Then he too climbs into his SUV, and the small convoy backs out, disappearing down the gravel road.
I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding, hands shaking as I unlock the truck door. Ethan watches until the vehicles are completely out of sight before returning to me, his movements once again those of the blacksmith rather than the warrior.
"Are you okay?" he asks as he opens my door, eyes scanning me for any sign of distress.
"Am I okay?" I repeat incredulously. "Ethan, you just... they could have..." I struggle to find words for what I just witnessed. "What did my father say to you at the end?"
"Nothing worth repeating. Empty threats."
