Page 2 of King of the Weld
I take the mug, wrapping my fingers around its warmth. "Where am I?"
"About fifteen miles outside of Pine Haven."
The name means nothing to me. How far have I run? Far enough, I hope.
"Your feet are a mess," he says bluntly. "I cleaned them up while you were out, but you'll need proper medical attention."
I look down to see my feet bandaged with clean white gauze. The thought of this stranger, this large, intimidating man, tending to my wounds while I was unconscious sends an odd shiver through me.
"I can't go to a doctor," I say quickly.
His eyes narrow. "You in some kind of trouble?"
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "You could say that."
Ethan runs a hand through his short black hair, sighing heavily. "Look, I don't need complications. I like my life quiet."
"I'll leave in the morning," I promise, though I have no idea where I'll go. "Just... please, let me stay tonight. Please."
Something flickers in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. The look of someone who understands what it means to be hunted.
"One night," he agrees. "Then we figure something else out."
One night of safety. It's more than I dared hope for.
Ethan turns away, moving to stoke the fire. The flames cast his profile in golden light, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the set of his shoulders: tense, as if perpetually braced for impact.
"Thank you," I whisper again.
He doesn't look back, just gives a short nod. "Get some rest, Sophie Vale. You look like you need it."
I sink back against the cushions, clutching the tea between my palms. For the first time in days, perhaps years, I feel something like safety. It won't last, I know that. Nothing good ever does in my experience. But for tonight, in this strange cabin with this enigmatic man, I allow myself to breathe.
Tomorrow, the running continues. But tonight, I rest.
Chapter 2 - Ethan
I don't sleep.
I haven't really slept right in years. Instead, I sit in the chair across from the couch, watching the woman who calls herself Sophie Vale as she finally gives in to exhaustion.
She's lying. About her name, at least. I've gotten good at spotting liars. I had to, overseas. The wrong trust given at the wrong time could get people killed. But whatever her real name is, the fear in her eyes is genuine enough. She's running from something serious.
Not my problem, I remind myself. I've got enough demons of my own without taking on someone else's.
Dawn breaks slowly, painting my cabin in shades of gray and gold. I've been up for hours already, splitting wood outside to burn off the restless energy that always builds during the night.
The rhythm of the ax—the swing, the crack, the split—quiets my mind in the same way the forge does. It's simple. Predictable. Unlike people.
I pause and check on her again through the window. Still sleeping, curled tight under the blanket like she's trying to make herself smaller. Strange habit for a woman her size. She's tall, remarkably so, with curves that her tattered dress can't hide.
The coffee is just finishing when I hear her stir. I pour two mugs and turn to find her standing in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak. Her feet are still bandaged, but I can see spots of red bleeding through the gauze.
"Morning," I say, holding out a mug. "Black okay?"
She nods, taking it. "Thank you."
Her voice is softer now, less raspy with sleep and dehydration.
