Page 4 of King of the Weld
I stand, putting distance between us as I wash my hands in the sink. The silence stretches, not entirely uncomfortable but loaded with unasked questions.
"You need clothes," I add, drying my hands on a dish towel. "And food. I've got some of my brother's things that might fit you. He's not as tall, but they'll be better than that dress."
"Your brother?"
"Youngest one. Jack. He crashes here sometimes between rodeos."
"You have other brothers?" she asks, and there's something almost wistful in her voice.
"Three total. All pains in my ass in their own special ways." The comment draws a small smile from her.
I retrieve a flannel shirt and jeans from the spare room, tossing them to her along with a belt. "Bathroom's through there if you want to clean up. Towels under the sink."
She catches the clothes, clutching them to her chest like I've handed her gold. "Thank you. I... I don't know how to repay you."
"Not looking for repayment," I say gruffly. "Just the truth would be nice."
Her eyes widen slightly, and I see her throat work as she swallows. "What do you mean?"
"For starters, your real name would be good."
She hesitates, fingers tightening on the clothes. "Sophia," she says finally. "Sophia Valentine."
The name registers immediately. Everyone in this part of the country knows the Valentines—old money, massive estate about fifty miles south of here. The kind of family that has their name on hospital wings and university buildings.
"Valentine," I repeat. "As in—"
"Yes," she cuts me off. "Those Valentines."
Well, shit. This complicates things. If she's running from her family, there will be resources behind the search. Money, connections, possibly even law enforcement. The Valentines don't lose things that belong to them, and from what I know of that world, daughters are possessions more than people.
"The wedding dress," I say, putting it together. "Arranged marriage?"
She nods, looking down at her bandaged feet. "To a monster with the right bloodline and bank account."
I've known men like that. Entitled, cruel, hiding behind family names and social standing. I’ve seen them in every country I've served in, wearing different clothes but all the same underneath.
"They'll be looking for you," I say. Not a question.
"Yes." Her voice is small but resolute. "My father doesn't accept failure. Or disobedience."
I run a hand over my face, feeling the beard rasp against my palm. This is exactly the kind of complication I don't need in my life. I left society behind for a reason: to keep my darkness contained, to protect others from what combat turned me into. The last thing I need is to get involved in some high-society family drama.
And yet.
"Go clean up," I tell her, turning toward the stove. "I'll make breakfast. Then we'll figure out next steps."
She stands, testing her weight on her bandaged feet. "You're still helping me?" The surprise in her voice speaks volumes about the kind of treatment she's used to.
I shrug, not looking at her. "Helping might be overstating it. But I'm not throwing you back to the wolves. Not today, anyway."
I hear her move toward the bathroom, the uneven shuffle of her steps revealing how much pain she's still in despite her brave face. At the doorway, she pauses.
"Ethan?"
I glance over my shoulder.
"Thank you. For not... For seeing me."
