Page 7 of King of the Weld
Except for the smell. The whole room smells like him, metal and smoke and something deeper, earthier. It's strangely comforting.
When I hear the truck start up and drive away, I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Close call. I'm not ready to meet anyone else, to explain who I am or why I'm here. I barely understand it myself.
The door opens, and Ethan fills the frame, his massive shoulders nearly touching both sides. "He's gone."
"I heard," I say, pushing away from the wall. "Your brother seems... nice."
A hint of amusement crosses Ethan's face. "Jack's a pain in the ass, but yeah, he's alright."
"He cares about you," I point out, thinking of the concern in the younger brother's voice. "They all do, it sounds like."
Ethan shrugs, uncomfortable with the observation. "Family's complicated."
"You don't have to tell me that," I reply, following him back to the kitchen. "The Valentines wrote the book on complicated families."
He pours more coffee for both of us, then sits at the table. I join him, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
"Tell me about them," he says. It's not quite a command, but there's an expectation in his tone that I'll answer.
I take a sip of coffee, gathering my thoughts. Where to even begin with the tangled mess that is the Valentine legacy?
"My great-grandfather built the family fortune in timber and mining," I start. "Not exactly ethically, from what I understand. My grandfather expanded into real estate and politics. My father handles the empire now. Mostly investment portfolios, property development, and calling in favors from the politicians we own."
"And you?" Ethan asks. "What's your role in all this?"
"Breeding stock," I say flatly, the bitterness I've spent years suppressing rising to the surface. "My only value to the family is in who I marry, what connections I can bring, what heirs I can produce."
Ethan's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping along his temple. "The man you were supposed to marry. Who is he?"
"Harrison Blackwood," I say, the name tasting like poison on my tongue. "His family owns banks, newspapers, half the commercial real estate in three counties. Old money, like us. The right pedigree."
"And he's a monster," Ethan says.
I nod, staring into my coffee. "He hides it well. Charming in public, generous with donations to the right causes. But I've seen what he does to women when no one's watching. How he talks about them. How he..." I swallow hard. "How he touched me when he thought no one could see."
Ethan's knuckles whiten around his mug. "Your family knows this?"
"They don't want to know," I correct him. "When I tried to tell my mother, she said all men have 'particular needs' and that a good wife learns to accommodate them." I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "She told me I should be grateful anyone would want to marry someone like me."
"Someone like you?" Ethan repeats, brow furrowed.
I gesture to myself. "Too tall. Too curvy. Too opinionated. I've never fit the Valentine mold. My cousin Isabelle is their ideal. Petite, demure, never questions anything. She's married to a senator now, has two perfect children, and hosts charity luncheons where women like my mother can pretend they're making a difference while changing nothing."
"There's nothing wrong with how you look," Ethan says, the statement so matter-of-fact that heat rises to my cheeks.
"Try telling that to my mother," I mutter. "She had me on diets from the time I was twelve. Nothing worked. This is just how I'm built. And the height..." I shrug. "Can't exactly make yourself shorter."
"Why would you want to?" Ethan asks, genuine confusion in his voice. "Most people would kill to be tall."
"Most women don't want to tower over every man they meet," I point out. "It makes men uncomfortable. Threatened."
Ethan snorts. "Weak men, maybe."
The simple dismissal of something I've been conditioned to see as a flaw leaves me momentarily speechless. I can’t help but stare at him. This man who makes me feel almost delicate despite my height, who seems completely unbothered by any aspect of my appearance.
"When was the wedding supposed to happen?" he asks, bringing me back to reality.
"Two days ago," I admit. "I ran the night before. They had me under guard at the estate, but I've been planning my escape for months. Small things—hiding away cash, learning the patrol schedules of the security team, figuring out which parts of the fence weren't monitored by cameras."
