Chapter 3 - The Broken BenchJonah didn't move an inch toward Miller. He stood beside his planing bench, his hands kept flat, open, and resting on his leather belt—a habit he had maintained since he was fifteen years old to ensure his strength was never perceived as a physical threat.
"My easement is legally filed with the Rutland County Clerk, Miller," Jonah said quietly, his voice low, velvet, and absolute. "If your father wants to dispute the access road, he can have his corporate attorneys contact Claire in our legal office."
Miller let out a loud, harsh laugh—a sound that echoed nastily off the timber rafters of the workshop.
He took three steps closer to Jonah, stopping two feet away, looking up at my husband’s six-foot-eight frame with a cold, desperate jealousy that had clearly festered since high school.
"You're still hiding behind paperwork, aren't you, Jonah?" Miller sneered, leaning in close, his voice dropping into a venomous whisper. "Just like you hid after you put your own brother Luke in the ICU fifteen years ago. Everyone in this town knows what you are. A dangerous freak who's one bad temper away from snapping someone's neck."
I felt the blood drain from my face. White-hot rage ignited in my chest. "Miller! Get out of our workshop right now before I call the Sheriff!"
Miller ignored me completely. He reached out his hand, deliberately slapping the hand-planed black-walnut table, leaving a greasy dirt smear across the pristine, hand-rubbed oil finish.
"Look at him," Miller laughed bitterly, turning to his two men. "He won't even raise his voice. He's terrified of his own hands. How does it feel, Claire? Sleeping beside a monster who's too scared to hold a beer bottle because he thinks he'll crush it?"
Jonah’s jaw clenched so hard the jaw muscle twitched sharply along his cheek. His storm-gray eyes went dark, but he didn't raise a fist. He didn't shout.
He slowly turned his head toward the heavy white-oak workbench beside him—a five-hundred-pound solid timber bench held together by steel bolts.
Jonah laid his open right hand flat onto the edge of the five-inch-thick oak bench.
With a single, unhurried, terrifying flex of his shoulder, Jonah lifted the five-hundred-pound bench six inches off the concrete floor, slid it three feet to the left with a deafening, scraping CRACK, and set it down flat with a force that shook the dust from the rafters.
The entire workshop went dead, breathlessly quiet.
Miller Vance staggered backward against the doorway, his dirty boots catching on the floor, his face going completely paper-white as he stared at the giant who had just moved a quarter-ton of timber like it was a cardboard box.
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"The easement remains open, Miller," Jonah spoke softly, his storm-gray eyes fixed on Miller’s terrified face. "Leave my property."
Miller didn't say another word. He turned on his heel, stumbling out through the heavy wooden doors into the autumn rain, his two men sprinting right behind him.
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