She didn’t look at the empty booths or the counter stools, didn’t ask for help or hesitate in confusion. Her gaze locked immediately onto the corner, onto the five men who had learned to disappear in plain sight, and she began walking toward them with deliberate, measured steps.
“Is she serious?” Cole muttered, his fork hovering uselessly over his plate.
“She’s not lost,” Mason said, his voice dropping. “She knows exactly where she’s going.”
Rowan straightened slightly as the girl stopped a few feet from the table, directly in front of him, close enough that he could see the faint smudge of dirt on her cheek, the way her hands trembled despite her squared shoulders. His right forearm rested on the table, the ink there dark and unmistakable: a black-winged sigil, sharp lines forming a symbol known only to a few, worn by men who had survived a very specific chapter of the club’s past.
“Hey there,” Rowan said carefully, his voice low but even, neither inviting nor dismissive. “You need something, kid?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lifted her hand, pointed directly at the tattoo, her finger shaking just enough to betray how hard she was holding herself together, and when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but clear, carrying far more weight than its volume suggested.
“My dad had that same tattoo.”
Silence collapsed over the diner like a dropped curtain.
Elias froze with his mug halfway to his mouth, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Cole’s fork clattered onto his plate. Mason’s phone slipped from his grip, hitting the table with a dull thud. Jude leaned forward for the first time since sitting down, his eyes narrowing not with suspicion, but with something closer to shock.
That mark wasn’t decorative. It wasn’t common. It wasn’t even worn anymore.
