It belonged to a defunct inner circle, a covert division that existed briefly, dangerously, during a violent era the Iron Seraphs rarely acknowledged. Only a handful of men ever bore it, and fewer still lived long enough to regret it.
Rowan’s expression hardened, not with anger, but with recognition edged in dread. He leaned forward, lowering his voice until it barely carried past the booth.
“Say that again,” he said.
The girl swallowed, her chin lifting as if daring herself not to break. “My father,” she repeated, “had that tattoo. He said it meant you never walked alone. Even after.”
The words struck deeper than she could have known.
Rowan stood slowly, the bench creaking beneath his weight, and moved around the table until he was in front of her, kneeling so they were eye level, his imposing frame shrinking into something gentler, something human.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lena Hart.”
The name rippled across the table with delayed force.
Elias went pale. Jude closed his eyes. Mason whispered a curse under his breath.
