Chapter 1: The Tag on the Table
The name on the back of the heavy silver tag seemed to burn straight through Bear’s thick callouses. Jackson “Jax” Miller. Iron Hounds MC. Forever.
Bear didn't move. He didn't blink. The massive, bearded president of the Iron Hounds Motorcycle Club simply stared at the seven-year-old girl standing in the aisle of the diner.
Behind Mia, Brenda the waitress took a slow, terrified step backward. The entire diner had gone graveyard still. The morning breakfast crowd, usually filled with the clatter of silverware and the murmur of local gossip, was entirely silent, every eye fixed on the corner booth.
Prophet, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, leaned over Bear’s massive shoulder, his eyes narrowing as he read the engraving. Prophet’s breath caught. He looked up at the little girl, his weathered, scarred face turning remarkably pale.
"That's impossible," Prophet whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the neon beer sign in the window. "Jax died five years ago. He never had any kids."
Bear didn't answer Prophet. He kept his dark eyes locked on the little girl in the oversized coat. She was trembling. Her small hands were curled into tight fists at her sides, the fraying cuffs of the jacket hanging down past her knuckles. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, and a faint purple bruise was fading on her left cheekbone.
"You said your name was Mia?" Bear asked, his voice dropping into a low, surprisingly gentle register that no one in the diner had ever heard him use.
Mia nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
"And you're telling me Jax Miller was your father?"
"Yes, sir," Mia repeated, her voice cracking. "He died in a motorcycle crash. A truck crossed the center line in the rain."
Bear felt a cold weight drop into his stomach. That was exactly how Jax had died. Five years ago, on a slick stretch of Highway 40. The club had buried him. They had mourned him. Jax had always been intensely private about his life outside the clubhouse, claiming he didn't want the club's enemies or its chaotic lifestyle spilling over into his personal affairs. They had respected it. When he died, they thought he left no one behind.
"Why do you have this, Mia?" Bear asked, holding up the heavy dog tag. It was on a broken, rusted ball chain. "Where did you get it?"
"I found it in the trash," Mia said, a tear finally spilling over her eyelashes and cutting a clean path down her dirty cheek. "Carl threw it away this morning. He threw away my dad's leather jacket, too. And the pictures. He's throwing it all away."