Page 5 of Echo’s Secret

I walk toward her slowly. Stop a few feet away. Up close, I can see she's been crying. Can see the dark circles under her eyes. Can see the way her hands shake slightly where they support the baby—my son, maybe my son, probably my son.

"Come inside," I tell her. Confident, even though inside I'm anything but. "We'll talk."

Chapter 2 - Hannah

The gates swing open and I feel like I'm crossing some invisible threshold into a world I don't understand.

The Iron Phoenix clubhouse looms ahead of me. This massive two-story building that used to be a warehouse, now converted into something that looks half fortress, half home. There are motorcycles everywhere. Nine of them lined up in neat rows, chrome catching the early morning light.

And there are men. So many men. All of them tall, broad, covered in leather, tattoos and blood.

They're all staring at me.

At Theo.

I hold my son tighter against my hip and try not to let them see how badly my hands are shaking.

Wesley stands closest to me. He looks exactly the same as I remember. Dark hair cut short, gray eyes that see everything, beard neatly trimmed. Medium height but there's something about the way he holds himself that makes him seem bigger. More dangerous. Like every muscle in his body is coiled and ready.

He's wearing dark jeans and a black T-shirt under a leather vest, a cut, I think they call it. The back reads IRON PHOENIX MC in large letters with a bird rising from flames. MILLHAVEN underneath. ECHO across the top.

"Come inside," he says again, voice so quiet I have to lean slightly forward to hear it. "We'll talk."

I nod and follow him through the gate. My old sedan looks pathetic parked next to all these motorcycles. Like I showed up to a black-tie event in sweatpants. Which isn't far from the truth, considering the reality of my life right now.

Theo makes a soft noise against my shoulder. Not crying, just aware that everything around us is strange and new. He's usually such a serious baby. Hardly ever cries. Just watches everything with those too-old eyes that look so much like his father's it breaks my heart every single time.

Wesley leads me toward the building. The other men part to let us pass. I feel their eyes tracking me. Not hostile exactly, but not friendly either. Assessing. Trying to figure out what kind of threat I am.

One of them is enormous. Maybe six-foot-five, built like he could lift a car, and tattoos covering every inch of visible skin. He's got blood on his knuckles. Fresh blood. I look away quickly.

Another one is limping. Shorter than the giant, covered in tattoos, dark hair pulled back. There's blood soaking through his jeans on his left thigh. A third man, handsome in a rough way, wearing a medical pack, is trying to get him to sit down. He's refusing.

"Canvas, you're bleeding through the damn bandage," the medic says.

"I'm fine, Saint. It's a through-and-through. I'll sit when we're done here."

They stop arguing when I pass. Everyone stops everything when I pass.

I keep my eyes forward and focus on Wesley's back. On following him. On not running back to my car and driving away like every instinct is screaming at me to do.

The front door is reinforced steel. Wesley opens it and gestures for me to go first. I step inside.

The clubhouse is... not what I expected. I mean, I don't know what I expected exactly. Something darker maybe. More threatening. Instead, it's almost comfortable. Large common room with couches and chairs, a massive TV on one wall, a bar along the other. Hardwood floors. Decent furniture. It smells like leather and motor oil and coffee.

There are stairs leading up to a second floor. Doors leading off to hallways. Everything is clean and organized despite the fact that these men clearly just came from some kind of battle.

"Phoenix's office," Wesley says to someone behind me. Tall, dark-haired, sharp eyes, scar across his jaw. The president, based on the patch on his cut.

Phoenix nods once. "Take as long as you need."

Wesley leads me down a hallway to a door marked PRIVATE. He opens it and waits for me to enter first.

The office is small but organized. Desk, chairs, filing cabinet, a map of Millhaven on the wall with various marks. Wesley closes the door behind us and suddenly it's just the three of us—me, him, and Theo.

The silence stretches. Wesley stands with his back against the door, watching me. Not saying anything. Just watching with those beautiful eyes that have always seen too much.

I adjust Theo on my hip. My son is getting heavier every day. Eight months old now and already trying to pull himself up on furniture. Already curious about everything. Already so much smarter than any baby should be.