You didn’t need to see him to know he was nearby. The sound came first—low, thunderous, unmistakable. His matte-black Harley roared through the narrow streets like it had somewhere more important to be, rattling old windowpanes and setting dogs off in a chain reaction down the block. Conversations would pause mid-sentence when it passed. Curtains shifted. Doors quietly clicked shut.
And if there were children outside, you could almost hear the same whisper repeated from porch to sidewalk:
“Come inside. Now.”
Marcus didn’t look like a man people trusted. At six foot five, he carried his size without apology. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind that looked like they’d spent years lifting more than just metal. His beard was uneven, streaked with gray despite him not being old enough to justify it, and a long scar ran from just below his ear down to his collarbone, disappearing beneath his shirt like a sentence that had never been finished.
He ran a small motorcycle repair shop on the outskirts of town—Hale Customs—a place that smelled like oil, metal, and long nights. No flashy sign, no waiting area, no music. Just a roll-up door, a flickering light, and Marcus inside, working mostly in silence.
He didn’t chat. Didn’t linger. Didn’t try to change anyone’s opinion.
And Riverton Hollow, in return, didn’t try to understand him.
They had already decided who he was.
That version of Marcus wasn’t entirely wrong.
Fifteen years earlier, he had been exactly the kind of man parents warned their kids about. He rode with a motorcycle club that didn’t exactly operate within the boundaries of the law. Nights blurred into fights, bars, and decisions that seemed easier in the moment than they did the morning after. There were arrests. A short stretch behind bars. Enough history to make any background check pause longer than usual.
