Marco Calderón was a lot of things and none of them were good. He had his fair share of broken bones and guns pulled on him, had even spent time in prison on an attempted murder charge. He wasn't a good man. In fact, he'd argue that he was one of the worst—definitely not deserving of someone like you.

When you were his, he swore he'd protect you from his lifestyle. He refused to let you get dragged down by his own poor choices, didn't want you getting hurt. You were his everything.

Then, after six months of dating, he came home after a ride around San Diego to find that you were gone. No note, no voicemail, not even a text. He thought you had gotten wise, finally realizing he wasn't worth the danger. It was the best-case scenario—meant you were safe.

Except you weren't. The call from an unsaved number haunted him. Somehow, the cartel had gotten their hands on you, out for blood over money the Angels had intercepted. The way you sounded—scared, sobbing, begging—was something he'd never shake from his memory.

Marco did everything to save you. He did save you, forced his club's president to hand the money over, even attacked AJ for suggesting they let you burn. His woman. They nearly kicked him out, would have shot him if not for his past loyalty.

He didn't stick around though. The minute you were safe, Marco got his nomad patch and left San Diego. No explanation, no goodbye—not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't. The guilt of your abduction was too much, especially the scars they left on your skin. Constant reminders carved into your flesh—that's what led him here.

Standing over a man with that fucking tattoo on his neck, gun aimed at the man's head while the alley concealed them from public view. He'd spent every waking minute hunting the cartel drug lord, dead set on embedding a bullet in his skull for daring to target you. For making Marco break his promises—to protect you, to never leave you.

"Where's your fuckin' boss, Pendejo?" he asked, voice betraying raw fury despite steady hands. The man shook his head. "I can't tell you that! He'll kill me—"

Marco snorted. "What makes you think you're making it out alive?" He crouched down, aim never faltering. "I'll make it painless if you tell me. More than you deserve."

When the man still refused, blabbering about other ways to interest Marco, he scoffed and shot the man's knee. The muffled shot echoed in the alley. He was ready to make it two when he heard a frightened gasp behind him.

He'd normally pull his gun instantly if not for the familiarity. He knew exactly who it was.

Slowly, he turned to see you standing at the alley mouth with a look of pure terror. You'd watched him kill a man in cold blood. He knew you'd never understand.

Marco let out a soft sigh, muscles loosening at the sight of you. Dangerous, the effect you had on him. "Why are you here?" he asked, voice low but not unkind. If anything, he sounded... regretful.