Marco X Hekapoo Novels & Stories

And now the whole pack was losing their minds over it. The chatter grew louder. Someone shouted, “She’s a whore! Getting herself mark her like that?” Another voice joined in. “Abominstion! You don’t get marked before you’re mated. What kind of girl does that?” I turned back around, face hot with shame. My legs felt like jelly. I wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. Cassandra stood there with her arms crossed, smirking like she’d just won the biggest prize ever and Dad looked like he might explode. His face was red, jaw tight.

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gomez and stared at my hands pressing Mark’s chest, when his fists began to hit Tom. “¿Ya no te sientes muy macho, pendejo? ¿Te gusta hacer sufrir a las mujeres?” I heard him say in Spanish between blows “You’ll see what it's like to be a macho, when I take you to the Hacienda...” I shuddered with terror when I heard his muffled moans, so I met Mark's eyes, seeing his limp, pale face, and although his chest rose and fell, he was completely still.

I mutter, dropping onto the bench at my stall. “The mighty Logan Shaw,” Marco continues dramatically, “captain of the Titans, destroyer of defenses, allergic to feelings—” “I’m going to break your stick.” “—has been publicly claimed by one Harper Lane wearing the sacred jersey.” Corey slaps a hand over his heart. “It was beautiful.” “It was moving,” Zane adds. “I cried,” Marco says. Cole snorts. I start unlacing my skates, trying very hard not to smile because the second they see it, I’m dead.

Letta said, making Marco shake his head. "Fine, I'll just clap," Marco said. "With one shout, okay?" Letta bargained, making Marco shake his head again. "Come on, just one shout. No one will see you and pay attention to you, thinking you're weird. Look at them, even shouting in a language I don't know," Letta said again, making Marco finally let out a long sigh before joining in applause. After that, he let out a hearty shout, making Letta smile widely.

Reina's Pov Marco. Just calling his name makes my blood boil. Calling him an idiot is insulting to other idiots out there. He Is nothing more than a cockroach pretending to be a man, scurring around like his git the upper hand. Does he really think he can keep me locked up like some caged animal?

"Wow, that's huge. It's worth it though." Why do I feel like Marco did. Although his expression isn't giving away anything suspicious. "Marco?" "Yes?" "What name did you buy in?" "Ermm.. What did you say?" "What name did you use to place your order." "What do you need the information for? It's not even useful." "Are you Hunter Mark?" "I'm Marco Lorenzo, last I checked." He says smiling. "I'm being dead serious." "Yes, I am." "Fifty bloom bottles? Really?"

It was the first time I saw the tattoo that covered his entire back. I’d never seen it before. It was a highly detailed skull that was realistic and somewhat menacing, with deep, dark eye sockets and a wide, toothy grin. The shading and depth gave it a three-dimensional effect, making it appear almost lifelike. The design extended from his lower back up to his shoulders, creating a striking and impactful visual. It was certainly a work of art and my favorite tattoo of his. My second favorite were the words written on his fingers. They spelt out ‘il migliore’ which was Italian for his nickname ‘The Beast’, a title he wore with pride.

“I want pressure. I want mistakes. And I want them to be able to feel the fear of being trapped.” “And what do you gain from this?” he asked carefully. “You do realize that the rogues play their games according to what they want, they don’t really tend to know what being tamed is for later, and they wouldn’t know what the word control actually means, nor do they know what the word stop means if they were ordered to.” I turned to face him, my smile cold and precise. “I start by destroying Marcel.” I said calmly. “I don’t aim for them to stop if they start with the others anyway.”

Then a hand went up. “It’s y equals mx plus b.” I turned toward the voice. The guy sitting next to me was Hispanic. Sharp jawline. Curly hair. Blue eyes. Arms like tree trunks. “That’s correct,” Mrs. Payne said. “And your name?” “Marcelo,” he replied. “My name is Marcelo.”