Mark Bl Novels & Stories

Mark’s‌ express‍ion da‍⁠r⁠ke‍ned instantl‌‌y. Becau‌se now he fin‍ally u‍nderstood the tr⁠uth. ‌L‌iam B‍lackwe‌ll was no l⁠onger⁠ thinking like a businessman. He was thinking like a family‍ m‌a‍n. And that made‌ him dangerous.‍

"So soon? They can't be serious." "Plans have moved up," Marco stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He produced a thick, cream-colored card, embossed with swirling, silver filigree. It felt heavy, expensive, and sinister. "This was delivered by a masked courier to our blind drop. No return address. Anonymous sender."

Rony replied. "I couldn't help to notice," the newcomer said. "My name's Mark from the Bronze Island." Rony watched him closely. His chins were chiseled to manly roughness, From his built, he knew it was solid. His charisma was oozing. Just like a Builder. "Are you a Builder?" "What?" Mark asked, confused. "Are you a Magician?" Rony repeated. Mark just smiled and took a moment before making a move. He walked towards him on the trailing. He seductively tapped his shoulders and then leaned over.

The man snickered. I ground my teeth as I looked at him with pure hatred, which is when I noticed something. They didn't just have tattoos, but rather one specific one stood out. They all had a matching cobra tattoo. "You're from the Cobras." I remarked, verbalizing my findings. "Which would make your boss Blaze Maddox." "What makes you think I'm not Blaze?" The man asks.

I knew it’d destroy me and I couldn’t stumble more than once with the same stone, because, though I was now a professional and mature man, I knew the fall would be even more painful than eleven years ago, and I doubted I’ll be able to recover if Olivia took me again as a game. The meeting lasted forty-five minutes. They were determining the medias where the campaign would be exposed, the costs and budgets, dates of auditions for actors that will be starring the commercials and all those things, when my phone rang and it showed me the name of Alex, the head of my security. I knew wouldn’t like this conversation. “Mark, I need you to come to Las Vegas right now.” There was never a greeting wit

Then Malcolm disarmed me with a clever turn of his wrist, sending my blade into the grass. I bent over, hands on my knees, laughing softly between breaths. Malcolm shook his head in amazement. “You are strong for someone who just came back from what you went through.” My smile widened. Then his expression changed. He gave me a curious look, one that made me straighten. “Check your arm.” My heart skipped. Quickly, I pulled back my sleeve. There, faint but unmistakable, was the beginning of a mark forming beneath my skin. The letter B.

I whisper, bitter, exhausted, “you really don’t have a heart.” He sets the glass down with deliberate care, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly. Like this is a reveal he’s practiced. “You want to see my heart?” He pulls the fabric aside. A brand. A brutal, scarred B, burned into his flesh right over his heart. Angry. Permanent. “It stands for Blackburn,” he says flatly. “Lucinda has one too.” My stomach twists. Whatever they endured, it was hell. Real hell.

Harmless even. But there is nothing harmless about the power coming off him. It sits beneath the surface. Quiet. Controlled. But unmistakable. For a brief second, a small doubt creeps in. Maybe the situation last night was misunderstood. Maybe we rushed to the worst conclusion. Maybe we are not dealing with criminals after all. The idea fades quickly. Unlikely. “Introductions are probably necessary,” the man says. His tone is calm. Polite. “Marcus Blake. Alpha of the Granite Valley Pack.”