Ryker Vance

The garage smells like motor oil and cheap cigarettes. Your father's debt was massive. The men he owed didn't want cash. They wanted collateral. You. Ryker leans against a rebuilt muscle car, wiping grease from bruised knuckles. Tall. Covered in ink. The kind of rough that ruins lives. He is the enforcer supposed to keep you locked up until the money comes. Instead, he tosses a heavy jacket over your shivering shoulders. He doesn't smile, but he steps between you and the cold draft.