Page 22 of The Sentinel

That didn’t mean I couldn’t have some fun first. Toy with her a little more. Push her buttons, watch hersquirm, then spring the trap hard enough to send her running back to New York City with her tail between her legs. She was too close—too good—and I needed her gone before she unraveled us. But I’d be damned if I didn’t enjoy the game while it lasted.

I was parked off King Street again, Bugatti purring low, the hum vibrating through my bones. My phone was in my hand, and I was grinning—sharp, predatory—as I texted the concierge at The Palmetto Rose. Three dresses. High-end, custom shit—tens of thousands a pop—were headed straight to Claire’s room. I had them picked out: one was sleek and black, elegant as hell, all understated power; another was deep red, bold and sexy, with a slit that’d show off those legs she’s got no business hiding; and the third—the one I was betting on—was a silver number, barely there, cut low and tight, dripping with risk. She’d hate me for it. She’d love it, too. I could see her now—gray eyes narrowing, lips twitching, that stubborn streak kicking in as she picks the risqué one just to spite me.

God, I hope she does.

I shot off another text, this one to the florist—some overpriced boutique that caters to Charleston’s old money. A handwritten note to go with the dresses: “I can’t wait to see which one you choose.” Simple. Personal. Just enough to crawl under her skin and make her wonder how far I’m willing to push this. She’ll freak—oh, she’ll definitely freak—and I’ll be sipping whiskey somewhere, picturing her pacing that suite, cursing my name. Maybe she’ll even try it on, that silver fabric clinging to her curves, her breath shallow as she catches herself in the mirror.

Fuck, I’d kill to see that.

I leaned back, shoving down the heat spiking low.She was a job—a threat to Dominion, a key to Department 77. That was it.

But that kiss kept clawing at me, her taste lingering like a drug I didn’t mean to try. I’ve got to be careful. Can’t let her sink those hooks too deep. I’m the one in control here. She doesn’t get to flip the script. Not yet.

I fired up the engine and peeled out toward Dominion Hall. Tires squealed, wind ripped past, and Charleston blurred—pastel townhouses, smoking gas lanterns, tourists gawking like they were in a damn painting. The masquerade was tomorrow night, and we were cutting it close with the invites. Didn’t matter. Money did wonders. The elite of this city—old money, new money, dirty money—would drop everything when they saw Dominion Defense Corporation on that thick ivory stock. The Danes didn’t open our doors often. Hell, most of these assholes had spent years trying to peek inside our fortress, whispering about the seven brothers who ran half the shadows in this town. They would come running—masks on, egos out—because missing this wasn’t an option.

I grinned. Claire would be there too, that invite burning a hole in her hand. She wouldn’t resist—couldn’t. A chance to dig into our world, poke at our secrets, all while I was steering her right where I wanted her. She’d think she was hunting. I’d know she was prey.

The gates loomed ahead—iron, spiked, cold teeth. I rolled through and parked out front. Dominion Hall stared back. It was more bunker than mansion, built to take a hit and keep standing. Sullivan’s Island flashed in my head, as it often did—white sand, Dad’s laugh, a life before this concrete cage swallowed us whole. I’d trade it all for one more day there. But this was ours now. Me and my six brothers, holding the line.

Inside, the air was cool and sharp, marble gleaming under that chandelier that looked ready to cut you if you stared too long. I headed for the ops room. Ryker was there, hunched over a laptop, his muscular frame coiled like he was about to snap. Atlas stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching me with that quiet, piercing stare he had. Charlie paced—always moving, always ready to hit something.

“Invites are going out,” I said, dropping into a chair, legs stretched. “Tomorrow night. Full house.”

Ryker didn’t look up. “Feds are still sniffing. Senator Holloway called again. Says intel’s got eyes on Charleston. Terrorism angle’s sticking.”

“Bullshit,” I said, my voice flat. “They’ve got nothing.”

“They don’t need proof,” he snapped, finally meeting my eyes. “They need a target. We’re it unless you lock this down.”

“I’m on it,” I said, leaning forward, my elbows on the table. “Claire’s got Department 77 now. She’s chasing it. Masquerade’s the play—she’ll dig there, I’ll watch. She’s useful.”

Atlas cut in, his voice low and steady. “She’s a loose end. Useful doesn’t mean safe.”

“She’s not safe,” I said, grinning sharply. “That’s why I’m having fun with her first.”

Charlie stopped pacing, smirking. “What’d you do now?”

“Sent her dresses,” I said, leaning back, my arms behind my head. “Three of ‘em—pricey as hell. One’s so thin you could see through it in the right light. Bet she picks that one just to fuck with me.”

Charlie laughed, short and rough. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yep.” I shrugged. “Keeps her off balance. She’ll show tomorrow—pissed, hot, and digging. I’ll steer her right into 77.”

Ryker wasn’t laughing. “And if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” I said.

He glared. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Maybe,” I said, my smirk widening. “Doesn’t change the plan.”

Atlas tilted his head, studying me. “What’s the endgame? She finds 77. What then?”

“Then we smoke ‘em out,” I said, tapping the table. “She’s the bait, she just doesn’t know it. They show, and we hit. Feds back off. Dominion stands.”

“Risky,” Atlas said, but there was a glint in his eye, like he was warming to it.

“It’s worth it,” I countered. “We’ve been chasing shadows for weeks. Claire’s the edge we need.”

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