Page 33 of The Sentinel

And now, here we were.

I was still in his lap, my body flushed, my skin still humming from what we’d just done. His hands rested on my thighs, thumbs brushing idly over my skin like he wasn’t quite ready to stop touching me. I wasn’t sure I was ready either. That was the problem.

I should have felt victorious. I had been in control—I’d set the pace, made him come undone. I had won.

And yet …

I swallowed hard, trying to find something sharp tosay, something that would remind both of us that this wasn’t about us. That this wasn’t real, wasn’t anything.

But before I could speak, my gaze flickered past him—over his shoulder, to the shelves lining the far side of the room.

Something caught my eye.

A file, thick and slightly out of place among the bottles of bourbon and cigars. The edge of a paper peeked out, the corner of a logo stamped in black ink.

My pulse kicked up.

Department 77.

I moved before I could think, slipping from Marcus’s lap, crossing the room in a few quick steps. My fingers closed around the file, pulling it free.

“What are you doing?” Marcus’s voice was calm, but I heard the shift beneath it—something taut.

I turned, holding up the file. “You tell me.”

His jaw ticked. “That’s not for you.”

“No?” I flipped it open. Pages of reports. Surveillance images. A list of names, some blacked out. But one stood out. A name I knew. “You’ve been tracking Department 77.”

Marcus exhaled through his nose. “I track a lot of things.”

I met his gaze, searching for the truth in it. “This isn’t just a rumor, is it? It’s real. And you knew.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Be careful what you go looking for, Claire.”

My stomach tightened, because that—the way he said my name, slow and dangerous—sounded an awful lot like a warning.

I snapped the file shut. “Too late.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but I didn’t stay to decipher it. Instead, I turned, grabbing my dress fromthe floor, slipping it back over my shoulders, smoothing the fabric like it could erase what had just happened between us.

“Where are you going?”

I paused at the door, glancing back over my shoulder. “Back to the party.”

He didn’t move from the sofa. Just watched me, still shirtless, his skin flushed, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. But his eyes were something else entirely—sharp, assessing.

Like he was already planning his next move.

I smirked, flipping the file in my hand. “Don’t wait up, Dane.”

Then I left.

The shift in the air hit me the second I stepped back into the grand hall. The low sounds of conversation, the clink of glasses, the flicker of candlelight glinting off gilded masks—it all felt too bright, too normal, too fake after what had just happened below Dominion Hall.

I moved through the crowd, my body still thrumming, my mind racing, replaying Marcus’s words, the heat of his mouth on my skin, the file now burning a hole in my thoughts.

I found Diego near the bar, leaning against the counter, swirling a drink in his hand as he smirked at a tall, well-dressed man who was definitely interested. But the second his eyes landed on me, the flirtation vanished.

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