Page 37 of The Sentinel

She knew I saw her—those gray eyes flicked to mine, daring me to stop her—and I didn’t. Because I knew she knew I’d let her. And I understood her, deep in my bones. Claire Dixon didn’t give a damn about the risks, the lines she crossed, the fire she danced in. She wanted the story. The truth. That hungry glint in her eyes was the same one I’d seen in the mirror too many times—back when I was chasing ghosts through war zones, back before Dominion Hall became my cage. She’d burn it all down for that story, and I couldn’t wait to see how she’d play it.

Yeah, there were pictures in that file. Grainy shots, surveillance grabs, faces half-hidden in shadows. The big one? A former CIA director—retired, supposedly, but men like that never really leave the game. His name was scratched out, but the face was unmistakable if you knewwhere to look. I’d clocked him years back, running ops through back channels that’d make your skin crawl.

I couldn’t wait to see what Claire tried to do with that one—how deep she’d dig, who she’d piss off. But I needed her out there, moving, poking, asking her questions. She was my bloodhound now, whether she knew it or not, sniffing out Department 77 while I watched from the dark.

I was still thinking about that when she slipped away from the party—or thought she did. Every living area in Dominion Hall was wired for video, cameras tucked into corners, lenses glinting like silent sentinels. I caught her on a feed from the library, that silver dress shimmering as she and Diego ducked inside, the file clutched tight in her hand. She moved like she was slick, like she’d outsmarted me, and I grinned despite myself. Let her think it. I’d see how far she ran with it.

My mind wasn’t all on the file, though. It kept dragging me back to her—naked, sprawled across me, thighs gripping my hips, her moans echoing off the leather and stone.

That sex had been a goddamn war, and I’d lost as much as I’d won. Her mouth on me, my tongue buried in her, the way she’d ridden me till we both broke—it was burned into me, a brand I couldn’t shake. Part of me wanted to call her back, pin her to that sofa again, tell her to stay. Strip that dress off slow this time, taste every inch I hadn’t yet claimed.

But then I caught Ryker’s glare from across the ops room—his jaw locked tight—and I knew it was a bad idea. A real bad idea.

He didn’t say a word, just stared me down like he could see every filthy thought in my head.

I didn’t flinch, didn’t explain. He’d already rippedinto me about Claire—about the file, the masquerade, the way I was playing this whole damn thing like a game of chicken with Department 77. “Short leash,” he’d growled earlier, and I’d nodded like I meant it.

But I didn’t. Not really.

Claire was too good, too sharp, and I needed her loose, stirring the pot. Ryker didn’t get that. Not yet. He’d see it when it paid off. Or he’d bury me if it didn’t.

I left the ops room, shoes echoing off the marble, and threw myself back into the masquerade. The ballroom was still alive—Charleston’s elite buzzing like wasps in a jar, masks slipping as the night wore on, champagne flutes clinking too loud.

Normally, I liked parties. The energy, the power plays, the way you could read a room and know who was screwing who—figuratively and otherwise.

More than a handful of older women caught my eye as I moved through the crowd, their “fuck me” stares blatant behind feathered masks. A congressman’s wife, dripping in pearls, brushed her hand against my arm, her lips curling like an invitation. A Citadel widow, all sharp cheekbones and sharper nails, leaned in close, whispering something about a private tour of her estate. I grinned, played it off, kept moving.

Any other night, I might’ve bitten—taken one back to a dark corner and let her scream my name.

But not tonight. Tonight, all I saw was Claire. Naked Claire, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, gray eyes daring me, that silver dress crumpled on the floor.

Every time I blinked, she was there—curves I’d gripped, skin I’d tasted, the way she’d shattered under me and then walked away like she owned me.

My cock twitched just thinking about it, and I had to grit my teeth, force my focus back to the room. Couldn’tlet her under my skin like this—not now, not with everything riding on the line.

I stood near the foyer, arms crossed, watching the party, the chandelier overhead throwing jagged shadows across the crowd.

Claire. I wanted to find Claire, feel her next to me again. But there was work to do. Always was. Plus, I could watch her on camera.

After a while, I returned to the ops room, the fortress swallowing me whole. The air was cool, sterile, the hum of monitors cutting through the silence.

Every snippet of video from the night was already being chewed up by our system—cameras in the ballroom, the halls, the grounds, all feeding into a custom AI we’d built from scratch. It wasn’t some off-the-shelf tech; this was Dominion’s own, coded to spot patterns, flag faces, catch the shit human eyes missed. I’d poured blood, sweat, and a hell of a lot of money into it—because in our world, you didn’t survive without eyes everywhere.

I dropped into a chair, kicked my feet up on the steel table, and cued the feeds on the main screen. Hundreds of clips—guests laughing, dancing, scheming—rolled past, the AI tagging timestamps, cross-referencing faces against our database. I didn’t have to wait long. I’d let Claire take that file for a reason—not just to see what she’d do, but to see who’d react. Who’d twitch when they saw it in her hands. I’d baited the hook, tossed it into the water, and now I was reeling it in.

The system pinged—a soft chime that snapped me upright. A flagged clip loaded, timestamped 11:47 p.m.

There she was—Claire, gliding through the ballroom, silver dress catching the light, the file tucked under her arm like it was nothing. Diego was at her side,all sharp suit and sharper eyes, but the camera didn’t linger on them. It zoomed in tight on someone else, a figure standing near the bar, half-turned, mask dangling from their hand. Their gaze locked on Claire—on that file—and stayed there, longer than it should’ve.

Too long.

I froze, breath catching in my chest. The AI spit out a name, overlaying it on the screen in cold white text:Mayor Evelyn Hart.

The mayor of Charleston.

I leaned back, staring at the screen, a slow grin tugging at my lips.

Not some lowlife fixer, not a Dominion rival, not even one of the Washington suits sniffing around. Evelyn fucking Hart—Charleston’s golden girl, all polished smiles and ribbon-cutting charm. Hart looked better suited to being the mayor of Mayberry, not Charleston.

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