Page 40 of The Sentinel

Diego grinned. “Excellent. Now, what’s our next move?”

Before I could answer, a familiar, commanding voice cut through the night.

“You’re not walking back alone.”

My stomach flipped.

Diego muttered a quiet “Oh, this is going to be good” under his breath as we both turned.

Marcus stood at the top of the steps, mask discarded, his suit still pristine despite the chaos of the night. His gaze locked onto mine, unreadable but intense, the kind of look that made my breath catch.

I lifted a brow. “It’s not far.”

“I don’t care,” Marcus said smoothly, descending the steps like he owned the damn city. “You’re not walking.”

Diego made a quiet sound of delight, watching this unfold like it was the best show of his life.

I crossed my arms, tilting my head. “Is that an order?”

Marcus smirked, but there was no humor in it. “It’s a fact.”

Diego leaned in slightly, whispering, “I love this.”

I ignored him, holding Marcus’s gaze. “We’re capable of walking, Dane.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “And I’m capable of making sure you don’t have to.”

The protective edge in his voice sent something sharp through me—annoyance, intrigue, maybe something deeper I didn’t want to name.

Diego let out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, just say thank you and let the man drive us, Claire. I need the full billionaire experience.”

Marcus’s lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on me. Waiting.

I exhaled, finally relenting. “Fine.”

Marcus didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk in victory. He just nodded once, turning toward the sleek luxury car idling nearby.

Diego gave me a delighted look as we followed. “He is obsessed with you.”

I didn’t answer. But I felt it. And I wasn’t sure what the hell I was going to do about it.

The valet line was still crowded, guests draping themselves against shiny cars, lingering in the warm Charleston night. The air smelled like jasmine and expensive perfume, laced with the lingering scent of cigars.

Diego was still whispering delighted commentary under his breath as Marcus led us toward his car, but I barely heard him. My nerves were still wired too tight, my skin still humming from everything that had happened tonight. From the stolen file, the tension in the library, the way Marcus had touched me like he was willing to break every rule to have me.

I was so caught up in my own head that I almost didn’t notice the man approaching from the side.

He was older, mid-fifties, with a weathered face and sharp, assessing eyes. He didn’t look like he belonged among the glittering partygoers—a little too rough, his suit a little too ill-fitted, the faint shadow of stubble making him look like he’d had a long night.

But he moved with purpose, and before I could react, he was right in front of me.

“Miss Dixon.” His voice was quiet, meant only for me.

Marcus moved instantly, stepping closer, his presence going sharp, predatory.

The man didn’t flinch. He just reached into his pocket—slow, deliberate—and held something out to me. A simple white envelope, creased at the edges, my name scrawled across the front in an unsteady hand.

I took it before I could think, my fingers brushing against the rough paper.

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