Page 42 of The Sentinel

A chill crawled up my spine as I slowly stepped inside, my heels muffled against the plush carpet.

I scanned the room, my heart pounding. The bed was still neatly made. My suitcase still sat where I left it. My laptop was still on the desk.

But the glass on the nightstand—empty when I left—was half-full now.

My breath caught.

Someonehadbeen in here.

And they wanted me to know it.

My stomach twisted, panic pressing against my ribs.

I turned and bolted from the room, my pulse hammering. I barely made it into the hall before I crashed into something solid.

No—someone.

Marcus.

His hands caught me instantly, gripping my arms, his body a wall of heat and tension. “Claire?—”

“There was someone in my room.” The words tumbled out, breathless, urgent. “They were inside?—”

Marcus’s face went sharp, all hard lines and steel. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate.

He moved.

Fast.

He pushed me behind him, stepping into my suite, scanning every inch with the practiced efficiency of a man trained for war.

I stood in the doorway, pulse thrumming in my ears, my hands shaking slightly at my sides.

Marcus was silent as he checked the room, checked the locks, checked every damn corner.

Then he turned to me, his expression unreadable.

His voice was low, lethal. “Pack your things.”

I swallowed. “Marcus?—”

“You’re not staying here.” His tone left no room for argument.

I stared at him, my heart still pounding. “Where am I staying, then?”

Marcus didn’t blink.

“With me.”

18

MARCUS

Ipractically had to drag Claire out of that hotel room, my grip tight on her arm as her heels skidded against the carpet. She fought me—stubborn as hell, twisting in my hold—but I wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not after that glass, half-full when it should’ve been empty, screaming someone had been in there.

She’d been expendable before—a tool, a sword I could wield and toss when it dulled. But fuck if she felt that way now. Something had shifted, hard and fast, and I’d do anything—anything—to keep her safe.

“Marcus—what about Diego?” she snapped, her voice cutting through the lobby’s hum as we rushed past the desk, the receptionist barely glancing up.

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