Page 43 of The Sentinel

“Diego’ll be fine,” I snapped, shoving the glass doors open. Truth was, I didn’t give a damn about Diego right then. He could flirt his way out of Charleston for all I cared. My mind was spinning, a mess of jagged edges and cold panic.

How could I have been so stupid?Letting her stay at The Palmetto Rose, thinking cameras and a tail were enough, when Department 77 was already ten steps ahead, playing me like a damn fiddle. I’d underestimated them, and now Claire was in the crosshairs because of it.

We hit the valet line outside the hotel, the night air thick with jasmine and exhaust, and I shoved her toward the Bugatti, my hand still locked on her wrist. She stumbled, yanking against me, but I didn’t ease up until she was in the passenger seat, door slamming shut behind her. I slid in, keys already in hand, when it hit me—the envelope. That weathered bastard outside Dominion Hall, slipping it to her like a ghost.

“Open it,” I said, voice rough, nodding at her clutch as I fired up the engine.

Claire shot me a look—wary, pissed—but she pulled it out, her fingers careful as she tore the creased edge. A single slip of paper fluttered into her lap, scrawled with jagged ink.

Don’t listen to the Danes. They’re a pack of liars.

Her head snapped up, gray eyes blazing, and she lunged for the door handle. “Let me out?—”

“No fucking way.” I slammed the gas, tires screeching as the Bugatti tore away from the curb, the hotel shrinking in the rearview. She twisted in her seat, clawing at my arm, nails digging into my skin, but I held the wheel tight, eyes locked straight ahead.

“Pull over, Marcus! Now!” she screamed, her voice raw, bouncing off the leather interior. “Let me out, you asshole?—”

“Not happening,” I growled, swerving past a slow-moving cab, the city lights blurring into streaks. My mind was a goddamn tornado—Department 77 knew about us, had to. That note wasn’t random. It was a wedge, sharp and deliberate, meant to split us apart. And fuck, it was working.

Claire was losing it, her hands scrabbling at me, her breath hitching with fury, and I didn’t know what to do. For the first time in years—years of war, blood, and cold decisions—I didn’t know what the hell to do.

“Marcus—stop the fucking car!” She grabbed my forearm, yanking hard, and the Bugatti swerved, tires squealing against asphalt. I shook her off, barely keeping us straight, my pulse hammering in my ears.

“Enough!” I roared, slowing just enough to take a breath, my hands white-knuckling the wheel. No more games. No more subterfuge. I had to tell her—maybe not everything, but enough to pull her back, to get her on my side again. “I’m ready,” I said, voice low, steady despite the chaos in my chest.

She glared at me, chest heaving. “Ready for what? Another fuck?”

I let out a rough laugh, heat flashing low despite everything. “Tempting. Maybe after. But no—I want to tell you the truth.”

Her eyes narrowed, skepticism etched into every line of her face. She looked like she’d bolt the second I stopped, but after a beat, she nodded—sharp, reluctant. “Fine.”

I didn’t waste it. I yanked the wheel right, tires biting into the turn, and gunned it toward Sullivan’s Island. Not Dominion Hall—this wasn’t for the fortress. This was home, the old Dane place on the water, where the air smelled like salt and sea foam. The road stretched dark ahead, the city fading into marsh and moonlight,and I felt her watching me, waiting. I drove without speaking. Claire just sat there, waiting.

“What is this place?” she asked as we pulled down the dirt drive, her voice quieter now, edged with something I couldn’t pin down as we pulled up to the weathered beach house. The wraparound porch sagged under years of storms, the white paint chipped, but it still stood—solid, ours.

“Sullivan’s Island,” I said, cutting the engine. “The old Dane home. Before Dominion. Before everything went to shit.”

She didn’t snap back, didn’t fire off something sharp. She just listened, her head tilted slightly, gray eyes locked on me. I exhaled, staring out at the black waves crashing beyond the dunes, and let it spill.

“Yeah, I’ve been lying to you,” I started, voice rougher than I meant it. “That file? It was a plant. The CIA director—piece of shit, yeah, but he’s got nothing to do with Department 77. Just a name to throw you off, keep you chasing shadows.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t interrupt. “Why tell me now?”

I gripped the wheel, even with the car still, my knuckles ached. “Because the hotel scared the shit out of me. Someone else that close to you—someone who could’ve hurt you—it flipped something. I don’t want to see you hurt, Claire. Not by them. Not by anyone.”

Her breath caught, just enough to notice, and her eyes softened—not much, but enough. Shock, maybe, but the good kind. Neither of us knew what to say, the silence thick between us, the sound of the ocean filling it. I swallowed hard, pushing forward before I lost my nerve.

“What I’m about to tell you could get me in deep shitwith my brothers,” I said, low and careful. “Department 77—they’re real. They kidnapped Will, one of our guys. Ryker’s best friend, Izzy’s brother. The pier explosion? That was meant to take out WillandRyker. Ryker burned one of his nine lives dodging that blast. I’ve been trying to protect my family—everything we’ve built. That’s all this is.”

I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t believe I’d just laid it out like that—raw, unguarded, the kind of truth that could bury me. She could run with it now, splash it across her podcast, a million ears tearing into Dominion’s guts. And if she did, I knew—deep down, cold and certain—I might have to kill her. The thought twisted in me, sharp and sick, but it was there. Family first. Always had been.

Then her hand was on my face, warm against my jaw, turning my head until I had to meet her eyes. They were steady, piercing, and fuck, they hit me harder than I expected.

“Okay,” she said, voice soft but firm. “Now that we’re on the same page, tell me how I can help.”

I blinked, surprise slamming into me, stirring something deep—relief, want, something I couldn’t name. A grin tugged at my mouth, slow and real. “What do you know about Evelyn Hart?”

She leaned back, a spark flaring in her gaze, like she’d been waiting for this. “The mayor? Not much—yet. Polished, connected, clean as Dorothy skipping down the yellow brick road. Why?”

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