Page 45 of The Sentinel

I nodded, impressed despite myself. “Good. I’ll lean on Norton—you met him. He’s already digging into her. Between us, we’ll crack her open.”

Claire smirked, leaning back. “Look at us—teamwork.”

“Yeah,” I said, crossing to the sofa, dropping beside her. “Don’t get used to it.”

She laughed again, and fuck, it was a sound I could live on. But as the quiet settled, her hand brushed mine—just a graze, unintentional—and the air shifted again. Heat, trust, danger—all tangled up, pulling tight. I didn’t move, didn’t dare, but I felt it: we were in this now, together, and whatever came next, I’d kill to keep her breathing.

19

CLAIRE

“Where am I sleeping?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

He stood in front of me, still in that damn suit, his tie loosened, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the hard ridges of muscle beneath. He had one hand braced against the wooden beam of the old Dane house, his blue eyes scanning me like he was already imagining exactly where I should be.

Like he already knew.

Heat licked up my spine, settling low in my stomach. Because I knew, too.

“Stay here,” he said finally, his voice rough. He disappeared down a hall, shoes barely making a sound against the creaking floorboards. I heard a door open, something rustling, and then he was back, tossing a worn black Metallica T-shirt toward me.

I caught it, glancing down at the faded cotton, the edges slightly frayed with time. The scent of him clung to it—clean, masculine, something darker beneath.

“From your room?” I asked, arching a brow.

Marcus leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Yeah. Teenage me had excellent taste.”

I smirked, holding it up. “Was teenage you built like a linebacker, too?”

His lips curved slightly, gaze flicking over me in that slow, consuming way that made my skin prickle. “Not quite.”

Curious, I slipped it over my head, letting the soft fabric fall into place. It wasn’t oversized like I expected—it fit snug, clinging to my breasts, hugging my waist.

I smoothed my hands over the hem, feeling the way it skimmed my bare thighs, the only barrier between me and Marcus’s dark, hungry stare. The silver dress still hung on my frame, loose now, straps slipping from my shoulders where I hadn’t fully removed it.

I felt the heat of his gaze trace every inch of exposed skin.

Marcus’s voice was low, rough. “Take the dress off.”

A shiver ran down my spine.

I met his eyes, slow and deliberate, watching the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was barely holding himself back.

“You could help me,” I murmured, tilting my head in challenge.

Something dangerous flashed across his face, but he didn’t move. “I want to watch.”

The air between us crackled, thick with something neither of us could ignore.

I dragged my hands up, sliding my fingers under the straps of my dress, pushing them down, inch by inch. The fabric whispered over my skin, cool against the heat spreading through me. It pooled at my waist, baring my shoulders, my collarbones, the swell of my breasts beneath the too-tight cotton of his shirt.

Marcus’s throat worked, his restraint razor-thin.

I let the dress fall lower, past my hips, down my thighs, until it finally slipped to the floor in a shimmer of silver fabric.

Now it was just me, standing in Marcus Dane’s childhood home, wearing nothing but his old T-shirt and the heat of his stare.

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