Page 51 of The Sentinel

I didn’t know how to process this. Didn’t know what to do with it. My brain kept skipping over the loss, like a record stuck on a scratch, replaying the same thought over and over.

He’s gone. He’s gone. He’sgone.

Diego.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.

I should call his parents. Should hear his mother’s voice, his father’s quiet grief. But the thought made my stomach turn, made the walls feel too close, like I couldn’t get enough air.

I wasn’t ready for that.

I didn’t have the strength to hear their pain, to be the one who had to explain, who had to speak the words that still didn’t feel real.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe never.

I drew in a breath, slow and deep, forcing my lungs to expand against the crushing weight inside me. My pulse thudded in my ears, a dull, relentless rhythm.

Diego was gone.

And I was still standing.

Numb. Angry.

Waiting for the grief to come.

Then, warm fingers brushed my wrist. Light. Careful. A touch that could have been an accident if not for the heat of it.

I swallowed again.

Marcus.

I didn’t look up at first. I couldn’t. My body felt brittle, as if the moment I moved, I’d shatter into a thousand sharp-edged pieces. But then his fingers curled, not tightly, just enough to anchor me. I let out a slow, uneven breath.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.

Not a command. Not a threat.

A request.

I finally lifted my gaze to his, and what I saw there nearly undid me.

He wasn’t cold, wasn’t sharp-edged and unreadable like he’d been at the start. His expression was steady, but something dark lurked behind it. Not anger. Not irritation. Something deeper.

Something I didn’t know how to handle.

I didn’t resist when he led me up the grand staircase, the weight of his palm at the small of my back both grounding and electric. Ryker watched us go, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t stop us.

Marcus’s suite was exactly what I should have expected from him, and yet, it still stole my breath.

Sleek. Dark. Masculine.

Not cold.

The walls were deep slate, the kind of color that absorbed the daylight filtering through the tall windows rather than reflecting it. A massive bed dominated the space, covered in charcoal-gray sheets and a thick, unrumpled duvet. A fireplace stood against one wall, the black marble frame striking against the raw brick of the hearth.

Built-in bookshelves lined another wall, filled with an array of books that were worn but not dusty, their spines cracked with use. Not just décor. He actually read them.

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