Page 54 of The Sentinel

“But he didn’t,” I murmured.

Marcus’s throat worked as he swallowed. “No.” His voice was quieter now, just a breath above a whisper. “He didn’t.”

I could picture it—the heat, the sand, the gunfire splitting the air. I could see Jason turning toward Marcus in the chaos, shouting something, reaching for him?—

And then, nothing.

Gone.

Just like Diego.

Marcus lifted a hand and dragged it through his hair, exhaling sharply as if he was trying to shake off the memory.

I didn’t know that feeling. Not yet.

But I suspected I would.

Diego’s death hadn’t sunk in fully—not in the way that cracked you open and left you hollow. I hadn’t lostsomeone that close before. Not someone who had been in my life every damn day, who had known me better than I knew myself.

But I knew it was coming.

I would wake up expecting his texts, his calls, his sarcastic remarks on my latest episode. I would turn to share something with him and remember—he’s gone.

And then, I would understand.

I would know what it was like to carry ghosts. To wake up expecting someone’s voice only to remember they’d been silenced.

“Marcus.” His name left my lips before I even knew I was saying it.

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and the storm in his eyes was the same one I felt raging inside me.

We weren’t the same. But in this, we understood each other.

I took a step closer. So did he.

Neither of us spoke.

We didn’t need to.

22

MARCUS

Icouldn’t take my eyes off her.

Claire stood there in my room, her damp hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders, the black tank top clinging to her swells, those denim shorts hugging her hips in a way that made my throat tighten.

She was barefoot, toes curling slightly against the hardwood, and something about that—her raw, unguarded presence—hit me differently.

This wasn’t the same as before, not the wild, carnal pull that had us tearing at each other in tunnels and on weathered floors. This was new, softer, a quiet ache that settled deep in my chest and wouldn’t let go.

She was the first woman to step into this space—my private quarters at Dominion Hall, my inner sanctum where no one else had ever been. Not a lover, not a fling, not even the women I’d taken to guest rooms for a night and sent away before dawn.

And she was the first, outside my father and brothers, to hear about Jason—his name spilling from me like blood from an old wound, unbidden and raw. Why her?Why did I feel this pull, this need to let her in? Was it like the bond I’d forged with men in battle—friends turned brothers through spilled blood, lives saved and lost, a brotherhood sealed in the dirt and chaos? Maybe. Maybe it was that kind of fire, tempered now into something gentler, something I didn’t know how to name.

We came together slowly, not with the frantic hunger of before. I stepped closer, my feet silent on the floor, and she didn’t move away.

Her gray eyes locked on mine, steady and searching, and I reached out, my fingers brushing her arm—tentative, like I was touching her for the first time. Her skin was warm, soft under the rough pads of my hands, and I traced the line of her elbow, up to her shoulder, feeling the faint shiver that ran through her.

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