Page 66 of The Sentinel

She nodded once. One of her men stepped forward.

“Ms. Dixon. Mr. Dane,” he said, voice clipped, professional. “This way.”

A dismissal. A threat wrapped in civility.

I should have fought it. Should have demanded answers, forced her hand, something.

But Marcus’s body was already tense beside me, his breathing controlled, his stance shifting into something predatory. And if I pushed this too far, right now, I wasn’t sure who would walk out of here alive. Because I had never seen Marcus Dane angry.

I’d seen him cold. Calculating. Dangerous in a way that didn’t require volume or threats, just the quiet certainty that if he wanted to break you, he already knew how. But this?

This was something else.

His body was taut with restrained force, his muscles locked so tight I could feel the tension radiating offhim. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, but the room had shifted around him—like a fault line waiting to snap.

And if it did?

I didn’t know what would happen.

Would he lunge for Hart? Would he drag her across that sleek mahogany desk and make her regret whatever history she had with his father? Would her security react fast enough to stop him?

Would I?

I pictured it—chaos unraveling in seconds, Marcus slamming one of her men against the wall, the sick crack of bone giving way, the other reaching for a gun he wouldn’t have time to use. I imagined Hart sitting there, calm and composed, watching it all unfold with the detached amusement of a woman who had already planned for every possible outcome.

I couldn’t let it get that far.

We weren’t ready. Not yet.

So I did the only thing I could—I stepped closer to Marcus, close enough that my arm brushed his, that he could feel me there. A tether. A warning.

“Not here,” I murmured, so quiet only he could hear.

For a long, agonizing second, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then, finally, his exhale came—slow and measured, but no less lethal. A war delayed, not won.

I exhaled slowly, too, relieved.

Then I turned back to Hart. She was already looking at me, an almost lazy satisfaction in her gaze.

“This isn’t over,” I said quietly.

Her smile returned.

“No,” she agreed, tilting her head. “It’s not.”

Then, just before I turned away, she added, almost like an afterthought?—

“Give my regards to Dominion Hall, Mr. Dane.”

Marcus went still. Like the final breath before an explosion.

Hart saw it, too.

And she liked it.

Her lips curved, the barest flicker of amusement in her gaze. She was testing him, pressing at the cracks, looking for the weakness that would make him snap.

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