Page 7 of The Sentinel

I’d bury her first.

I turned back to the monitors. Her feed was still steady. My fists clenched as I watched.

I couldn’t find Department 77. I couldn’t prove shit. And I couldn’t stop the mess from piling up.

So why was she still in my head? Naked. Writhing. Mine.

I growled, then slammed a fist on the table. Steel rang. It didn’t help.

She was under my skin. I hated it.

I had to end this—her digging, my wanting. One way or another.

5

CLAIRE

Itook the key card from the counter, my mind still going over what had just happened. If the women working the front desk knew the Dane brothers—knew Marcus—then I’d just walked straight into a much bigger story than I’d expected.

I glanced at their name tags, my curiosity kicking in. Only first names were printed. Isabel and Sasha.

I nodded toward them. “Isabel. Sasha. Thanks for the help.”

The one with sleek dark hair—Isabel—offered a polite but unreadable smile. Sasha gave me an easy nod, her expression still measured.

As I stepped away, Isabel reached for her purse behind the counter, exchanging a few quiet words with Sasha. A shift change. She was heading out for the night.

Interesting.

If she was leaving, there was a chance she was going home—to someone.

My stomach tightened.

I didn’t know exactly what I’d walked into yet, but one thing was clear—I was in the right place.

With that, I turned on my heel and strode toward the elevator, keeping my posture relaxed, though inside, I was buzzing with energy.

By the time I reached the Magnolia Suite, I was itching to get to work.

The door swung open to reveal a space that was all understated Southern elegance. Soft blue walls, crisp white crown molding, antique furniture polished to a gleam. A massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, draped in white linen so pristine it looked untouched. The sitting area featured a tufted sofa in a shade of pale gray, with a matching armchair angled toward a fireplace that I highly doubted anyone ever used.

A set of French doors led to a balcony overlooking the historic district. Beyond the rooftops of pastel townhouses, I could see the harbor.

I dropped my bag onto the bed and pulled out my phone. It was time to check in.

Diego answered on the third ring. “Tell me you’ve already stirred up trouble.”

I rolled my eyes. “Nice to talk to you too, boss.”

“I’m not your boss, Claire, I’m your producer. But if it helps you take direction, call me whatever you want.” His voice was warm but firm, that signature mix of charm and exasperation he always used on me.

I toed off my heels and flopped onto the sofa. “I made it. And Jesus, Diego, it’s like another planet down here. People are walking around smiling at strangers. The air smells like sugar and salt water. It’s … unsettling.”

Diego chuckled. “Careful. You might accidentally start liking it.”

“Doubtful.” I stretched out, crossing one ankle over the other. “I checked in at The Palmetto Rose. Met a couple of locals who seem like they know the Dane brothers but weren’t exactly eager to talk.”

“That’s not surprising.” His tone shifted, turning more serious. “Those guys are a different breed. Blood money. Military ties. The kind of men who don’t like reporters sniffing around their business.”

---