Page 83 of The Sentinel

If this went bad, how the hell was I getting out of it?

Panic clawed at my ribs, but I shoved it down, scanning the spa’s layout in my mind, searching for exits, weapons—anything. But I had nothing. No gun, no knife, not even fucking pepper spray. What had I been thinking? I had walked into this like a goddamn amateur, with nothing but my voice and my convictions, like either of those would mean a damn thing if someone put a bullet in my head.

I should have learned how to fight. Should have learned how to shoot. Should have done more than justtrust that Marcus or Ryker or one of the other Dane brothers would always be there to protect me.

Because what if they couldn’t?

What if this was the one time Marcus wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough? Even Superman had his kryptonite.

And I—I was Marcus Dane’s.

That thought hit hard, lodged deep in my chest like shrapnel. Marcus would burn the world down before he let something happen to me. I knew that. But I also knew something else.

Men like him didn’t get to save everyone. Not forever.

Jason Lawson was proof of that.

Byron Dane was proof of that.

And I—I didn’t want to be next.

Marcus moved first. He grabbed my wrist and shoved me behind him as the room exploded into motion.

The first man came from the hallway—big, fast, trained—but Marcus was faster. He caught him mid-lunge, slammed him into the reception desk so hard the blonde woman gasped, her empty smile vanishing.

Another set of footsteps. A second man. This one didn’t hesitate—he charged, reaching for something at his waist.

Gun.

I saw it, my breath locking in my throat, but Marcus was already moving. A brutal strike to the throat, a sweep of his leg, and the guy hit the floor, gagging.

I staggered back, heart hammering, trying to process what was happening—really happening.

A part of me refused to accept it, as if my brain was scrambling for some kind of rational explanation, someexcuse that would make this not what I already knew it was. Maybe this was just a misunderstanding. Maybe the footsteps behind us were just other guests. Maybe the blonde receptionist had only hesitated because she recognized Marcus, not because she was waiting for something—someone.

But my gut knew better.

That deep, primal part of my brain—the one that had been sharpened by years of chasing stories that led to dark places—was screaming that this was wrong. That we were trapped. That I was already a step behind.

I had spent my entire life chasing the truth. Hunting it down. Dragging it into the light. And yet here I was, standing in the middle of this sleek, quiet spa, my body rigid with an instinct my mind didn’t want to name, clinging to the absurd hope that this wasn’t what it looked like.

But it was.

Marcus’s tension, the shift in his stance, the way the air itself had changed—those weren’t my imagination. My body had recognized the danger before my mind could catch up, before I could fully admit that we weren’t walking out of here the same way we came in.

This was happening. And we were already in it.

Something cold clamped over my mouth.

Panic surged, sharp, blinding.

I fought. Twisted, kicked, my elbow driving backward, but my attacker was too strong, too fast.

An arm locked around my waist, lifting me clear off my feet, dragging me toward the back door.

No.

No, no, no.

---