Page 89 of The Sentinel

I needed Marcus Dane. Not just to save me. Not just to storm in like the monster I knew he could be, to lay waste to anyone who had dared to touch me.

I neededhim. The man. The warrior. The storm that had torn through my life and left me ruined in the best possible way.

I needed to get back to him. I needed to tell him.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Yes,” I said simply, certainly. “He’s coming for me.”

Hart’s lips pressed together in a mockery of a smile. “Then let’s make sure he finds exactly what he’s looking for.”

She turned to the man beside her. “Make her scream.”

My stomach bottomed out.

He grinned.

I barely had time to brace before his fist slammed into my ribs.

Pain detonated through my side, white-hot and breath-stealing. My chair rocked back, nearly tipping, my lungs seizing in protest.

I sucked in a breath, forced myself to stay upright.

The man stepped closer. “Come on, you yankee cunt,” he crooned, mockingly. “Give the boss what she wants.”

I clenched my teeth. I refused to give them what they wanted.

The second blow was worse. A fist to my stomach, driving all the air from my lungs in a brutal, unforgiving rush. My body seized, muscles locking up, my knees straining against the zip ties as I fought against the pain.

I gasped, trying to drag in air, but the agony was immediate, sharp as broken glass in my ribs. I felt something shift inside me—maybe a bruise forming, maybe worse.

A cruel laugh echoed in the warehouse, bouncing off the damp concrete walls.

“That one looked like it hurt,” the man taunted, his voice thick with amusement.

I refused to look at him. Refused to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging the pain flooding my body.

I thought of Marcus instead.

Of his hands on me—rough and reverent, claiming and careful, never cruel. I thought of the way he had held me that first night, the way he had pushed me up against the wall underneath Dominion Hall like he couldn’t get close enough.

I had spent so long fighting him, resisting the pull, convincing myself that what we had wasn’t real, wasn’t something I could trust. But Marcus had always known.He had always seen it, seen me, long before I was ready to see it myself.

And now, I might never get the chance to tell him.

The thought sent a fresh wave of terror through me, one that I couldn’t let settle.

Marcus was coming for me. I had to hold on. I had to make it through this.

I squared my jaw, forced my head up. “You hit like a bitch.”

His expression darkened.

The next blow sent my chair skidding across the floor.

I barely had time to process the impact before he grabbed my jaw, yanking my head up so I was forced to look at him. His grip was bruising, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks.

“I can do this all night.” His breath was hot against my cheek, reeking of cigarettes and something sour. “Can you?”

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