Page 9 of The Sentinel

I turned my head—and immediately knew I was in trouble.

Three men stood just inside the entrance, watching me with the kind of silent intensity that could mean a hundred different things. Trouble. Protection. A warning. Or, in some cases, all three.

And I recognized every one of them.

In the center, standing with that quiet, lethal stillness, was Ryker Dane. I knew his face—not from social media, because there wasn’t any. The Dane brothers stayed out of the public eye. Their company, Dominion Defense, was a fortress—private and impenetrable. Finding anything on them had been like chasing smoke.

But Ryker had been photographed recently—once. A long-lens shot from a high-profile security summit in D.C., standing near a senator with dirty money and an FBI tail. The image barely made the rounds before it was buried, but I’d seen it.

And now, standing here in front of me, was the man from that photo.

Even if I hadn’t recognized him from the image, I still would’ve known. There was something about thesemen—something that made people instinctively take a step back. The way the air in the lobby subtly shifted, the way conversations softened, like the people in the room knew without knowing.

Yeah. Those were Danes.

The one on the right was leaner, sharp-featured, his easy smirk at odds with the sharpness in his gaze. Military posture, stance loose but deceptively ready. A man trained to react in a blink.

And the one on the left?

I’d already met him.

Sharp jaw, sun-kissed surfer-boy looks, the same cocky, vaguely pissed-off expression he’d worn when he taunted me at the pier.

Marcus Dane.

His gaze locked onto me, dark and unreadable.

I rolled my shoulders, just slightly, letting my back arch in a subtle stretch. The shift pulled my sleeveless blouse tight against my curves, the buttons straining ever so slightly. The neckline dipped just enough to tease, to see if Marcus Dane—all sharp edges and simmering irritation—was immune to temptation.

His gaze flicked downward for a split second. Barely there. But I caught it.

Oh, he noticed.

A slow smirk began at the edge of my lips. Interesting.

“Well,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, a knowing glint in my eye. “Speak of the devil.”

Marcus’s mouth curled at the edges. “I don’t recall inviting you to.”

I arched a brow, letting my gaze flick over him—broad shoulders under a perfectly tailored button-down,the way he carried himself like he owned the damn room. The city.Maybe even the world.

Asshole energy radiated off him in waves.

I smiled, slow and taunting. “I don’t need an invitation.”

“That right?”

“Yep.” I turned fully toward him, squaring my stance. “I ask questions. People answer them. It’s kind of my thing.”

He tilted his head, studying me.

I refused to squirm.

Then his gaze flicked—just for a second—toward the back room behind the front desk. A subtle shift. A flicker of acknowledgment.

A moment later, Isabel stepped out, a small crossbody bag slung over her shoulder. She barely glanced my way before walking toward the men, her movements easy, like she’d done this a hundred times before. Ryker’s arm brushed against hers as she passed, and even though they didn’t touch, there was something there. Something in the way he subtly angled his body toward her, in the way her eyes flicked up at him as if she didn’t even have to think about it.

They were together.

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