Page 93 of The Sentinel

Pain was expected. It lived in my ribs, a sharp reminder of every fist that had landed, every bruise that would bloom deep beneath my skin. It curled in my wrists and ankles, raw from the zip ties, throbbed in my face where Hart’s mercenary had struck me. I could feel it everywhere, a map of violence written across my body.

But Marcus—Marcus was something else entirely.

The next day, I sat on the edge of his bed in Dominion Hall, wrapped in one of his t-shirts, my hands curled around a bottle of water I had barely touched. The room was dim, quiet, the kind of stillness that only came after the storm. But Marcus wasn’t still.

He was pacing.

Back and forth across the room, his hands in his hair, his jaw clenched so tight I swore I could hear his teeth grinding. His knuckles were split, his breathing uneven,his entire body coiled with something unleashed, something that had no outlet now that I was here, safe.

Safe.

The word didn’t feel real yet.

Hart was gone—taken by the Agency’s quiet cleanup crew, a group of men who had stepped out of the dark like ghosts and looked at her like she was already dead. Marcus and his brothers had worked her over first, but she had given them little. Just confirmation that the Charleston operation had been about the port. Control it. Use it. For what? That part was still a mystery.

Atlas had been the first to step back when the suits arrived, his expression unreadable as he watched them drag Hart out. He knew something. Something he hadn’t said yet. And now? Now, he was gone. Vanished into the night to chase whatever truth was waiting for him.

But I wasn’t thinking about Atlas now.

I was watching Marcus. Watching him come apart, watching the storm inside him rage without release.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” I murmured, my voice hoarse.

Marcus stopped. Turned.

His eyes locked onto me, dark and wild, and suddenly, he was right there, kneeling in front of me, his hands coming up like he wanted to touch me but couldn’t.

“I almost lost you.”

His voice was raw. Wrecked.

I swallowed hard, reaching for him first. Because I could. Because I was alive. Because he needed it. Because I needed it.

I traced my fingers over his jaw, my touch featherlight, but he shuddered. His hands closed aroundmy wrists—not to stop me, just to hold on. His grip was tight, like he was grounding himself with the feel of me.

“You didn’t,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

He exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing against my skin. “You don’t get it, Claire. I saw them take you. I was right there, and I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

I knew what he was thinking. That he had failed.

“Marcus.” I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his. “You saved me.”

His breath hitched, but he shook his head. “Not fast enough.”

There was something fractured in his voice, something I had never heard before. Marcus Dane, the man who burned like a wildfire, was unraveling.

And God, I loved him.

It hit me then, in a way that left no room for doubt, no space for denial.

I loved him.

Not just the protector, not just the man who had cut through bodies to find me. I loved all of him. The sharp edges. The broken parts. The violence and the vulnerability, the loyalty so fierce it was terrifying.

I had spent my life chasing the truth. And this? This was the truth.

I lifted my hand, cupping his face. “Marcus, look at me.”

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