Page 15 of The Sentinel

He studied me for a long moment, then finally?—

“Someone mentionedDepartment 77.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

I barely stopped myself from reacting, from shifting too quickly, from letting the shock show on my face.

The deputy shook his head. “Don’t know who said it. Just overheard it at a bar. But it sure as hell sounded like something worth digging into.”

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to stay cool.

“And what doyouthink?” I asked, tilting my head. “About the Danes?”

His jaw tightened. “I think people in this city know exactly who runs things.”

Cryptic as hell.

His gaze flicked over me, slow and assessing, lingering just long enough to make a point. “And I think you should be careful, ma’am.”

I arched a brow. “Is that a threat, Deputy Norton?”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “No, ma’am. Just an observation. The Danes have a reputation—for a lot of things. Business. Power. Loyalty.” His lips quirked, but his eyes stayed sharp. “And women.”

That got my attention.

He shrugged, all casual-like, but there was a warning in his tone. “Men like that? They take what they want. If you’re into that kind of thing, well …” He gave me a knowing look, his gaze dragging from my eyes to my mouth, then lower, over the tailored blouse that fit just a little too well and the curve-hugging jeans I’d thrown on that morning. “Let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first woman who’s gotten caught up in their world.”

Heat pricked at my skin, but I refused to squirm.

He wasn’t wrong about one thing—I stood out here. Back in New York, my outfit was nothing. Just another woman in business-casual with a little edge. But in Charleston, where pastel sundresses and breezy linen ruled, I might as well have been wearing a sign that saidnot from around here.

And Marcus?

My pulse kicked up against my will.

I swallowed, pushing the thought away before it could sink its teeth in.

Norton’s eyes were still on me, sharp and amused, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone.

I squared my shoulders. “I can handle myself.”

He smirked. “Yeah, I get that.” Then he leaned in, lowering his voice enough to make it personal. “Just make sure you’re the one doing the handling. Because men like the Danes? They don’t play fair.”

I already knew that. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted them to.

But it didn’t matter.

Because I had what I needed.

I had a name.

And now? Now I was about to really stir up the hornet’s nest.

8

MARCUS

Isat in my Bugatti, parked off King Street, the engine idling low. How I loved that hum. Morning sun cut through the windshield, glinting off my phone as it buzzed—Norton’s name on the screen. I’d been waiting for this. I hit answer and kept it short.

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