Page 2 of The Sentinel

“Guess I’ll take my chances,” I said, voice steady despite the thudding in my chest. “I’ve got a knack for finding what’s buried.”

His eyes darkened, and for a split second, I saw it—something silent, unforgiving, a shadow ready to strike. Then he pushed off the lamppost, closing the gap between us in two easy strides, his heat brushing against me like a warning shot.

“Keep digging, Claire,” he murmured, so close I could feel his breath on my cheek, “and you’ll need more than a mic to save you.”

I didn’t back up. Didn’t blink. Just held his gaze, my pulse roaring, the story burning brighter than the sunset behind us.

This wasn’t just a lead. This was Marcus Dane—I’d bet my recorder on it—and he was the key to everything.

Tension snapped between us like a live wire, and I knew one thing for damn sure: I wasn’t walking away.

2

MARCUS

Iknew she was coming before her plane landed. Her voice hit my truck’s radio two nights back—The Unseen, tearing into the pier explosion like a live round. “No accident,” she’d said, name-dropping Dominion Defense Corporation.

I’d felt the hit fifty miles out. That look—the hunter’s glint—I’d clocked it before she touched sand.

She didn’t disappoint.

I leaned against a lamppost, arms crossed, wind pulling. She stepped onto Folly Beach, recorder in hand. New York hard. Her blonde hair was messy, her leather jacket tight, her jeans hugging curves like Scarlett Johansson in a dark cut.

She was hot as hell. Trouble on legs. The enemy.

They called her the best of her generation. Whispers from podcasters, X junkies, and a burned-out cop I’d leaned on once all said the same thing. Claire Dixon didn’t chase stories—she tracked them, gutted them, fed them to a million ears. She’d cracked a Queens case that had cops scrambling. Took downa pharma prick in ten episodes. Now, she’d locked onto us. Me. My brothers. Dominion Hall.

She was good. Too good.

I couldn’t let her have it.

The pier was a wreck. Sand stretched flat, boardwalk to the right, bungalows left. It was quiet. Too quiet for a blast that tore through not long ago. Locals shuffled by, their flip-flops slapping, like it was nothing. Tourists snapped pics—idiots. Claire stepped closer, her recorder humming, her eyes hunting.

I knew that look. I’d seen it in war zones, debriefs, and even my own damn face some nights. She smelled blood. She’d dig till she hit us. When they called her the best of her generation, they weren’t wrong.

Did I mention she was hot, too? All New York bite and curves I’d pin down in a heartbeat. I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

Dominion Hall was us—seven brothers, blood and war, and the pact we’d made after Dad went dark. I was the sentinel—the eyes, ears, and the shadow catching what tried to slip past. Ryker led. Charlie hit. I watched. Always. I kept us standing when shit came knocking.

Claire wanted the pier and our secrets. That’d paint targets on every single Dane. On my company. That couldn’t happen.

Even if I had to make her disappear.

That was a cold thought. Sharp. I’d done it—left bodies cold, silenced loud mouths that couldn’t help themselves. It was survival, not personal. But watching her—recorder live, eyes cutting—I felt it twist. She burned bright. Too bright to waste, really. Still, I’d do anything to protect what was mine. Family. Company.Everything.

Then there was Department 77. Another problem.Much bigger than Claire Bear. But I had to deal with her first.

I grinned sharp, my mask on. She’d feel me soon. That prickle. Instinct keeping her alive. One shot. I’d scare her off, charm her back, or whatever worked. If she dug deeper, I’d end it. I didn’t have a choice. It was the sentinel’s job to watch, wait, and strike.

“Seen anything worth a headline out there?” I drawled, low, cutting the tide’s noise.

She froze, thumb over her recorder. She felt me, then she turned slow and tight. Her gray eyes locked mine. They were sharp, no bullshit. Up close, she was even hotter—Scarlett with a New York edge, her curves screaming trouble. Heat hit low. It was a tease I’d use later. Not now.

“Depends,” she said, flatly, with steel in it. “You got something worth saying?”

I grinned wider, predator to her hunter. “Just a friendly tip, darlin’. You’re poking at ghosts out here. Might not like what you wake up.”

Ooh. I could see she hated “darlin’” when her eyebrows twitched. She stepped closer. She was daring me. “Ghosts don’t blow up piers. People do. And I’m betting you know more than you’re letting on.”

---