Page 52 of The Sentinel

It was intimate. Personal.

And that was what made it different from the rest of Dominion Hall.

Marcus shut the door behind us, the heavy latch clicking into place, and when I turned to face him, something unreadable flickered in his expression.

“No woman has ever been in here,” he said simply.

My pulse ticked up.

“In Dominion Hall?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

His lips quirked, just slightly. “In my private quarters. When I entertain, I use a guest room.”

The word entertain sent a slow, sharp prickle through my chest. I shouldn’t have cared. Shouldn’t have felt anything about the way he phrased it.

But I did.

Still, the thought of this—of standing in a space that no other woman had touched—was a thrill I hadn’t expected.

I studied him. “And the house on Sullivan’s Island?”

His jaw tensed, just slightly, before he spoke. “No woman has ever been intimate with me inside that house. Not until you.”

Something inside me twisted. Tightened.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew Marcus Dane had a past, that he wasn’t a man who spent his nights alone. But the knowledge that no woman had ever been inside his sanctuary—not here, not there—sent a shiver through me.

I didn’t know what it meant. But I knew it meant something.

For the first time since stepping into Dominion Hall, I felt special.

Maybe even … his.

I swallowed, my throat thick, my grief still hovering like a storm cloud, but the weight of it had shifted, just slightly.

The air between us changed. The grief was still there, but so was the tension—the thing between us that neither of us could seem to sever, no matter how hard we tried.

Marcus exhaled sharply, as if he could feel it, too. “Come on. Shower. I’ll get your bag from the car.”

I nodded, grateful for the moment to collect myself.

The shower was hot, steam swirling around me as I braced my hands against the cool tile and let the water wash over me. My body was sore, exhaustion pulling at my muscles, but it wasn’t the kind of exhaustion sleep could fix.

Still, for those few minutes, I let myself be still. Let myself breathe.

When I finally stepped out of the shower, my skin flushed and warm, my suitcase was waiting just inside the bathroom. The zipper was already halfway undone, Marcus’s silent way of telling me he’d left it for me to use but hadn’t dared open it.

I rifled through the clothes, looking for something clean. Something that didn’t smell like yesterday’s mistakes and exhaustion.

I pulled out a fitted black tank top, soft and ribbed. The neckline dipped low—not scandalous, but enough to catch the eye. Enough that I knew Marcus would notice.

Next, a pair of dark-wash denim shorts. They weren’t too short, but they hugged my hips in a way that felt just a little dangerous, a little tempting. The fabric was soft, broken-in, the kind that felt like home.

I dug for a bra and found a simple black lace one,unlined but delicate, the floral patterns just barely visible through the tank top when the light hit just right.

My sandals were near the bottom of the suitcase—leather, well-worn, comfortable. I slipped them on, then ran my fingers through my damp hair, letting it fall in loose waves around my shoulders.

I glanced at the other clothes in my suitcase—the dressier blouses, the sleek jeans I normally wore when I needed to look sharp, polished, untouchable. Those were the things I usually reached for. The things that made me feel like I had armor.

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