Page 87 of The Sentinel

I’d felt like I belonged. Like I was doing something real. Like I had someone who understood me, who cared about this work as much as I did, who cared about me.

That’s what Diego had been. My friend. My producer. My partner in this crazy, chaotic career we’d built together.

And I had never,neverimagined a world where he wasn’t in it.

“Youaremy producer,” I shot back, tucking my feet under me. “If I die of starvation, that’s technically your fault.”

Diego groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re impossible.”

I grinned, about to fire back?—

And then I saw it. The hoodie he was wearing. The same gray one I had stashed in the bottom of my suitcase at Dominion Hall.

Because Diego was dead.

The laughter strangled in my throat. The warmth bled from the room. I blinked, and he was gone. The sofa, the golden light, the city beyond my window—gone.I was back in the dark.

Back in the damp, stinking air.

Back in Charleston.

A slow, aching horror unfurled inside me, as sharp as the pain radiating through my ribs.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Not my apartment. A warehouse. Fluorescent lights flickering overhead. Footsteps. Boots scuffing against concrete.

I choked on a breath.

Diego was gone. Really, truly gone.

And then—voices.

Low. Male. Close.

I strained to make out words, but they were just beyond reach, swallowed by the thick press of the hood.

Think, Claire. Think.

Panic wouldn’t save me. Hyperventilating wouldn’t break the zip ties. Crying wouldn’t bring Marcus crashing through the door with a gun in his hand and murder in his eyes.

Marcus.

A lump rose in my throat, thick and suffocating. Had he seen them take me? Had he fought? Had he been hurt?

He would come for me. I had to believe that. But what if he couldn’t? What if—this time—he was too late?

A sharp chill ran through me.

Jason Lawson had been his best friend, his brother-in-arms. And Marcus hadn’t been able to save him.Byron Dane had been the man who raised seven sons to be unstoppable. And yet, something in the dark had swallowed him, too.

A door creaked open. I froze, breath catching.

The voices grew clearer. Footsteps approached. Heavy. Deliberate.

Then—rough hands grabbed my hood.

I barely had time to brace before it was yanked off.

---