Chapter 21
21
CLAIRE
T he grief was raw. A jagged wound inside me, gaping and unrelenting. I wasn’t sure how long I stood there, silent and still, staring at the floor of Dominion Hall as my pulse thudded dully in my ears. The weight of what had happened settled over me, pressing, suffocating.
Marcus and Ryker were near—close enough that I could feel their presence, their intensity—but neither of them spoke. The air in the vast space was thick with something unspoken, something I couldn’t name.
I should have cried.
Normal people would have.
When I’d heard the news, when Ryker’s words had reached my ears in a voice that didn’t sound real—flat, clinical, shattering—I should have broken. Should have felt my knees buckle, should have felt the tears come, hot and endless.
But there was nothing.
No sobs, no shaking, no flood of grief to drown in. Just an empty, hollow kind of numbness. A slow-building pressure in my chest that felt more like anger than sadness.
Was that wrong?
Was I wrong?
I didn’t know how to process this. Didn’t know what to do with it. My brain kept skipping over the loss, like a record stuck on a scratch, replaying the same thought over and over.
He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone .
Diego.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
I should call his parents. Should hear his mother’s voice, his father’s quiet grief. But the thought made my stomach turn, made the walls feel too close, like I couldn’t get enough air.
I wasn’t ready for that.
I didn’t have the strength to hear their pain, to be the one who had to explain, who had to speak the words that still didn’t feel real.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe never.
I drew in a breath, slow and deep, forcing my lungs to expand against the crushing weight inside me. My pulse thudded in my ears, a dull, relentless rhythm.
Diego was gone.
And I was still standing.
Numb. Angry.
Waiting for the grief to come.
Then, warm fingers brushed my wrist. Light. Careful. A touch that could have been an accident if not for the heat of it.
I swallowed again.
Marcus .
I didn’t look up at first. I couldn’t. My body felt brittle, as if the moment I moved, I’d shatter into a thousand sharp-edged pieces. But then his fingers curled, not tightly, just enough to anchor me. I let out a slow, uneven breath.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
Not a command. Not a threat.
A request.
I finally lifted my gaze to his, and what I saw there nearly undid me.
He wasn’t cold, wasn’t sharp-edged and unreadable like he’d been at the start. His expression was steady, but something dark lurked behind it. Not anger. Not irritation. Something deeper.
Something I didn’t know how to handle.
I didn’t resist when he led me up the grand staircase, the weight of his palm at the small of my back both grounding and electric. Ryker watched us go, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t stop us.
Marcus’s suite was exactly what I should have expected from him, and yet, it still stole my breath.
Sleek. Dark. Masculine.
Not cold.
The walls were deep slate, the kind of color that absorbed the daylight filtering through the tall windows rather than reflecting it. A massive bed dominated the space, covered in charcoal-gray sheets and a thick, unrumpled duvet. A fireplace stood against one wall, the black marble frame striking against the raw brick of the hearth.
Built-in bookshelves lined another wall, filled with an array of books that were worn but not dusty, their spines cracked with use. Not just décor. He actually read them .
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.
But not today.
Today, I needed comfort.
I needed fabric that didn’t suffocate me, that didn’t remind me of press junkets and calculated appearances. I needed something soft, something worn. Something that didn’t feel like a costume.
The tank top and shorts weren’t what I usually wore in the field, but this wasn’t just a case anymore. Diego was gone. And the world had changed.
The weight of that truth settled deeper into my bones as I took a slow breath, pushing back the edges of the grief that still refused to fully take shape.
I turned away from my suitcase, running a towel through the ends of my hair.
And when I looked up, Marcus was there.
He stood near the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed—but not in that usual defensive, closed-off way. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable but not hard. Just watching. Waiting.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t rush me. Just let me move at my own pace, let me have the space to breathe. It was strange, seeing this side of him—the quiet patience, the gentleness lurking beneath all the sharp edges.
And then, taking a breath, I turned toward the door.
It was still strange, being in his space.
As I walked slowly around his room, I trailed my fingers along the dark wood of his dresser, taking things in more carefully now. The bookshelves, the rich textures, the neatly arranged bottles of cologne—evidence of the man behind the fortress.
But it wasn’t until I noticed the framed photo on his desk that I stopped.
It was small, unassuming, as if he hadn’t intended it to be a centerpiece.
Two men stood side by side in fatigues, the desert stretching behind them in a blur of heat and dust. One was Marcus—his face younger but still carrying that sharp, unreadable intensity. The other man was grinning, his arm slung around Marcus’s shoulder, his teeth flashing bright against sun-darkened skin.
I reached for the frame without thinking, my fingers brushing over the smooth glass.
Behind me, I heard Marcus shift.
His gaze locked onto the picture in my hands, and in that moment, the air changed.
Something flickered in his expression—something fast, almost imperceptible. Not anger. Not irritation. Something closer to shame .
I lifted the frame slightly, my voice soft. “Who is he?”
Marcus didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he stepped forward, his jaw ticking as he took the frame from my hands. He stared at it, thumb brushing over the edge, before exhaling through his nose.
“Jason Lawson,” he said finally. His voice was different now—rougher, quieter. “We served together. ”
I waited, sensing there was more.
Marcus set the frame back down, but he didn’t look away from it.
“We were on assignment overseas,” he continued, his fingers tightening into a fist at his side. “Marine Raiders. Covert op. Intel was bad. They said the village was clear.” A slow, humorless laugh escaped him, but there was nothing funny about it. “It wasn’t.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Marcus’s shoulders had gone stiff, his entire body coiled like a wire stretched too tight.
“They ambushed us,” he said. “Took out our lead vehicle with an IED. We scrambled, tried to recover, but we were outnumbered. Cut off.” His jaw clenched. “Lawson was on my six. He should have made it out.”
I knew where this was going. I felt the answer in my bones before he even spoke it.
“But he didn’t,” I murmured.
Marcus’s throat worked as he swallowed. “No.” His voice was quieter now, just a breath above a whisper. “He didn’t.”
I could picture it—the heat, the sand, the gunfire splitting the air. I could see Jason turning toward Marcus in the chaos, shouting something, reaching for him?—
And then, nothing.
Gone.
Just like Diego.
Marcus lifted a hand and dragged it through his hair, exhaling sharply as if he was trying to shake off the memory.
I didn’t know that feeling. Not yet .
But I suspected I would.
Diego’s death hadn’t sunk in fully—not in the way that cracked you open and left you hollow. I hadn’t lost someone that close before. Not someone who had been in my life every damn day, who had known me better than I knew myself.
But I knew it was coming.
I would wake up expecting his texts, his calls, his sarcastic remarks on my latest episode. I would turn to share something with him and remember— he’s gone.
And then, I would understand.
I would know what it was like to carry ghosts. To wake up expecting someone’s voice only to remember they’d been silenced.
“Marcus.” His name left my lips before I even knew I was saying it.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and the storm in his eyes was the same one I felt raging inside me.
We weren’t the same. But in this, we understood each other.
I took a step closer. So did he.
Neither of us spoke.
We didn’t need to.