Chapter 31
31
CLAIRE
I pushed the spa door open, stepping inside after Marcus?—
And immediately knew something was wrong.
The air felt thick. Too still.
Not the hushed, meditative quiet of a high-end retreat, but something heavier. Something waiting.
Marcus must have felt it, too. His posture shifted, barely perceptible, but I caught it—the way his shoulders squared, the subtle roll of tension through his muscles. A predator scenting the trap before it could spring.
And yet, I had wanted this. Wanted to be here, working alongside him, proving—to him, to myself—that I could. That I wasn’t just the woman in his bed or the voice behind a microphone. That I wasn’t some outsider playing at war, using my words while men like him used their fists.
I had felt like I was doing something real. Taking control. Fighting back. And more than that—I was with Marcus, not just in a way that burned in the dark, but in the light, standing at his side, building something together. It mattered.
But maybe I had been foolish.
Because knowing something was off wasn’t the same as being prepared for it. I wasn’t. Not for this.
A woman sat behind the reception desk, blonde hair sleek and perfect, eyes barely flicking up from her screen. “Welcome to Island Spa,” she said smoothly. “Are you checking in?”
Marcus didn’t answer. His gaze slid past her, scanning the hall beyond. His presence beside me was calm, but I felt the change in him. The way the air had sharpened, edged with something wrong.
My pulse skittered. I knew Marcus was dangerous. I’d seen the wreckage he could leave behind. But this was different. This wasn’t him on the attack.
This was him realizing he might be the target.
A chill ghosted down my spine, and I fought the urge to glance over my shoulder, to search for the eyes I suddenly felt on me. My body knew before my brain did.
Marcus must have felt it, too. He was utterly still beside me, tension rolling through him like a tide pulling back before the crash.
Had he ever felt like this before?
I wondered if he had as a Marine Raider, if there had been moments buried deep in his past where the animal part of him—pure instinct, pure survival—had risen like this. Had it happened the day Jason Lawson was killed? Had Marcus felt this same cold grip on his spine, this same unnatural stillness in his blood, the moment he realized death was closer than he’d thought?
Was this the fear that shaped him? The reason he and his brothers didn’t hesitate when others froze?
I’d been in danger before. Plenty of times. My work with The Unseen had taken me into bad neighborhoods, had led me to interview killers in prison, to dig too deep into places that wanted to stay buried. I’d received death threats, been followed home, been told in no uncertain terms to let things go.
But this—this was different.
This wasn’t a rational fear, the kind you could argue yourself out of. It wasn’t the kind that came with logic and probability. This was something older. Deeper. A primitive, lizard-brain terror whispering run . And I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt it before.
I opened my mouth, ready to say something, to play along?—
And then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Behind us.
Too many.
I didn’t turn my head. Didn’t look. Looking would confirm it, would make it real. But my heart was already hammering, my stomach twisting into knots, my breath coming too shallow, too fast.
I had to think. Had to act.
If this went bad, how the hell was I getting out of it?
Panic clawed at my ribs, but I shoved it down, scanning the spa’s layout in my mind, searching for exits, weapons—anything. But I had nothing. No gun, no knife, not even fucking pepper spray. What had I been thinking? I had walked into this like a goddamn amateur, with nothing but my voice and my convictions, like either of those would mean a damn thing if someone put a bullet in my head.
I should have learned how to fight. Should have learned how to shoot. Should have done more than just trust that Marcus or Ryker or one of the other Dane brothers would always be there to protect me.
Because what if they couldn’t?
What if this was the one time Marcus wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough? Even Superman had his kryptonite.
And I—I was Marcus Dane’s.
That thought hit hard, lodged deep in my chest like shrapnel. Marcus would burn the world down before he let something happen to me. I knew that. But I also knew something else.
Men like him didn’t get to save everyone. Not forever.
Jason Lawson was proof of that.
Byron Dane was proof of that.
And I—I didn’t want to be next.
Marcus moved first. He grabbed my wrist and shoved me behind him as the room exploded into motion.
The first man came from the hallway—big, fast, trained—but Marcus was faster. He caught him mid-lunge, slammed him into the reception desk so hard the blonde woman gasped, her empty smile vanishing.
Another set of footsteps. A second man. This one didn’t hesitate—he charged, reaching for something at his waist.
Gun.
I saw it, my breath locking in my throat, but Marcus was already moving. A brutal strike to the throat, a sweep of his leg, and the guy hit the floor, gagging.
I staggered back, heart hammering, trying to process what was happening—really happening.
A part of me refused to accept it, as if my brain was scrambling for some kind of rational explanation, some excuse that would make this not what I already knew it was. Maybe this was just a misunderstanding. Maybe the footsteps behind us were just other guests. Maybe the blonde receptionist had only hesitated because she recognized Marcus, not because she was waiting for something—someone.
But my gut knew better.
That deep, primal part of my brain—the one that had been sharpened by years of chasing stories that led to dark places—was screaming that this was wrong. That we were trapped. That I was already a step behind.
I had spent my entire life chasing the truth. Hunting it down. Dragging it into the light. And yet here I was, standing in the middle of this sleek, quiet spa, my body rigid with an instinct my mind didn’t want to name, clinging to the absurd hope that this wasn’t what it looked like.
But it was.
Marcus’s tension, the shift in his stance, the way the air itself had changed—those weren’t my imagination. My body had recognized the danger before my mind could catch up, before I could fully admit that we weren’t walking out of here the same way we came in.
This was happening. And we were already in it.
Something cold clamped over my mouth.
Panic surged, sharp, blinding.
I fought. Twisted, kicked, my elbow driving backward, but my attacker was too strong, too fast.
An arm locked around my waist, lifting me clear off my feet, dragging me toward the back door.
No.
No, no, no.
I kicked harder, dug my nails in, tried to scream against the gloved hand muffling my mouth? —
Marcus roared my name.
I caught a flash of him through my wild, thrashing panic—his face murderous, his body already moving toward me?—
And then the world went black.
A hood. Tight. Suffocating. A sharp sting in my neck.
The last thing I heard was Marcus’s voice, furious, desperate?—
And then, nothing.