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CLAIRE
Ipushed 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 inthe 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 workwithThe Unseenhad 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 whisperingrun. 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.