Page 121 of Broken Sentinel

"Starting with?"

"Rest," he decides, pulling me closer against his side. "We've earned that much at least."

As if summoned by his words, exhaustion sweeps over me—the accumulated fatigue of escaped capture, rescue missions, and emotional revelations. My body, despite its modifications, demands recovery time.

"Rest," I agree, settling more comfortably against him. "Then face whatever comes next."

As sleep begins to claim me, I feel Trent press one more kiss to my forehead. The gesture carries a promise more binding than any Unity protocol or Sentinel oath.

Whatever comes next, we face it together.

CHAPTER 24

I wake to unfamiliar sensations—warmskin against mine, steady breathing beside me, and an arm draped possessively across my waist. For a moment, disorientation grips me. Then memories of the night flood back, bringing a rush of heat to my cheeks.

Trent.

He sleeps peacefully beside me, face softer in unconsciousness than I've ever seen it. The perpetual Sentinel vigilance temporarily abandoned. I allow myself a moment to study him—the dark sweep of eyelashes, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the small scar near his temple from a mission gone wrong two years ago.

God, he’s beautiful.

And mine now, in a way I never thought possible.

My enhanced senses pick up activity elsewhere in the outpost—quiet footsteps, the soft hum of equipment, murmured conversations. The real world intruding on our private sanctuary.

Trent stirs, deep instincts alerting him to my wakefulness. His eyes open, instantly alert despite the lingering traces of sleep.

"Morning," he says, voice husky.

"Is it?" I have no idea what time it is in this windowless mountain room.

His mouth curves in a rare, unguarded smile. "Does it matter?"

I return the smile, feeling strangely light despite our precarious situation. "I suppose not."

He pulls me closer, one hand sliding up my bare back to tangle in my hair. The simple touch reignites the fire from last night, my body responding with embarrassing eagerness.

"How long do you think we have before someone comes looking for us?" I ask as his lips find my neck.

"Not long enough," he murmurs against my skin. “It will never be enough with you.”

As if manifested by our conversation, a sharp knock sounds on the door. We freeze, then spring apart.

"Who is it?" I call, already reaching for my discarded clothes.

"Lily," comes the response. "Vex says you need to see something. Both of you. It's important."

Trent and I exchange glances, personal desires instantly shelved in favor of potential mission priorities. Some habits die hard.

"Five minutes," Trent responds, pulling on his pants with quick, economical movements.

We dress in silent synchrony, falling into the familiar patterns of preparation that defined our partnership for years. Yet something has fundamentally changed—an awareness of each other that transcends professional boundaries.

And a strong, sharp yearning to do it again.

As I finish securing my boots, Trent pauses before me, one hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from my face.

"No regrets?" he asks quietly.

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