Page 16 of Broken Sentinel

"Yes." I take a deep breath. "Thanks. That was new."

His gray eyes search mine, concern evident despite his carefully neutral expression. "We should report this to Medical."

"And have Marlow add it to her collection of 'interesting anomalies'? No thanks." I straighten, gently pulling my arm from his grip despite wanting to lean into his touch. "It's just stress and lack of recovery time after the sync session."

He clearly doesn't believe me, but doesn't push the issue in public. "We should prepare for tomorrow's deployment."

"Right. Gotta study up on how to be a convincing maintenance worker." I force a lightness into my voice I don't feel. "Think I can pull off the grease-stained uniform look?"

His expression softens slightly. "You could make a biohazard containment suit look good, Thorne."

The unexpected compliment catches me off guard, warmth spreading through my chest. Before I can respond, the transport arrives, its doors sliding open with a soft hiss.

"After you, future Maintenance Technician," Trent says, gesturing me forward.

As we board the transport that will take us back to our quarters, I wonder what this assignment really means. Is it truly about uncovering sympathizers, or is it Marlow's way of testing me—of testing us—to see if the anomalies in my system and our unprecedented neural connection represent a threat to Unity's carefully controlled order?

Either way, tomorrow I'll be pretending to be bonded to Trent Vanguard, living in close quarters with the man I've privately wanted for three years. The man who, thanks to our neural synchronization, might know exactly how I feel about him.

Unity doesn't believe in luck, but if they did, I'd say mine was decidedly mixed.

CHAPTER 5

Lower Arcology stinks.

Not figuratively but literally. The air down here carries the unmistakable tang of industrial lubricants, recycled water, and too many bodies packed into too little space.

"Homey," I mutter as we're led through the narrow corridors of Maintenance Housing Block D. Our guide—a perpetually scowling supervisor named Kaplan—hasn't spoken more than ten words since collecting us at the transit hub.

"All transfers complain at first," he finally says without looking back. "You'll get used to it. Or request another transfer. Don't care either way."

Charming, too.

Beside me, Trent walks with the slightly hunched posture we practiced, dampening his natural Sentinel bearing. His maintenance uniform is identical to mine—dull gray jumpsuit with sector identification patches—but somehow he makes the shapeless garment look good. It's cosmically unfair.

"How many transfers do you get?" Trent asks, his voice pitched differently than his normal commanding tone. We've both been trained in deep cover operations, though this is our first extended deployment together.

"Too many," Kaplan responds. "Eastern Arcology keeps sending us their problems. Heard they had an atmospheric regulator failure in Sector 7 last month. That your sector?"

"Sector 9," I answer smoothly with our prepared cover. "Hydroponics support systems."

Kaplan grunts, apparently satisfied with our backstory. "You'll be on recycling systems here. Morning shift, 0500 to 1400. Orientation starts tomorrow."

He stops abruptly before a nondescript door in a hallway of identical doors, pressing his palm against the recognition panel. "Unit 19-D-47. Standard bonded quarters."

The door slides open to reveal what might generously be called "efficiency housing." A single room, perhaps four meters square, containing the bare necessities for human habitation: a small food preparation surface, a sanitization cubicle barely large enough to turn around in, and a sleeping platform that would be tight for one person, let alone two.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, stepping inside.

"Environmental controls there," Kaplan points to a basic panel near the door. "Nutrition station stocks automatically on third rest day. Maintenance schedules posted to your assigned tablets."

He pauses, giving us a suspicious once-over. "Bonded status verified?"

Trent slides an arm around my waist, pulling me against his side in a gesture that appears casual but sends electricity shooting through my nerves. "Three years," he says, looking down at me with convincing affection. "Best decision I ever made."

I force myself to relax into his embrace, smiling up at him with what I hope passes for genuine love rather than the startled arousal currently short-circuiting my brain. "Despite his snoring."

Kaplan looks unimpressed. "Keep domestic disputesquiet. Walls are thin. Neighbor on left works night shift, so keep it down during day cycles."

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