Page 114 of Somno Slave

“Doctor.” The word drags through my mind slowly, rough and low.

Hands follow next. They find my throat, fingers curling into the groves that they’re familiar with, and then it squeezes. I inhale. Rasp. Exhale and then choke. The fingers tighten.

“You must be losing your mind,” The deep voice whispers. I pretend I don’t recognisehisvoice. I tell myself it’s just a dream.

“Did you not learn your lesson before?” He breathes, and his hot breath fans over my face. His fingers curl tighter. I gasp, but the oxygen doesn’t flow properly. “Tell me, Doctor, do you really think you’re in control?”

His other hand drags down my neck until it settles between my collarbones. He presses. It doesn’t hurt, not yet, but the pressure alone is enough to unsettle my thoughts.

I try to speak but nothing comes out.

“I will teach you to know your place,” he says, “you will learn not to taunt me.”

His hands trail lower, to the place between my breasts. He pushes hard until I’m sure he’s on the edge of cracking my ribcage. I inhale sharply, but his fingers do not release my windpipe.

I force my eyes open, and they finally obey me.

In the dim lighting of the room, he appears, leering over me in that terrifyingly familiar way. His ravenous eyes hold me tighter than any touch could. Black voids. They promise somuch destruction. With one look alone, I shake. My bottom lip quivers.

“I should punish you,” he says slowly. “Or maybe—“

His lips slash into a gruesome smile. “I will kill your little boyfriend.”

It’s horrifying, the way his head tilts to the side and his gaze holds mine. Nothing sparkles in them today. They’re devoid of light and life.

“Don’t you dare!” I finally find my voice. It’s hoarse and jagged. Heat floods my head. The blood races to the site of his grip.

“So, you admit it.” He stops smiling. “He is your boyfriend.”

“No!” I cry out. “Please, stop!”

He pushes closer. “Do you want him?”

“No!”

“Do you think about him touching you?”

Each word stabs through me. I shrink in on myself. “No!”

His eyes scan mine violently as though undressing my every thought.

“I’m sure he’d take you,” he says slowly. “Touch what isn’t his.”

His attention drops lower, and I’m dangerously aware of how exposed I am beneath him. The blanket is gone, thrashed somewhere across the room, leaving my body shivering in the chill. My pyjamas have ridden up, exposing where his fingers claim my stomach. I’m suddenly aware of my body in a way that feels like exposure. Too much skin. Too much heat.

Too much of me reacting when I shouldn’t be.

“I don’t blame him.” He breathes, “You’re devastating.”

His fingers loosen around my neck.

I inhale sharply. My head pounds. Face burns. I gasp as much air as I can as though I know it can.

“This isn’t real.” I rasp. “You’re not real.”

He takes my hand and presses it against his hard chest. The heat burns through the material. He drags my palm slowly down his body.

“Tell me that this isn’t real,” he murmurs. “That you’re not touching something real.”