Page 164 of Somno Slave

Something shifts at the corner of Deogal’s mouth, not quite a smile, something worse. Slow. Knowing. His gaze drags from Peter to the glass, to me, and even through the barrier it feels like being touched. Every nerve in my body pulls tight.

Don’t.The plea hits me so suddenly it makes me lightheaded.Don’t look at me. Don’t say it. Don’t make it real.

He keeps me trapped under his attention as though every passing second feeds something within him.

“You want a monster because monsters are easier to bury,” he finally says. “but she listens like she still believes there might be something left worth saving.”

My stomach drops.

Peter turns toward the glass this time, fully, and I feel it immediately—that shift in his attention, sharp and suspicious

Deogal’s shoulders shift, almost lazy. “She has a pretty voice. The pretty ones are always nicer.”

Heat crawls violently up my neck.

Peter’s expression hardens.

“No,” he says, sharper now. “You don’t get to choose your audience.”

Deogal barely reacts.

“You want a confession?” he says. He leans forward just enough for the chains to shift against the table. “Bring her in.”

Peter’s jaw tightens, just once, and the silence that follows feels dangerous. He exhales slowly through his nose. He’s swallowing anger instead of speaking it. Then his attention cuts toward the glass, toward me.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

The words land low in my stomach, heavy and wrong, like a hand closing there from the inside.

For a second, I don’t move. Something in me pulls back on instinct, fast and violent, the same animal panic that makes your skin crawl before your brain catches up and tells you why. But hesitation is its own kind of confession.

So, I move.

My body takes over, straightening automatically. I force calm over my face like makeup over a bruise, like that’ll steady the violent shaking of my body.

The door opens. And the second I step inside, I know I’ve made a mistake because the air is different in here—hotter, close enough to feel against my throat. It clings. It catches in the back of my throat, the oxygen going stale as if it’s already been breathed by someone else.

There’s a heavy click behind me as the door seals shut, and I’m suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am because there is no barrier now.

No glass.

No separation.

I stop beside the table, and for a second, I think I’ve misjudged the room. My eyes flick once, then again.

The spare chair has gone.

Vanished.

I stand there a beat too long, cheeks darkening, sweat pooling on my upper lip.

Standing exposes me. It makes me stupidly aware of my own body all at once—my knees locked too straight, my hands with nowhere natural to rest, the fact standing there makes me feel taller and somehow smaller at the same time, like I’ve been placed here to be looked at.

“Give her your seat.” Deogal’s voice cuts through the room.

It hits me like a threat. My body reacts before my mind does, a sharp pull low in my stomach, my shoulders going tight. I hate it. I hate that he can do that with so little.

Peter stiffens. “That’s not how this works.”