Page 18 of Somno Slave

I can tell by how long her attention lingers. Most people avoid looking too closely at things that make them uncomfortable. Their eyes slide away instinctively, searching for exits, distractions, anything softer to land on.

Hers don’t.

She keeps watching like there are hooks in her eyes.

My shadow lifts his head just slightly for a better look.

She’s a pretty little thing.

Red hair dragged back too tightly, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat every time she swallows. I imagine forcing my thumb there just to feel it happen beneath my skin. Her spine is straight enough to ache. Fingers locked around that notebookin her lap so hard I can almost imagine the paper crumpling beneath her grip.

It’s almost endearing. All that control wrapped around a body already betraying her.

Her throat moves suddenly, swallowing hard, as she reaches for the pen. She presses the nib to the page like there is something to document.

I almost smile.

She wants to understand me.

She reeks of curiosity, thick and pathetic. It leaks out of her in every glance that lingers too long.

Girl’s like her always do this. They dig through rot for something human beneath cruelty. Something broken enough to pity. Something they can press their soft little fingers around and call healing.

They never understand that cruelty doesn’t stop being cruelty just because it has a reason.

A monster can explain itself perfectly and still tear your throat open.

And me?

I can lie beautifully.

That’s what’s going to make this so fucking easy.

Chapter Seven

Rheda

Sean tears his helmet off first. Sweat darkens at his temples.

“Nothing,” he mutters, breaking the silence. “Absolutely fucking nothing.”

Peter doesn’t respond immediately. He moves to the button near the glass and presses it. There’s a sharp beep, before the glass turns black, and the criminal vanishes out of sight.

He moves to the monitor without another word, shaking the mouse until the monitor flickers to life. Footage flashes on the screen. He rewinds. He plays it back, like he’s confirming something he already suspects.

“He didn’t even blink,” Mike says, voice low. He leans back against the counter, arms folded.

“Not once,” he says quietly. “Not once.”

Peter finally looks at me. “Why didn’t he react?”

I take a breath before answering, less to steady myself than to buy time.

“It’s doing something for him.” I say at last.

“But why?”

I hesitate just long enough to be aware of the gap.