Page 177 of Somno Slave

Chapter Forty-Nine

Rheda

I stop outside the interrogation room without meaning to. My fingers curl around the doorframe as though it’s keeping me upright.

The room is quiet enough that I can hear the fluorescent light buzzing.

My watch reads 07:14.

I stare at it longer than I should.

The second hand moves, but it feels delayed, like time is dragging itself forward instead of flowing. One second. Then another. Neither of them land properly. My skin prickles. I check it again, irrationally certain the numbers will have changed into something impossible.

They haven’t.

When I look up, my attention catches on the room like a hook in skin. Peter is already inside, sitting at the table, waiting for me. His posture is rigid, impatient.

I pause at the threshold without really knowing why. Something in my body is trying to pull backwards. My hand still rests on the doorframe. My pulse starts to climb.

Come here.Peter’s words still echo in the back of my mind.

I can almost feel it, the ghost of hands on my skin, something brutal positioning me like a doll.

No.

I force it down, burying under every ounce of control I can muster.

Peter glances over his shoulder. That look alone is enough to snap my posture back into place. I fix my shoulders, swallow down the lump in my throat. I step forward before my body can resist again, crossing the threshold properly this time.

The door closes behind me with a quiet click.

I flinch, my muscles bracing before I can stop them. I try to regulate it—slow inhale, measured exhale—but the rhythm doesn’t settle cleanly. It stutters, like my body is no longer following the instruction properly.

The room is exactly as it should be. Table bolted to the floor. Chair positioned opposite. Walls bare. No visual stimuli, no distractions. Designed for control, for clarity, for psychological pressure.

There’s a chair for me.

I notice it instantly.

My gaze flicks to it beside the table, then back again, checking, recalibrating. I shift my weight slightly, and a dull ache runs through my thighs. A lingering soreness, deep in the muscle, like the aftermath of strain, like I’ve been tense for too long. I blink slowly.

Peter clears his throat, already settling into position like he owns the space. “Let’s continue.”

I move automatically, slipping into the chair.

I can feel him. I haven’t even looked yet, but I can feel him.

The awareness is immediate and invasive, like the air itself has thickened around him. My skin prickles, nerves firing in a way that doesn’t match the situation, and I hate how instinctive it is.

Eventually, I force myself to look.

My eyes track over his face, searching for something I can’t name. He is unfairly beautiful. Sharp cheekbones, dark lashes, a mouth too soft-looking for the violence attached to his name.Everything about him is precise, almost delicate, until I look at his eyes.

It ruins it.

His pupils are swollen, dark enough to swallow the colour whole. They make the rest of him feel wrong, like beauty stretched over something that was never meant to wear it.

Peter leans forward. “So, you’re ready to speak.”