Page 31 of Somno Slave

I can’t do this.

I can’t be complicit in the torture.

This is not what I meant when I wanted more of a challenge!

“Stop!” I hear myself scream. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

It’s useless. I know Peter won’t be able to hear me, none of them will, the one-way glass is thick and soundproof and designed for these very moments, to lock out weakness, and yet I can’t control the hysteria. I drive my fist into the glass, and they merely bounce back pathetically. They won’t hear me, but my conscience refuses to stand by and justwatch.

Peter connects with Deogal’s jaw with brutal precision. There’s a wet, unmissable pop, that makes my stomach lurch. The impact ripples through him a heartbeat later—delayed, disorienting—and his body staggers sideways as if sensation has only just caught up.

Then gravity takes him.

Peter uses the momentum without hesitation, hauling him down. Deogal hits the floor hard enough that the speaker’s crackle in protest, a burst of static slicing through the room. Chains scream as they strain against the sudden movement, metal shrieking like something alive and furious.

The sound is obscene.

“Had enough?” Peter sniffs hard, wipes the back of his nose with his arm, revealing the blood staining the metal around his knuckles. His entire body heaves as he pants.

Something sick spreads across his face.

Bile rises at the back of my throat.

His boot meets his spine in one final, booming assault. The impact shudders through him.

My hand rises to my throat without permission. I swallow, and the motion burns.

I can’t even blink.

Regret blooms in my chest.

I didn’t think Class M would look like this.

I don’t want this.

I didn’t mean this.

What the fuck was I thinking when I said yes?

Chapter Eleven

Rheda

They’re pleased when they come back in and it’s horrifying.

Mike pulls his helmet off with a breathless little laugh, and the sound makes something inside me go cold.

“Well,” he says, “that worked.”

He says it like it was controlled. Grins like he’s proud of it. The others follow in behind him. The second door slams shut and seals with a series of heavy, mechanical clicks that echo through the space. Sean gives it a firm shove, checking it’s locked.

“That’ll hold him,” he mutters.

Peter doesn’t look up. His attention is on his hands; the blood drying across his knuckles, darkening as it settles into the creases of his skin. He peels the knuckle dusters off slowly, like he’s unwrapping something.

“A start,” he says.

I stay exactly where I am. Moving feels like it would break something.