Page 39 of Somno Slave

I lunge for the lamp. Light detonates across the room so violently it makes my eyes water. My eyes rip around the room. The corners first. The space beside the bed. The chair by the window. The crack behind the door. My pulse hammers so hard I can hear blood moving in my ears as my eyes keep snagging on shadows that almost look like bodies before resolving into furniture again.

If someone had been here, there would be proof.

A broken lock.

Footprints.

A mark on my body.

Something.

But there’s nothing. No sign the room has been touched at all.

But every few seconds another pulse tears through me low and heavy, like my body is still trying to finish something. My nipples ache. My breathing keeps catching every few seconds like my lungs are waiting for a hand to close around them.

My fingers curl slightly into the duvet. Pressure presses against the place that’s throbbing, waiting, and the realisation turns my stomach so violently I nearly gag.

“No,” I gasp. “That’s not...”

I shoot out of bed. The cold floor hits harder than it should, sharp enough to almost feel like punishment, and I welcome it, lean into it, because it’s clean, it’s mine, it doesn’tlingerthe way everything else does. I move through it frantically—clothes, teeth, keys.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

The mirror catches me mid-step. I pause. My reflection looks inhabited in a way that feels wrong. There’s something slightly misaligned, like I’ve been returned wrong. I hold my own gaze longer than I should, searching for something I can’t quite define.

There are no bruises, no fingerprints. There’s no proof that anybody touched me at all and the lack of it makes something inside of me come apart.

I move toward the door, and another pulse rolls through my body without warning. I nearly stumble. My fingers tighten around the doorhandle.

And then—“You make such pretty sounds in your sleep.”

The voice moves through my head like it belongs there now.

It steals the next breath from me, sharp and tight like an invisible hand yanking hard beneath my ribs.

I tear open the door. And I leave before whatever’s left inside me has the chance to answer.

Chapter Fourteen

Rheda

The viewing room feels wrong in a way I can’t place—too bright, too warm, like it’s trying too hard to be normal. I stand in the doorway a second longer than I should, rainwater dripping from my sleeves onto the floor. I wait for something to shift.

Peter’s already twisting and pushing buttons on the keyboard. Sean is leaning against the back counter. Mike has one boot hooked around the leg of a chair.

Everything is ordinary but shouldn’t be.

“Good morning,” Peter says, not looking up. “Nice to finally see you.”

“Sorry,” I say. It comes out slower than I expect. “I overslept.”

The lie sits wrong.

“We’re late starting because of you.” His tone is short, sharp. “Hurry up.”

For a second, I don’t understand. Then my face heats so fast it feels violent.

“Told you,” Mike says immediately, holding his hand out to Sean.