Page 130 of Somno Slave

I press a shaking hand to my mouth.

Because the worst part—the part that makes shame burn hotter than fear—is that beneath the terror, beneath the panic, beneath every rational piece of me screaming that something is wrong...some part of me is already waiting for there to be a next time.

And that thought...terrifies me more than anything I just saw.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Rheda

I turn every light on in the flat. Every single one. Bedroom. Kitchen. Bathroom. Hallway.

The brightness barely helps. Shadows still gather wrong at the corners of the room now like darkness has learned how to breathe.

I don’t sleep again. Not really. His face haunts my thoughts. Broken, carved into agony. A vulnerable boy stripped of his dignity, pushed to breaking point.

My chest seizes. If it was them, if he murdered the Friars then I could understand...

“No,” I whisper.

My throat still tastes damp. My lungs still ache like they’ve been fighting for air that wasn’t there. I press both hands over my mouth, breathing hot and shallow into my palms, trying to trap myself in something real.

I reach blindly across the bedside table for my phone. The screen lights up with missed calls. Three from Olivia. Two from last night. One from this morning.

And beneath them, messages.

21:09pmAre you alive?

22:15pmYou missed dinner, bitch.

04:47amSeriously. Are you okay?

That last one sits there differently.

I stare at it too long.

Olivia has always been the person who notices first. She’ll pick apart the way I pause too long before answering, the way Icancel twice in one week, the way I start saying I’m just tired like it means something.

She knows my tells.

And lately, I am made of them.

There’s another message too, from Joe.

I’m looking forward to Saturday ??

Something twists in my chest.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard once. Twice. I should tell him. A normal person would tell him. Send a quick message explaining that something came up, that I’m overwhelmed with work, that I can’t do this right now. Anything would be kinder than disappearing.

Because otherwise he’ll show up.

Guilt crawls under my skin at the thought of it.

But every time I try to type, my body locks against it.

I can’t even talk to him.

My breathing turns uneven again.