Page 195 of Somno Slave

Every page feels heavier now, dirtier somehow.

My chest pulls tight.

“No,” I whisper again, but the word barely survives the journey out of me.

My hands tighten around the paperwork until the pages crumple at the edges.

A sick heat floods up my throat.

Peter watches me carefully. “There’s nothing you can do now. The board takes over from here.”

The sentence moves through me like a blade sliding between ribs.

Behind the glass, chains creak softly. The sound reaches straight into my chest.

I don’t look at him.

I can’t.

Because if I do, I know I’ll finally understand the full shape of what I’ve done. He trusted me to stop this, and I built the thing that is going to kill him.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Rheda

I drink until the edges blur.

The first glass is for my hands because they won’t stop shaking. The second is for Peter. For Harris. For tomorrow sitting in the middle of my chest like a countdown I can’t shut off. By the fourth, I stop pretending any of it is about calm.

I know exactly what I’m doing.

I am making it easier to slip away for him one last time.

The thought should disgust me more than it does.

I pour again. The burn slides down my throat, sharp and punishing, and I welcome it because at least it is honest. At least it hurts where I expect it to.

My body loosens in uneven places. I sit on the edge of the bed, the bottle hanging loose in my hand. My knees are apart, spine bent forward. It is not graceful. It is not controlled. It is the posture of someone waiting.

I need him.

My eyes fall half-closed.

The room finally gives him back to me.

“You made yourself easier tonight.” His dark voice ripples around the room.

Heat climbs my throat so fast it feels like being slapped.

“No,” the lie barely survives the room.

The mattress dips hard beneath his weight as he leans over me, one arm braced beside my head, the other dragging slowly across my waist like he already owns the space there. Themovement is smooth enough to feel predatory, all controlled strength and quiet intention.

My breath catches.

God. Up close, he’s unbearable.

I catalogue small things, sharp things about his beauty, forcing them into my memory like I can trap this moment forever. His dark brows cut low over his eyes that look black in this light, nose that has the faintest crookedness to it, like it was broken years ago and healed badly. The angle of his jaw is rough with the beginning of stubble, dark enough to catch silver where the moonlight touches it.