Page 28 of Somno Slave

“Mm.” He straightens, one hand sliding along the edge of the table. He inhales slowly through his nose. He waits like something might change.

My pulse slams against my ribcage.

I look away. I have to.

I look down at my notes, at the few lines, at the space where something should be. I press harder into the page, like I can force something out of it. Something useful. Something real.

But my attention keeps slipping.

Back to him.

To the stillness.

And to his lips.

Chapter Ten

Rheda

No one speaks when they come back in.

Peter stays standing. He’s at the head of the table, looking down at nothing in particular, one hand braced against the surface like he’s deciding something.

“Meeting. Now.” It cuts clean through the quiet.

Chairs shift again, quicker this time. Closer. We gather without being told where to stand, falling into a loose half-circle around him. He waits until we’re all there and then turns fully toward the board.

“Let’s go over this again.”

He carves Deogal’s name at the top in red marker. It squeaks and goes straight through me.

“No vocalisation,” he starts, speaking slowly as he writes the words down. “No cooperation. No physiological markers of stress after being transferred.”

He moves down the board. “Introductions have been complete. Initial proposition has been offered.”

The pen seems to get louder with every word, the scratch of it drilling into the quiet until it starts to feel deliberate. I resist the urge to press my fingers to my temples, to contain the pressure building behind my eyes before it fractures into something visible.

“But still nothing,” Peter says.

The words land with weight.

I reach back for my notebook without looking. My fingers close around the familiar weight of a black biro—and then stop.

Sean’s hand is already there.

He doesn’t look at me when he takes it from my grasp, just curls his fingers around the pen with quiet finality.

“That’s mine.” His voice is flat. He nods once toward my left. “That one’s yours.”

I follow his gesture.

The pen waiting there is light blue. Gel. Slightly translucent, almost childish, like something from a stationary aisle rather than an interrogation room. It looks wrong against the steel desk.

For a beat, I consider commenting but I don’t. I pick it up instead, rolling it once between my fingers, adjusting my grip until it feels usable.

“Would anyone like to add anything before we go back in?” Peter says tightly.

There’s a pause.