Page 158 of Somno Slave

My hand moves automatically, reaching for the coffee machine before my thoughts can catch up with what I’m doing.

My pulse crashes so violently against my ribs it feels visible beneath my blouse. I can hear it in my ears, thick and heavy and wrong. Every instinct in my body screams at me to turn around, to check the desk again, to make sure nothing is crooked or out of place or betraying me.

The coffee machine hums loudly beneath my shaking hands as I grab the nearest paper cup and shove it beneath the nozzle. The sound of pouring coffee fills the room too slowly. Far tooslowly. My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter until they ache.

Don’t turn around.

Don’t look guilty.

Behind me, footsteps cross the room with the same measured rhythm they always do. Calm. Unhurried.

My pulse hammers harder with every step.

Then—

“Jesus Christ,” Mike mutters. “You look like I caught you hiding a body.”

I flinch violently enough that coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup and burns across my knuckles. “Fuck.”

Mike snorts softly behind me.

“Relax, Doctor.” I hear the rustle of a chair scraping back out. “It’s just caffeine. Not a drug test.”

I force out something that almost sounds like a laugh and finally turn around, clutching the cup too tightly between my hands.

“You startled me.”

He drops back into his chair with a tired groan, dragging one hand down his face before reaching automatically for the monitor controls again.

“Thought Sean drank all the coffee already,” he scowls.

“Apparently not.”

My voice sounds almost normal.

Mike doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. He settles back into place beside the monitors, one boot hooking around the chair leg while he tears open another packet of crisps like the last few minutes never happened at all.

But my heart still hasn’t slowed.

It keeps pounding violently against my ribs, heavy enough that I’m terrified he’ll hear it if the room goes quiet long enough.

Chapter Forty-Five

Rheda

I thought the photographs would make it stop.

I thought seeing what he had done, really seeing it, would cut something clean inside me. A doctor opened beneath surgical lights. A historian ruined across a library desk. A priest surrounded by the word mercy carved into stone. I thought horror would be stronger than want.

It’s not.

I’m still here, waiting for him. Desperate for more.

I haven’t slept in three days and I think I’m losing my fucking mind.

My head thumps violently like something is trying to break its way free. My lips are dry, cracked, and every time I breathe the cold air burns the back of my throat like it doesn’t belong.

I don’t shower in the morning. What’s the point? I can’t bear to turn on the tap. It’ll be too loud. Too aggressive. I don’t bother eating either. The thought of food is enough to make my stomach twist and acid creep up the back of my throat.