Page 190 of Somno Slave

I need to see him again.

Be near him again.

By the time I reach the building, my head is pounding. I swipe my badge. The door opens.

I take my seat in the viewing room without drawing attention to it, slightly off to the side, where I can see everyone. The chair is colder than I expect, sending a sharp shock up my spine. I adjust once, small, controlled, aligning myself with the edge of the desk.

Peter’s back is to me. His attention is angled toward Sean near the back of the room, posture slightly forward, voice low enough that I can’t catch the words, only the shape of them.

Sean listens, head tilted slightly, then nods once. Peter says something back. The corner of his jaw pulls tight before he smooths it away.

I look down. I’ve already been watching too long.

My fingers rest on the edge of the table, pressure uneven where my grip has tightened without permission. I loosen it slowly.

When I look back up, they’ve separated.

Peter finally looks at me, but the timing feels wrong. “Morning.”

I nod once. “Morning.”

My voice holds. That’s something.

My lips part as if an apology is on the tip of my tongue. I should say something about yesterday. Find an excuse. Make a joke. Anything to stop the awkward wrongness in the air. But the thought of talking about it is enough to make my throat swell.

Peter watches me for a fraction longer than necessary, then looks away. He leans over his computer, and the sound of keys tapping echo around the room. Conversation starts between the three men. I am aware of it without being part of it, the way voices move through the space.

“...shouldn’t have—” My brain catches on it before I can stop it, the phrase turning over once, twice, like it’s trying to find somewhere to land.

Shouldn’t have what?

A chair shifts somewhere behind me. A low scrape. The sound folds into the sentence before I can separate it, attaches itself like context.

The words hit somewhere low in my stomach before my brain even catches up, like my body understands first. A cold, sick pull tightens under my ribs, sharp enough to make me stop breathing for a second.

Then the thought slides into place.

Sat her in.

The chair.

My chair.

It doesn’t make sense but heat crawls up the back of my neck anyway. My palms feel suddenly damp.

I don’t move.

I don’t turn around.

Because if I look at them—if I let my eyes land there and see something different, something wrong—then it stops being a passing thought and becomes something real.

“...not ideal—” Another voice. Different direction. But it overlaps too neatly, the timing aligning just slightly too well, like it’s part of the same conversation even though it shouldn’t be.

Mike laughs, just a short, sharp snort of sound, followed by a quick chuckle he seems to swallow almost immediately, like it escaped before he could stop it.

My pulse kicks hard against my throat. Heat crawls up my chest while something colder settles lower in my stomach, tight and twisting.

That was about me.