Page 19 of Somno Slave

“I can give you theories,” I say finally. “But no conclusions. Not from one session. Not from...nothing.”

“What are you saying, Miss Ainsley?”

“I don’t know,” I say. Heat crawls up my neck. “Not yet anyway. I need more time. Maybe I should talk to him myself.”

The second it leaves my mouth, I want it back.

“You thinkyoucan do better?” His ears go red. “Go on, Miss Ainsley. Tell me what I should have done instead.”

My body locks, mouth opening then closing again. I hadn’t thought this far.

“I—” The word catches. I swallow it, try again. “I didn’t mean— I just—”

Nothing comes out clean. My grip tightens around the pen. I tap it once against the page before I can stop myself, the sound too loud in the quiet.

“Sorry,” I manage. “It’s just I’m not used to sitting back and taking notes. I’m usually more...involved.”

He pins me with his eyes. “You’re not meeting him. You better get used to observing from a distance or we’ll have no use for you here.”

My chest drops so violently it feels like a weight.

Sean lets out a low sound that might be agreement. Peter drags a hand down his face.

“You did fine,” He says, already turning away, as iffineis the same thing asfinished. The words land strangely. I’m not sure why. Maybe because they feel premature, or because they feel undeserved.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You observed. You got absence,” he replies. His eyes flick to the screen. “I need that written down.”

No one looks at me. Not once. The room closes in on itself, quieter, tighter, like something has been decided without needing to be said.

My cheeks burn.

Peter picks up his own notes, glances at the time on the corner of the monitor, then looks at me again. “That’s enough for today. We’ll go through any notes tomorrow.”

Sean blows into his coffee and takes a sip like it’s medicine. He watches me and gives a small smile.

I blink hard. “Are you sure you don’t need me? We’ve literally just started. I’m really okay to—”

“Get some sleep, Rheda. Be useful in the morning.”

I want to protest, but his tone is so final that I do not answer back. I manage a small nod.

He doesn’t even look up at me, instead pausing the footage before rewinding it once more. The screen shows Deogal sitting perfectly still, exactly as we left him, as if nothing we said mattered.

My throat tightens and I lift a hand to my collarbone, fingers brushing the red bow at my neck. The fabric sits smoothly. Nothing is wrong with it. And yet it suddenly feels an inch too tight. The sensation lingers like a pressure that hasn’t quite finished leaving.

Nobody stops me as I move toward the door. The men around me continue their quiet, frustrated motions—coffee, monitors, muttered curses.

I step into the corridor outside.

The lights hum overhead as I walk away, and the sound follows me longer than it should. It seeps under my skin and settles behind my eyes. It throbs until I can’t tell if it’s the building, or something in me keeping in time with it.

By the time I reach the second corner, I already know I am going to think about him the second I am alone, and part of me allows it.

MY FRONT DOOR STICKSagain.

I shoulder it open harder than necessary and step inside, rain clinging cold to the back of my neck. The door slams behind me hard enough to echo through the flat, and my body jolts before I can stop it.