Page 201 of Somno Slave

And I cannot survive the thought of the world continuing without him in it.

BY THE TIME I STEPinside the facility, my pulse is already too high. Security buzzes me through. Doors seal behind me with heavy mechanical clicks that land somewhere deep in my spine. And the feeling gets worse.

Peter’s already by the door, file in hand, eyes glued to his watch. When he sees me, his face tightens. I stumble toward him quickly.

“Peter,” I move so quickly my badge swings against my chest with a loud thud. “We can’t do this. This is illegal. It’s wrong—”

“Rheda,” Peter says quietly, stepping closer before the others can properly hear. “Don’t make this worse.”

My breathing is already uneven. “It’s too soon.”

“It’s done.” His voice stays maddeningly level. His eyes flick over me properly then.

I didn’t pin my hair back this morning. It hangs loose around my shoulders in dark, uneven waves, still damp at the ends where I gave up trying to dry it halfway through. I’m dressed entirely in black. Black jumper. Black trousers. Even my coat folded over my arm looks funeral-like beneath the fluorescent lights.

“You look guilty.” He says sharply.

My throat burns.

“I don’t care how I look.” The sentence comes out thin. “You cannot seriously stand there and tell me this is ethical.”

“Lower your voice.”

“No.” My eyes sting instantly. “No, you don’t get to tell me to calm down while Harris stands in there preparing to poison someone.”

At the mention of his name, Peter’s gaze flicks sharply past me. I turn instinctively. Harris is already watching us from across the room. Latex gloves. Vial tray. Clinical white sleeves rolled neatly to his wrists.

Peter steps slightly closer, blocking part of the view between us. “He’s already concerned about you. You’re not helping yourself.”

A horrible laugh almost leaves me.

“Good,” I whisper. “Maybe he should be. I’m the only one sane enough to question this fucking thing,”

Peter’s jaw tightens hard enough that I see the muscle jump.

“Listen to me.” His voice lowers further. “Whatever this is, you need to get control of itnow.”

I look past him toward the interrogation room again automatically, helplessly, like my body no longer understands how to orient itself away from Deogal.

“He shouldn’t die like this.”

Peter exhales slowly through his nose. “That stopped being your decision the second you signed the recommendation.”

The words hit like blunt force trauma. I physically flinch.

“Pull yourself together.” He snaps. “Do not embarrass me in front Headquarters.”

I swallow hard but the liquid gets trapped there. My fingers move quickly to my throat, and I press it like I manually dislodge the ache.

Harris looks straight at me, those black eyes never twinkling once. His lips stay thin. He doesn’t smile at me. And I don’t bother looking friendly in return.

“We’re ready.” He says, and now I finally see it...the flick of his lip. The bastard reeks of smugness.

And something inside me starts screaming long before my mouth does.

I hate it. I want to scream and kick and swear. I want to drag Peter from the room and plead some sense into him, that Harris is evil and sentencing Deogal to death means we are no better than those who have already hurt him—but he’s already moving. His fingers catch my jumper, curl sharply around my arm. He yanks me with him, and I’m forced to follow behind.

We stumble through the doors into the interrogation room. The air is fucking devastating in here. Stale. Already chewed up and spat out. The heat is already too much, and I feel stifled beneath my jumper.