Page 24 of Somno Slave

I didn’t just give him more space.

I try to pull back but my muscles lag behind the thought. He keeps me exactly where he wants me, holding me like his fingers are mapping the structure of my throat.

I make a sound. I don’t mean to. It tears out of me, small and strained, and the humiliation burns hotter than fear.

“Stop!” It barely forms.

His grip tightens.

Air cuts.

My lungs seize instantly, dragging for something that isn’t there, chest jerking in sharp, useless pulls.

Panic detonates.

My body reacts before I can think—spine arching hard enough to hurt, heels digging into the mattress, hands finally moving but wrong, clawing at nothing, at him, at the air that won’t reach me.

A sound tears out of me. It doesn’t even make it past my mouth.

His fingers hold like he’s waiting to see what my body does when it realises it’s about to suffocate.

My vision fractures at the edges, sharp and white. My pulse slams against his hand in violent, desperate bursts, stuttering, skipping. My throat spasms against his grip, and the realisation hits, cold and absolute—

He could kill me.

Right here.

Easily.

My body bucks again, frantic in a way that already feels doomed, and still he doesn’t loosen his grip. He just keeps me there, balanced on the edge of blackness while panic tears uselessly through my chest.

Then suddenly—air slams back into me.

My lungs seize around it too fast. I choke violently, throat burning, body folding in on itself as oxygen rushes somewhere it hasn’t been allowed to reach.

The mattress beside me stays warm like the shape of him is still pressed into the dark beside me even after he’s gone.

A sharp crack snaps through the room.

My body jerks violently.

Suddenly I can move again.

I wrench my hand upward and fumble blindly for the lamp. My fingers hit the base. Slip. Catch. Light floods the room.

I gasp and twist around so fast my shoulder protests, shoving myself backwards until my spine hits the headboard, eyes tearing around for danger.

Nothing.

And yet the scent lingers. Honey and wood. Something faintly scorched but sweet.

I stare at the empty space beside me until my eyes sting.

Then my gaze drops to my wrist. The skin there is bare, pale, untouched. But I can still feel the path of that finger as though the nerve beneath it has been singled out and taught a lesson.

I press my thumb hard against the place. The sensation does not leave. It burns, aches like he’s pressed a break into the bone.

“A nightmare,” the sound snags. “You’re fine.”