Page 42 of Somno Slave

Peter doesn’t blink. “Why did you use blue thread?”

The second shock hits harder. Deogal arches against the chair, chains shrieking as the force of him pulls against the metal. His jaw clenches. A vein rises in his neck.

Still no sound.

Not a plea.

Not a curse.

“Where are the others?” Peter asks, calm as a man discussing paperwork.

The third shock takes him completely. His body seizes, every muscle pulled tight in a way that looks less like movement and more like something being forced through him, his head snapping back as the restraint holds him in place.

Sweat gathers at his temple and slips slowly down.

My chest lurches violently. I jolt as though electricity is pulling through my nerves too.

“What are you protecting?” Peter asks.

He doesn’t even get a chance to answer this time. The dial is cranked up, and another blow is delivered.

Deogal’s entire body jerks. His grip is violent; fingers curled angrily into his shoulders as if to fight the pain, his head is forced backwards involuntarily, jaw clenched so tightly I swear I can hear teeth shattering.

The monitor spikes, sharp and brutal.

Peter watches him with a terrible focus.

“What are you waiting for?” Peter grinds out.

I don’t realise I’ve stopped breathing until Peter lifts his hand. There’s a pause. And then he moves his hand again.

“Peter,” I say under my breath before I can stop it.

The next shock drives through him. Heat lifts from his skin, a faint haze forming where it meets the cold air, while the machine climbs into a high, grating whine that presses into the room.

Peter goes still in a way I now recognise as dangerous. He stares at the monitor, then at Deogal, then back again as if one of them has failed to behave properly.

“Why the fuck isn’t it working?” Mike reaches over, adjusting the dial.

Sean frowns and follows him. The three of them close around the machine, all attention dragged to the data as if numbers might explain what the body refuses to.

I can’t pull my focus from him. The way his body gives to the restraint, curls clinging to damp skin, heat flushed deep enough to stain.

Hours drag past, swollen and distorted, but my heartbeat keeps insisting no time has moved at all. And then something changes.

A small movement catches at the edge of my vision and my attention snaps toward it before I can stop myself.

His head is lifting.

My stomach drops hard enough to hurt.

His gaze finds mine. Immediately. There’s no hesitation, no searching. Just...straight to me.

My heart slams so violently against my ribs it almost feels painful.

It’s impossible. The glass between us is thick enough to stop bullets. Reinforced and one-way. Designed specifically to sever eye contact.

But he’s looking directly at me.