Page 95 of Somno Slave

Hallucination.

Stress response.

My brain throws terms at me desperately, trying to build structure around what’s happening, but each explanation collapses the second he touches me again.

And yet, he knew. Before Peter even turned the speaker on.

My stomach twists so violently I nearly gag.

Dreams do not predict things.

They don’t.

“How did you know?” My voice is thin and rushed. I can’t even believe I’m saying them as they fall out of my lips. “How did you know he’d play something?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches, dense and heavy, as if it’s pushing inward on my lungs. Then his lips slash open into a smile. “Because they always do.”

The graveness in his voice drags down my spine, wrong and intimate.

I choke on the fear. “What does that even mean? What is happening? How do you—”

His smile stretches wider, those blackening eyes violating me. His attention feels physical as it slides deliberately over my face. It shouldn’t be possible, but wherever his gaze rests, it burns.

“You obeyed me,” he whispers, voice curling low in my skull. “That’s all that matters.”

The words hit deeper than they should. The reaction is already there by the time I notice it, heat pulling low and sharp, my breath catching again.

I try to move but my body doesn’t respond. My limbs are dead things beneath me, useless and heavy. Panic surges. I break the silence before it breaks me.

“No,” I whisper, but it lacks weight, lacks anything solid enough to push back with. “No, I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Doctor,” he murmurs. His hand shifts to my cheek, and he strokes it with the back of his fingers. I hate that the touch makes me weak.

“You shouldn’t have known.” The words feel thinner now. “How?”

His face is only inches from mine, eyes too bright for the room they’re in. “Don’t you worry your pretty little mind about that.”

Something freezing drags down my spine.

His hand slides down my waist, fingers trailing down the sides of my work trousers. The touch leaves a mark. It’s hot, too heavy, more like a punch than a touch.

Fear spikes violently in my heart.

I try to move, my limbs don’t listen. They hang heavy, useless, dragged by his touch instead of guided by my own. My arm slips as he adjusts me, falling limp against him, no strength to hold it in place. It feels wrong, violating in a way that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the absence of control.

He exhales softly, almost thoughtful. One hand slides behind my back, the other under my knees, and with an ease that shouldn’t be possible, he lifts, just enough to reposition, to turn my body across the sofa instead of slumped into it. My head lolls to the side, neck loose, unsupported for a second too long before it settles against the cushion.

My body folds where he puts it, pliant, unresisting. My leg drags slightly as he adjusts it, my foot catching for a second before dropping back into place with a soft, useless thud.

He lingers for a moment after, hand still resting lightly against me, like he’s assessing his work. And I’m painfully aware of how little choice I have in this.

He reaches for the buttons on my trousers.

“No,” I gasp, but it’s futile, he’s already ripping them open.

“No, not that—" I try again.

He pushes in closer until I can taste his warm, minty breath against my lips.