Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rheda
My heart still hasn’t settled properly. It keeps kicking hard against my ribs like it’s trying to warn me about something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet.
The hallway behind me is empty.
Quiet.
Still, I glance over my shoulder anyway.
Nothing’s there, but the feeling follows me. That horrible awareness low in my stomach. The sense of being watched so intensely it starts to feel physical.
My hand trembles once against the key. The metal scrapes inside the lock louder than it should. Every tiny sound suddenly unbearable in the silence. My pulse climbs higher with each turn until I can actually hear blood rushing in my ears.
And for one sick second, before my front door finally opens, I am genuinely terrified of what might be waiting on the other side.
I step inside and close the door behind me. My eyes move through my flat automatically, checking corners without meaning to, scanning for something I wouldn’t be able to explain if I found it.
My attention narrows without permission.
My bedroom door is open.
The bed is the first thing I see, untouched, too neat. The sheets lie exactly where I left them, pale and smooth, no imprint, no evidence...but my body doesn’t believe it.
It reacts anyway. A sharp, involuntary pull low in my stomach. My shoulders tense, breath catching halfway in like something’s just stepped too close behind me. My gaze fixes on the centre of the mattress, on the exact place I remember—
No.
I swallow hard, forcing it down.
It wasn’t real.
It couldn’t have been.
But the memory doesn’t listen, it presses in—his weight, the heat of him, the way the air shifted like the room had made space for something it shouldn’t hold. My fingers curl slightly at my sides, nails biting into my palms as if that will ground me back into something solid.
My pulse stutters, then spikes hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
He knew.
The thought lands sharp, immediate.
He knew there would be sound.
My breathing shifts. I take a step back without realising, then another, like distance might fix it, like putting space between me and the bed will undo the way my skin is starting to prickle.
It’s not possible. Dreams don’t anticipate real things. They don’t line up like that. They don’t...
My lungs refuse a full breath.
Because it did.
And if I go to sleep tonight...
“No,” I gasp, already reaching for my phone.
Olivia. The name steadies something in me for a second. Something familiar. I open the chat.
Are you up?
I stare at the message, then send it.
The minutes tick by without an answer.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, then press call before I can think better of it. It rings three times before jumping straight to voicemail.
A burst of noise spills through the speaker—music, voices, something clattering in the background—before her voice cuts in, bright and careless.
“Hey, it’s Liv. I’m probably at The Crown Inn getting smashed—” Laughter breaks over her words, not just hers, other people too, loud and messy and alive. “—leave a message and I’ll probs get back to you.”
The line clicks.
Silence.
It feels wrong against my ear.
I start typing again anyway.
Can I tell you something weird?
I stop, reading the message back slowly. I delete it, jaw tightening slightly. My thumbs hover uselessly over the screen.
What would I even say?
That I dreamt of something then it happened.
The thought presses in too hard. My cheeks burn, and before I can humiliate myself any further, I lock my phone.
The silence fills the space immediately. I can’t sit in it.
I move back into the living room and switch the speaker on, turning the volume up before the first track even settles. Sound floods the room.
I turn it higher.
The bass settles into something physical, vibrating through my chest, something I can feel instead of think.
That’s better.
I pace once across the room, then again, letting the movement burn through the restless energy under my skin. The music gives me something to anchor to.
I keep moving.
Back and forth across the room, the same path over and over, my body running on something tighter than energy. My thoughts don’t settle. They circle.
Turn the sound off tomorrow.
It’s heavier this time.
My legs start to ache—dull at first, then sharper the longer I stay upright, like my body’s finally catching up to everything I’ve been forcing it through. I hesitate, eyes flicking to the chair.
I lower myself into it carefully, like sitting too quickly might trigger something. The cushion dips under my weight. I pull my knees in slightly, grounding myself, forcing my body into something contained.
I reach for my phone, scroll, tap another track, then another. Let it fill every corner of the room until there’s no space left for anything else.
My head dips once, jerking slightly before I catch it.
No.
I straighten immediately, dragging in a breath, forcing my eyes open wider. My fingers press hard into my thigh, nails biting through fabric, something sharp enough to keep me here.
Stay awake.
The hours stretch. Time loses shape, slipping past in uneven pieces. Song after song blends into noise, into something constant and numbing. My posture shifts, readjusts, tightens, loosens. My body grows heavier in the chair, muscles resisting less each time I fight it.
My eyelids burn.
Then ache.
Then start to fall.
I blink hard, dragging them back open. My head tips forward again, slower this time. My hand fumbles for the remote, pressing the volume up again louder until the sound vibrates through the room. It should be enough, but it isn’t.
The music shifts to another track. The sound warps slightly at the edges, the bass dragging just a fraction too slow, like it’s being pulled through something thicker than air.
My thoughts start to lag behind themselves, half-forming before dissolving. My body slackens in the chair, just slightly, just enough. My breath evens out without my permission.
And just as I fall, I immediately know I’m no longer alone.
The room tightens around me like a held breath. My body knows before my mind does as every hair stands to attention, it braces for impact.
And then, his voice slides into my mind. “You did well, Doctor.”
His breath is warm next to my ear, teasing, his praise threaded with something darker than approval.
My chest seizes, eyes flying open, and I see him.
Fuck.
“No.” I shake my head violently like I can knock the dream away. “You’re not here.”
My voice cracks halfway through.
“You are in prison,” I say quickly, the words tumbling now. “You’re locked in a fucking chair behind locked doors. You can’t—”
My breath catches hard. “You cannot be here.”
His smile deepens slightly.
“Wake up,” I whisper. I choke when I say it louder and it tears out of me like a broken whimper. “Wake the fuck up.”
My pulse crashes violently through me. I try to move my hand again. Nothing.
“No no no no—”
The words spill out faster now, tripping over each other. “This isn’t happening. I’m asleep. I’m asleep. I’m literally fucking asleep—”
Sleep paralysis.
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.