You hear him yawn again, though it sounds more like a growl.

Quietly you pull back further under the bed. You watch as his big red feet touch the floor. He wriggles his toes with a grunt. It's cold with your body huddled against the stone but you try not to notice it.

Trying your best to keep your breathing calm, you watch as he walks across the room, his big feet slapping against the floor. In the middle of the room he pauses. You bite your lip as he rocks on his heels.

Then you hear something that sends a cold finger of dread running down your spine. He's sniffing. You remember your first meeting: I can smell you like no other being on this planet.

You fool!

You draw back fearfully as his feet turn, pointing in your direction. You hold your breath as he stands there for several dreadful moments. What is he thinking? Should you run?

Should you beg?

Your heart is beating hard in your temples. You're still holding your breath. A terrible cramp seizes your left calf but you grit your teeth against the pain

Then, finally, he turns and walks over to the couch by the unlit fire. He sits. For the next several minutes you keep as you are, listening for any sign of revelation. There comes the rustle of paper. From your angle, you can't see him properly and it takes you a while before you conclude that he must be reading. A monster reading a book. As impossible as it is.

No. He isn't. He's just pretending. He must be. He's just playing you. Besides, how can he read in the dark?

There goes another rustle as he turns another page.

What kind of book does a monster read?

You're starting to shiver now and it takes all your effort to keep your teeth from chattering. You have to get off the cold floor before you catch something. The last thing you want to be is sick in a place like this.

It's still dark; you have a chance to find a better hiding place. Slowly and quietly, you wriggle across the floor and are about to leave the protection of the bed when a sudden boom makes you jerk your head, banging it against the wooden slats. You bite back a cry. Two more booms follow. Someone is using the heavy doorknocker.

'Enter,' growls the monster.

Wincing, you rub your temples. A headache's brewing. More than a headache—a migraine. You've had them before. You're on medication for it, but since your kidnap you haven't been able to take them.

'Master,' comes a familiar voice. The dark winged man. .

'What is it?'

'We've lost her.'

A heavy silence that raises the hairs on the back of your neck fills the room. 'What do you mean you've lost her?'

'She's gone. She's not in her room.'

'Please master, forgive us,' comes another quavering voice.

You tighten your grip on your knife as the monster snarls. 'She can't have gotten far. Go and find her and bring her to me. She must be in the castle somewhere.'

'Yes, master.'

You hear the door open again, then boom shut. You wince, clawing your fingers into your scalp. The migraine is pounding behind your eyes now. It's hard to see. It's hard to think. The room turns blurry. Closing your eyes, you focus on your breathing. Nausea swirls deep in your guts.

You swallow and gasp. Sweat beads your upper lip. You start to feel icy cold and it's more than because the room is chilly.

It's much worse.

Slumping onto your side, you curl up into a foetal position as you shiver and try your best not to puke your guts up. You suddenly think of the food you threw against the wall—it doesn't help. Vomit surges up your throat, which you manage to swallow back down.

Your ears are ringing; your fingers and toes are tingling. Then a familiar, sickly sweet smell fills your nostrils. It almost smells like oranges. It fills you with dread. You know what's about to happen. It doesn't happen often but it's happened several times through the course of your life. Your eyes widen until you feel like they're going to fall out of your head. You see a bright light.

Then nothing.

Darkness. Warmth. Silence. You think your eyes are open but it's hard to tell; everything is a blur. Your arms feel so heavy but you manage to lift them. Something moves and you swipe at it. A deep voice says something but you can't understand it. You swipe out with your other arm as you sit up. A tight grip encircles your wrist. Wordlessly, you try to pry it loose but fail. You hear a voice—is it yours?—it's shouting something but it just sounds like babbling in your ears.

You're still trying to pry the grip loose. Then you feel something take a hold of you around the waist and pull you onto your side. You're lying on something soft. You blink. The floor wasn't soft. The floor. The floor! You were on the floor! Where are you now?

The grip around your wrist is gone but you still can't move your arms, the grip now having moved to around your chest. No. Not a grip. It's an arm. A strong arm with smooth, leathery skin. You burst into tears.

A deep voice speaks in your ear. He's so close you can feel his breath against your neck. 'Quiet. It's over now.'

You're so weak you can't move. He tightens his arm around your chest. 'I h-hate them,' you say between sobs. You wince at another throb in your temples. 'I need m-my tablets ... I ...m-m-migraine.' It's annoying; your tongue keeps curling uselessly around your words, as though it's not quite in your control. After a seizure there's always a lengthy postictal period where you're not quite yourself, where you find it hard to make sense of things. A lack of oxygen to the brain is a terrifying thing.

Vaguely, you know who must be speaking in your ear. Dazedly, you know who must be holding you. You can feel his hard body pressed up against your back. But your brain is finding it hard to understand what exactly that means for you.

'Tablets won't help you now,' he says, brushing the hair away from your ear. 'The transformation isn't easy but there will be an end. Stay with me and I can make it easier for you.'

He rests his chin atop your head.

''kay,' you grunt, drooling into the pillow. Your eyelids slowly shut.