You shove him again and again, shouting and screaming as you do. You don't know what you're saying. You don't know what you're thinking. All you know is that you're so furious you can't contain yourself. Your body feels like it's on fire. Your head feels like it's going to explode—both from the pain and from the wild surge of emotion.

Everything is such a blur you hardly see the room; you hardly see him.

All you see is red.

You shout something incomprehensible as you shove him again. At every shove he steps back but not this last time; he grabs your wrists and twists you around so your back is pressed up against his front. Then he locks his arms around you, pinning your arms to your sides and holding you against him so tightly you can't move anything except your head and feet.

'Easy,' he breathes in your ear.

With a snarl, you kick back your foot. You connect with his shin but he doesn't react. You thrash your head from side to side. You try to slip out your arms but his grip is like a vice.

'Easy.'

You continue to scream but it's getting less and less fierce as the burning feeling in your body slowly dissipates. Resting your head against his chest, you slump in his arms as you gasp at the air. The ceiling is spinning. Your head is thumping. Your rage has coiled into a little burning ball in the pit of your stomach.

'Relax,' he murmurs in your ear. 'Relax.'

'I feel sick.'

'That's normal. You're going to feel—'

'No! I really feel sick.' You fight to escape his arms. 'I'm going to spew!'

He releases you abruptly. You take a few staggering steps, then drop to your knees as that little burning ball in your stomach surges up your throat. You vomit twice, then dry-reach several times. There's no more; you haven't eaten enough. You feel so empty.

Sickly empty.

With a gasp, you sit back on your knees and wipe your mouth. The room is quiet. You can feel him standing behind you. You can sense his uncertainty. You grab at your stomach at another wave of nausea.

'I'll take you back to your room. You're not ready. I shouldn't have touched you,' he says stiffly.

You nod and try to get to your feet. Such a simple but impossible task. After all that's happened tonight—the pain, the seizure, the drug and now your vomiting—it's a wonder you're not lying in a puddle on the floor.

Crouching in front of you, he takes your chin. 'You're pale.' His forehead furrows.

'Help me up.'

You lean heavily against him as he does. You feel like you weigh a tonne, though you seem to weigh nothing at all to him. Even such a small effort is making you gasp. 'What is happening to me?'

'I told you.'

You shake your head. You won't believe it. You can't believe it.

Before you can take a step, he hoists you into his arms.

'Soon, this won't be so easy for me,' he says.

You don't know what he means by that and you don't ask for clarification as you lie limp in his embrace, struggling to hold your eyes open.

He carries you down the halls. It feels like a labyrinth to you now; a confusing mess of corners and doorways. You struggle to concentrate, trying to look for a way out, but you're too tired and weak to make sense of anything. In a daze, you press your face into his neck.

Soon, he arrives at your doors, whereupon he eases you to your feet and opens them for you. You stagger inside and over to the bed, where you crash onto it.

Your eyes are just about to close when he suddenly speaks. 'You haven't eaten.'

You roll onto your back in surprise. For some reason you thought he was already gone. 'Too sick to eat.'

'You're sick because you haven't eaten. And my servants tell me you haven't eaten the last two times.'

'I ate the first time.'

'You didn't eat properly.'

'I'm a vegetarian.'

He snorts. 'So I've been told. That won't work. We're meat eaters.'

He approaches the table. He lifts the closh off one of the dishes and brings it over. This time it's all meat—steak and gravy. No vegetables. Nothing fresh. Nothing you can eat.

'I don't want it,' you say.

'You will have it.'

'No.'

'You will have it or I'll make you have it.'

You glare up at him. How's he going to do that? Shove it in your face? Tie you up, then hold your nose until he can force it into your mouth? You'll just spit it up. Your fingertips are tingling Your ears feel hot.

That anger again.

But you're too tired to fight. With a sigh, you sit up and he hands over the plate. Knife and fork in hand, you look down at it with your mouth twisted. But if you're honest with yourself, it's not entirely disgusting. It smells kind of good. It's making your mouth water. Your stomach growls. It appals you. This was once a living, breathing sentient cow grazing in a field.

'Do it,' he snaps.

You cut off a piece, scrunching up your face—it's almost raw—as you pop it in your mouth. You chew, your face still scrunched up, making sure to show him how much you dislike it.

'Good,' he says. He sits on the edge of the bed, waiting.

You swallow. 'You're going to watch me?'

'Finish it.'

Your heart sinks. It was your plan to hide the rest of it the moment he left. It seems he knows you too well already. You take another bite, then another. He waits patiently, watching you closely as you finish it.

He nods. 'Good.' Then stands and takes your plate. 'I'll let you rest. How is your pain?'

You look at him steadily. 'Gone.'

'How is ... how are you on the inside?'

You raise your eyebrows, confused, then suddenly realise what he means. Heat warms your face. He means down between your legs. 'Fine.'

He nods again and leaves your room.

You wait a while after the door booms shut before getting up from the bed and hurrying over to the fireplace. There, you drop to your knees and shove your fingers down your throat.