Chapter 8

To ensure I could provide Beatrix a healthy heart, Asher had my room heavily guarded. Knowing I was from Southern Carolina, where I couldn’t live without spicy food, he changed my diet, forcing me to eat low-salt meals every day. Everything was boiled, without any seasoning. I endured a day, two days…

I finally couldn’t hold it anymore and vomited until I was dizzy. The bodyguards reported to Asher, whose voice was icy, “Drama queen!” “If she won’t eat, can’t you force-feed her?”

The bodyguards pinned my hands, held my feet, pried open my mouth, and poured food down my throat. The bland liquid spilled all over me, sticky and disgusting.

I was like cattle waiting to be slaughtered, force-fed to fatten me up so the greedy diners could have another bite at the table later. Soon, an itch crept up.

I looked at the bowl in disbelief, familiar yellow specks—egg. And I’m allergic to eggs.

I tried to speak, but the constant stream of food blocked my voice. My whole body itched, my throat swelled rapidly, and I twisted and turned in pain, trying to escape.

Even if my limbs bled, twisted, or broke, triggering the wounds from the horse trampling that hadn’t healed, I couldn’t break free. Instead, I was pinned down more forcefully on the bed.