“I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. You need to eat.”
I don’t wait for his response. I head directly to the kitchen and start pulling out ingredients for chicken soup. Simple, easy to digest, hard to refuse.
Twenty minutes later, I set two bowls on the coffee table. Kain is back on the couch, looking even worse than before, if that’s possible. But he sits up when I hand him a spoon.
“Thanks,” he mutters.
We eat in silence. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, noting how his hand trembles slightly as he lifts the spoon. How he’s forcing down each mouthful.
He’s halfway through the bowl when he suddenly goes still. “Anne…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. The spoon clatters to the floor as he lurches forward, one hand clamped over his mouth.
I grab the bowl just in time as he vomits all over the coffee table. But what comes up isn’t soup.
It’s blood. Black, thick, and wrong.
“Oh my god!” I set the bowl aside, moving toward him. “Kain—”
“I’m okay.” But his entire body is shaking. “These are probably the…side effects Darius mentioned.”
“Let me help—”
“No.” He stands abruptly, swaying slightly. “I’m fine.”
Again, he’s not fine. His face is flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. As I watch, he stumbles toward the bathroom.
I follow, ignoring his protests.
He makes it to the toilet just in time, dropping to his knees and vomiting violently. Another bout of black blood.
My heart is pounding in my chest, my own skin clammy from terror. I kneel beside him, placing my hand on his back.
“Don’t.” He pushes me away weakly. “Don’t touch me.”
“Kain, you need—”
He coughs, and more of that black liquid pours out. I hope it’s the poison. It has to be the poison being forced out of his system by the medicine, right?
“Please,” I say desperately. “Let me help you.”
“No.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still refusing to look at me. “Just…go away, Anne.”
The words sting, but I refuse to move. I can’t.
He heaves again, but nothing comes up this time. Just dry, clearly painful retching that makes his whole body convulse.
I grab a washcloth from the cabinet, run it under cold water, and press it to the back of his neck.
“I said, don’t!” He jerks away from me and nearly falls over. “Please. Just leave me alone.”
“Why?” My voice breaks. “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“Because—” He stops, breathing hard. His hands are white where they grip the edge of the toilet.
Another wave hits him. More black liquid. Less this time but still horrifying to watch.
