There's food heaped onto the plate in front of me, turning into a small mountain of breakfast. I was starving, but now the egregious stack of food—enough to feed three people—leaves me nauseated.
"I'm not hungry," I lie, even though I'll regret it later.
"Eat," the overbearing monarch says, his voice so cold I swear there's an icy breeze in my ear.
But who can eat when there's a strange man standing over them, arms crossed, watching with a death glare? Nope. Not happening. My stomach roils and rebels, even though it was begging me for food just a while ago.
I must not move fast enough for his liking, because he takes back the fork he'd given me and stabs a large bite of egg, shoving it at my face like I'm a child. "You haven't eaten. You need to."
