"Didn’t you just eat, dear? Why is your stomach growling?” Beatrice inquires as she tucks me under the covers, her fingers grazing over my stomach as it rumbles beneath her palm. She's insisted that I remain in bed for the next 24 hours. My muscles ache from the brief excursion downstairs and back up, ensuring I won’t attempt that again soon.
“No, I haven’t,” I reply, and my stomach growls again.
“Why? I thought creamy shrimp pasta is one of your favorites.”
“You remember,” I smile, reminiscing about the numerous times I asked her to make it for me after the first time. She nods.
“It is, but I didn’t want to eat it because his majesty served me.”
“You're worried he might’ve poisoned you again,” she says, her gaze softening. I nod slowly. There’s no need to hide it from Beatrice; it's
