I am in a cold sweat, curled up by the toilet. The one toilet we all share. If someone needs to use it, I drag myself out and then go back in as soon as they’re done. They have all yelled and told me to stop groaning, but I can’t help it—my stomach hurts so much. Rainer has come in hour after hour, wiping my face with a cool towel. He doesn’t want me to go down and work, but he doesn’t know how I can get out of it.

The morning light on day one has come in, and is shining through my window. I’m still by the toilet, still retching, when Rainer comes in. He looks down at me, and he furrows his brow. “Jesus, Pippa, you’re sick. I need to figure out how to stop you going out into that sun today.”

“It’s fine,” I croak. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Before I can protest, he turns and rushes out. I crawl out of the toilet and climb into my bed. I lie my head on the hard pillow, but compared to the floor it’s heaven. I close my eyes, exhaustion and pain taking over. Voices fill my mind, scattering in and out, and then a cool hand touches my face.

“Pippa?”

I blink my eyes open and see Rainer leaning over me. His face is concerned.

“I’m sorry,” I croak. “I’m coming.”

“No, you can stay here.”

Those words wake me up more, and I whisper, “What?”

“It’s fine. I got permission for you to stay here until you’re better.”

No one gets to just laze about in Artreau’s home. No one. I study Rainer’s face. “What did you do?”

“Pippa, it’s nothing you need to worry about. Just rest, get better.”

“Rainer . . .”

He leans down and kisses my head. “Hush, get to sleep. I’ll lock the door so no one bothers you. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before I can answer, he disappears. I want to argue, but my body is so weak I fall back into a deep sleep before I even hear the front door slam.

~*~*~*~

Two days I lie in that bed, tired and worn. When I wake on the third morning, I see that most of the slaves are already up and about. I glance around, panic gripping my chest. I’ve been out a long time, and I know that would have come at a cost. I just don’t know what that cost is yet.

I climb out of bed and shower quickly, then manage to eat a piece of dried bread Rainer left at my bedside table. Then I dress. My body is aching and sore, but I can’t afford another day sleeping. Each day I’m gone, Rainer no doubt suffers. I make my way out to the crops, each step proving to be harder than I thought.

The sun burns my skin, its heat sinking deep into my flesh as I walk down the rows to find Rainer. He’s standing at the end of the paddock, staring out at the massive fence preventing our escape. He’s slightly hunched over, and it surprises me that he hasn’t heard me approaching. I walk up and gently place my hand on his shoulder. He flinches and turns . . . slowly.

So slowly I immediately become worried.

“Rainer,” I whisper. “Are you okay?”

He forces a trembling smile, and he whispers, “Yeah, Pip, I’m fine.”

He’s lying. It’s written all over his face.

“You’re lying,” I breathe. “What did he do to you?”

Oh God. Has he been hurt because of me?

I couldn’t bear it.

“He didn’t do anything,” he says. “Are you feeling better?”

I narrow my eyes. “I’m okay. Rainer, please, if you’re hurt . . .”

He cuts me off with the slow wave of his hand. “I’m fine, Pippa. Let’s get this work done.”

He doesn’t speak much to me as we work, and his movements are slow and pained. His face is scrunched in pain the entire time he works. Artreau has done something; I just don’t know what it is. I follow behind Rainer—a guard quickly attached me to him as soon as I was sighted unattached.

When the afternoon sun falls, and the cool breeze trickles through the trees, I help Rainer back up to the house. The guards shove us all towards our rooms, and the moment we’re in and unclipped, Rainer disappears into the bathroom, barking at everyone else to move. Something is really wrong, and the moment I hear him vomiting I decide I’m done holding back.

I run towards the bathroom and shove the door open. Rainer is over the toilet, vomiting. He cries out in agony every single time he retches, and I’m struggling to understand. I rush over and take the towel I used this morning to shower. I wet it and gently place it against his face. He flinches but doesn’t move. He just keeps holding onto the toilet for dear life.

“Rainer?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. I place my hand on his back and he roars, literally roars, in pain. I jerk my hand away, and that’s when I see that his shirt is sticking oddly to his skin. I kneel down, and gently take the hem of his shirt. He tries to turn, barking at me to stop, but I don’t. I lift it and gasp out loud. His skin, which was once smooth, is now covered in angry lashes. Pieces of his flesh are peeled back, he’s been hit so many times.

A strangled sob is ripped from my throat as I rasp, “Th . . . th . . . th . . . th . . . this was for me?”

“No,” Rainer whispers. “I smart-mouthed him.”

“You’re lying,” I scream. “Don’t lie to me.”

His body shakes in anguish and he whispers, “Twenty lashes for each day you were sick.”

“No,” I croak, reeling backwards. “Rainer, no.”