The Prison-Made Queen novel Chapter 825

The setting sun cast a golden glow through the gap in the curtains, falling across Clive's body.

He was curled up in bed. It was the middle of summer, and the room didn't have the AC or a fan running. He was even bundled under a blanket. Yet, despite all of that, he was shivering.

The cold seemed to seep directly from his bones, a deep, pervasive chill that no amount of blankets could ward off.

He stared at the pills on the table, hesitating.

Lately, he had essentially become a walking pharmacy, downing medication non-stop. He didn't know if it was just his own failing body or if there was something seriously wrong with the drugs Zeus was giving him.

Every time he took them, a foul, indescribable taste lingered in the back of his throat, leaving his stomach churning with nausea.

But no matter how much he hated it, if he wanted to live, he had to take his medicine.

He reached out for the glass of water on the table, only to find his fingers trembling uncontrollably. It took him several tries just to grip the glass.

Washing the pills down with water, he collapsed back against the sofa cushions, hit by a wave of intense dizziness.

He had only walked from the bedroom to the living room, but he felt like he'd just run several miles. His heart pounded weakly but rapidly in his chest, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

He looked down at his own hands—pale, emaciated, and tinged with a sickly grayish hue. In just a month or two, he had lost an alarming amount of weight, his once fit physique now whittled down to skin and bones.

Was this really supposed to be a normal reaction?

He had strictly followed his brother's dosage instructions every single day.

At first, he hadn't noticed much and genuinely thought Zeus was treating him well, providing him with exclusive, experimental miracle drugs that couldn't be bought anywhere.

But soon, he realized something was terribly wrong. His surface symptoms were fading, but he could feel his internal organs decaying at a terrifying rate.

He dropped his things and closed the distance to the sofa in three long strides, towering over Clive with an overwhelming, oppressive aura.

"Are you questioning my treatment plan?"

"Do you honestly not believe I can cure you?"

Clive's skin crawled under his intense glare, and he instinctively looked away. "Zeus, that's not what I meant..."

"Then what did you mean?" he pressed relentlessly.

"I just feel like something's really wrong with my body lately. I'm not doubting you."

He felt sick; wasn't it perfectly normal to want to go to the hospital?