Actually, it was so much worse. These pains were much stronger than what I remembered. And I couldn’t recall them ever having started so soon after eating an offending food.

Yet here I was, forcing another forkful of pasta into my mouth. I imagined I was in the same sort of zone that a competitive eater went into, a gobbling trance, just to get the food into my belly as fast as possible.

I figured the quicker I finished, the sooner this ‘date’ would be over, and I could go home and be miserably, violently unwell, safe in the privacy of my own apartment.

But my stomach was not playing fair.

“I find myself … enraptured by this novel food source,” SJ remarked, twirling his fork expertly in the pasta. He’d figured that trick out far too quickly for my liking. Then again, everything he was doing tonight was annoying to me. The rotten jerk! Enjoying his beautifully cooked pasta with no painful side effects.

“In Hell, we mostly eat roasted meats. Goat is my sister’s favourite.” The expression on his face told me that he was not a fan of goat. But apparently he was a fan of linguine puttanesca.

“I wish you’d taken me to Hell for dinner and fed me goat instead of this,” I muttered, forking up yet another bite. Why did my plate seem like it wasn’t getting any emptier?

“What was that, Mouse?” he asked, setting his fork down, dabbing at his mouth and reaching for his wine glass—red now to complement the dish.

“Did you do some tricky devil magic on my food?” I asked instead, then bit the inside of my mouth to keep from groaning as another spasming cramp clawed at my insides, this time accompanied by a wave of rolling nausea that had my mouth getting that sticky feeling that told me I was not far off vomiting.

He watched me, his face inscrutable. “I … no. Why?”

“I can’t seem to make a dent in this pasta,” I snarled, the pain making me cranky. His trickery making me cranky. The ruination of a ‘date’ that could have actually been quite pleasant if it wasn’t part of a scheme to torture me and steal my soul. That made me extra cranky.

“Are you feeling a bit full?” he asked, frowning. “Maybe a little bloated?”

“Oh my God!” I snapped. “You’re the absolute worst!”

He set down his fork, his brows furrowing. “You’ve gone quite pale, Mouse, I⁠—”

“Don’t you dare call me Mouse right now.” I shovelled another mouthful in, chewing furiously. And then another, and another. I was going to finish this plate, and then I was going to excuse myself to freshen up, empty my stomach, and hopefully be ready for another round.

There was no alternative. I had to complete this task. I had to win this challenge.