He wanted to say no. He wanted to wrench his wrist out of Artemis's grip and shrink back into the couch, possibly to the point of becoming one with its cushions. But Adrasteius was so weak and starved that he couldn't stop himself. His fingers dug into Artemis's palm, and he cursed as he drank, hating the terrible, soothing sensation of magic filling his veins. It was good, and it was awful, and when he had consumed the sphere he did jerk back, his expression a storm of rage.

"I didn't want that," he said. "I didn't want you to have to do that."