He can see right through your lies. You're trying to leave him—he knows you are. That's why he needs to do this.

"Drink it," he whispered, practically begging, "just drink it, and you won't feel a thing."

He tried to force you to swallow the foul-tasting tea, roughly gripping your jaw and forcing your head up, but you fought against him at every turn.

You didn't really need your legs if you had him. He'd take care of you. So why did you always need to make things so hard?