“I don’t want your jacket! I don’t want anything from you!”

I can’t speak just yet. I’m too angry. Blindsided really. Although I knew he’d come when I cut off his money. He'll want what he thinks is his due.

Theron, my dear, blackmailing, back-stabbing brother, is back. And he was in the shower with Mercedes with his fucking hand between her legs.

“You’re hurting me,” Mercedes finally says, and I feel her nails digging into my arm.

I look down, loosen my hold a little. Force a deep breath in. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I needed to get away from the asshole sadist who trussed me up like a horse and left me to sleep in the stable all night!”

I take it in. I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Still processing Theron’s reappearance. The sight of them together. His fucking hands on her. It’s making me crazy.

“Jesus Christ, Mercedes.”

“Jesus Christ yourself, you fucking asshole.”

“Grow your vocabulary.”

She flips me off.

We reach the house, and Miriam steps out of the kitchen door. Mercedes makes a sound of disgust as I dismount. I grab her around the waist to take her inside. Again, she protests, and the jacket slides off her, exposing her nakedness. I don’t miss Miriam’s smirk.

“Stop fighting me,” I tell Mercedes.

“I will never stop fighting you.”

“Then you will never stop losing.”

I haul her over my shoulder and tug the towel down to cover her ass as I march her through the house and up to my bedroom, which is still dark with the drawn curtains. I lock the door and toss her onto the bed.

She grips the towel, but I take one corner and tug it out from around her. I look at her, all her scratches, the red, raw skin. The bruise on her forehead, the cut on her cheekbone. I take one wrist, turn it over to see how the skin looks like she’s been dragging her arm over sandpaper. I shake my head, drop it, and notice the bruised, cut-up knees. The bottoms of her ruined feet.

I draw back, raking my hands into my hair. This woman will literally have me pulling my hair out.

“Get a good enough look at what you did?” She sits up, her body uncovered from me, soft and so fucking fragile.

“Did he touch you?”

“What?”

I lean toward her, setting my hands on either side of her. “Did my brother touch you?”

She grins. She doesn’t back away. Never does, this one. Most women would. So would most men. But not Mercedes De La Rosa.

“If by touch you mean did he resuscitate me when I almost drowned, then yes. So we’re talking mouth-to-mouth.”

She licks her lips.

I growl. My hands become fists on the bed.