“Thank you,” I say tightly and walk toward the French doors that lead inside. Classical music pours from the Baroque room where an orchestra plays. People stop me as I weave through the crowd. I am polite but brief, and I hear her before I spot her, and I swear every fucking muscle in my body tenses.

Someone says something to me, but I barely hear him before pushing past and stalking onto the dance floor where Mercedes is in the arms of a young man, a Sovereign Son no less. She stumbles, and they both laugh, and for a moment, I wonder if she’s drunk. If they're both fucking drunk. But whatever he’s saying must be the funniest thing she’s ever heard because she throws her head back and laughs. That man—that fucking man—has the gall to brush his lips over her throat, and I think I’m going to kill him. Right here, in the middle of this room with all these witnesses, I’m going to fucking kill him.

Mercedes sees me just as I get to them. Her eyes flicker in panic momentarily, then something else. Something stubborn and arrogant, and I remember her face when I gave her the pill this morning. I remember the hurt I saw there, followed by the shutting of the door.

And I know what this is. She’s teaching me a lesson.

I also know I have no right to do what I’m about to do. But I close my hand over the man’s shoulder and squeeze. “Excuse me,” I say, eyes locked on her.

“What the—?”

The look on my face must say it all because as soon as I glance his way, he releases her, raising both arms into the air in surrender. I set my hand on Mercedes’s lower back and tug her to me.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she asks. I take in the flush of her cheeks and the loudness of her laughter moments ago.

“Are you drunk?”

“Where were you? Cat House? Is it open for business tonight?”

I tighten my grip on her. “Are you fucking drunk?”

She grins. “I’m not, actually. It would take more than a sip of champagne to get drunk. I’m just enjoying myself, Judge. And what do you care? You don’t want me. You’ve made that abundantly clear. You just want to be sure I take that little pill to erase your mistake.”

I glance around to see eyes on us. “It wasn’t a mistake,” I tell her quietly. “We’re leaving.”

“I don’t want to leave. You go. Your mom said she’d take me home.”

I lean in close to her. “Oh, little monster, that wasn’t a request. And you just wait until I get you home.”

15

Mercedes