Mercedes glances at her clothes. She picks up the pants I stripped off her and searches for a moment. The panties burn a hole in my pocket as she pulls on the pants without anything underneath and walks toward me, but she doesn’t sit. She eyes all the dishes, picks up the soup bowl, and looks up at me. Her eyes narrow, and she grins, then brings the bowl close, turns it over, and pushes it against my chest. She giggles as she pours cold tomato soup down my front and over my pants. It’s a strange, almost unhinged sound. Soup drips onto my shoes and the once-pristine carpet.

She lets the bowl drop, wipes her hands with a napkin, and lets that fall too, then looks up at me. “There. One down. What would you like next? Eggs?”

“I liked this suit,” I tell her casually, and there’s that grin again.

“I’m sure the money my brother is paying you will be more than enough to order another.”

But what she next sees on my face has her falter. It’s as if the beast looks out at her from inside me. My muscles tighten, the darkness within casting its shadow, ensnaring us.

She takes one step backward, but before she can take another, I grip a handful of that luxurious, thick hair and tug hard. It feels good to do it. She cries out, and I catch myself. It’s an involuntary sound. I’m sure she wouldn’t give me the satisfaction if she could help it. She grips my arm with both hands as I haul her on tiptoe and pull her so close that our noses are touching.

“That was a mistake.” I push her to her knees.

“Get off!”

“Pick up the bowl and the napkin.”

“Let me go!”

“Pick. Them. Up.”

“Fine! Just…” She stretches one arm to get both bowl and napkin, keeping the other on my forearm while still trying to tug free.

“Miriam,” I call out.

The door opens instantly as if the woman had her fucking ear to it. “Sir,” she says, her voice betraying no emotion.

“Mercedes has made a mess. She needs a bucket and a sponge to clean it up.”

“Right away, sir.” I keep Mercedes on her knees until Miriam returns and sets the bucket down, letting water splash out of the sides, then turns to leave.

“Stay,” I tell her.

“Yes, sir.”

I release Mercedes’s hair, and she drops to her hands, then sits back to rub her head.

“Clean my shoes.”

She grits her teeth but doesn’t move.

“Get my crop, Miriam.”

Miriam spins on her heel, but before she can take a step, Mercedes has the sponge and is wiping off my shoes. Smart girl. I’m sure she doesn’t want her ass whipped in front of the help.