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“Who did it?”
She sits back against the headboard and stares up at me, lips sealed tight.
“Tell me who, and I may not mention it to Santiago.”
“You’re going to blackmail me?”
“Mercedes—”
“Don’t.”
“Tell me.”
I watch her. I can’t look away.
“Don’t tell him.” She falters, shaking her head. “Please.”
I study her for a quiet moment. I won’t get an answer from her tonight, but I have time. “Why haven’t you eaten?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Hmm. I don’t know. Let’s see. You locked me in a room. You whipped my ass. My brother just kicked me out of my own house and out of his life. I have a maid—a fucking maid—who clearly takes pleasure in my suffering, and my jailor is a sadist. I don’t know why I have no fucking appetite!”
I watch the fury on her face. It’s flimsy camouflage for her uncertainty. Her vulnerability. “Why are you here, Mercedes?”
She reaches for her sweater at the foot of the bed and pulls it on, then stands. It’s oversized and comes to the tops of her thighs. “I’m here because my brother is paying you to deal with me while he plays house with that woman.”
Does she know how much she’s giving away?
There’s a knock on the door. “Enter,” I call out, not taking my eyes from Mercedes, who tries to keep hers on mine, although I see how she glances at Miriam walking in with yet another tray of food.
Miriam sets the large tray down on the table and leaves. Mercedes glances at it. Her forehead furrows, and she shifts her gaze to me.
I go to the table, see the cold scrambled eggs, the strips of unappealing bacon, a cold tomato soup, a sandwich on bread that’s gone soggy from the roasted once-warm vegetables and goat cheese.
“Breakfast and lunch. You’ll eat those meals before you’re served anything different. If that’s tonight, great. If it’s tomorrow, fine. Next week? Again, fine. There’s one thing I know, Mercedes. You will eat.”
I pull out the chair and gesture for her to sit.
She exhales loudly, clearly deciding this is not a battle she will fight. Pain doesn’t bother her. She said it herself. Not the pain of a whipping. Not the pain of hunger. But everyone has a threshold. I just have to find hers. And I will.
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!”
