Page 6 of His Rule (The Rite Trilogy 1)

She tugs free of me, putting space between us. “You don’t need to keep me bound,” she says, shifting her weight. The stones beneath her feet can’t be comfortable. “I’m not going to run. I have nowhere to go.”

“Perhaps I just like the look of you tied up.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, uncertain of my meaning.

I clear my throat. I need to be careful with her. Need to remember she’s Santiago’s little sister.

“Shall I carry you?” I ask.

“I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“Your feet.”

“I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.”

I gesture for her to go ahead. A shadow moves in the upstairs window. Mercedes sees it too and pauses. She looks over her shoulder at me. It’s late. The staff should be in bed. But there will be one witness to her arrival.

“Go on,” I tell her.

She does, her bare feet quiet on the stone stairs. I open the heavy front door to let her enter ahead of me.

Mercedes hesitates on the threshold. I wonder what she’s thinking. What she’s expecting.

She takes a deep breath and steps inside, studying the grand foyer as if it’s the first time she’s seen it. Mercedes isn’t one to be impressed by money. God knows the De La Rosa family has plenty of it. But she appreciates the white marble floors and walls veined in shades of gray. All three floors are visible from here with a central staircase, also marble, to the second floor and two more modest staircases to the third.

She turns back to me. “My room,” she says, her tone haughty. “I’m tired.”

I smile. I almost thought to let her sleep tonight and begin tomorrow, considering what she’s been through. But no.

“Same room as the last time you were my guest.”

“Guest,” she snorts. “Do you tie up all your guests?”

“Only those who need tying.”

The mask of superiority falters. It’s her defense. It’s always been her defense.

Without another word she turns to climb the stairs. I keep one hand at her elbow in case she trips but I don’t quite touch her. When we get to the second floor, however, movement at the end of the corridor has her stopping.

“What…” she starts, trailing off as Miriam, a housekeeper I inherited from my mother, clears her throat. She waits just outside Mercedes’s bedroom door in her traditional matronly shapeless black dress with its white lace collar.

Miriam has been with my family for about six years. And I’m still not sure I like her. For as efficient as she is, she's neither kind nor warm-hearted which makes her perfect for the task at hand.

Mercedes looks at me. I know she was hoping her arrival would be more private, but that’s not part of the plan.

“You remember Miriam?” I ask.

She nods tightly. Is she remembering how condescending she was toward the woman when she was last here? When I held my tongue considering the circumstances. Her brother on the verge of death.

“She’s prepared your room,” I tell her.

She forces her mouth into a smile, lifting her chin as she makes her way to her bedroom.

“Miss,” Miriam says in greeting, nodding to Mercedes. “Sir.”

I greet her. Mercedes doesn’t. Instead, she enters the room, stopping just inside to take it in.

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