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The realtor shifts, uncomfortable when I fix him with my eyes. His eyes flick briefly to the pentagram tattooed on the back of my hand, then away.

“The features you were interested in have been preserved, and rather beautifully, might I add.”

Mercy stands rigid beside me. Maybe it’s because I’ve slid my hand down her back and over her ass, my middle finger playing at the hem of her skirt and touching the creases where her tight little ass meets her leg. Her discomfort is obvious in the tightness of her shoulders.

“Would you like the tour?” he asks, pulling a key out of his pocket and swiftly opening the door. We step over the threshold, and the moment we are inside, I notice everything around me is impeccable in every way. Exactly what I ordered.

“I’ll be paying in cash,” I say. “Leave the keys.”

Without waiting for a response, I remove an envelope from my jacket pocket—thick with stacks of bills. Ross takes it, not bothering to count. We both know the amount is correct, just as we both know this transaction will never appear on any official record.

I like my privacy, and Ross doesn’t ask questions.

That’s why I picked him.

“The keys are on the entryway table,” he says, already making his way to the door. He chances a glance at Mercy, but when his eyes return to me and I narrow mine, and he knows not to do that again. “All utilities are connected as requested. If you need anything else—”

“I don’t.”

He nods once, then hurries down the steps and along the gravel drive toward a car I hadn’t noticed parked beneath thetrees. The crunch of gravel is our only sign that he’s gone, if you don’t count the squeal of tires as he pulls out onto the main road.

I scared him.

Good.

He should be scared.

“You bought this place?” Mercy asks, eyes wide as she takes in the intricate gingerbread trim, the stained glass accents in the upper windows, and the perfectly polished black cherry wood floors.

“I did,” I reply. “For us.”

She turns to look at me, and the look in her eyes is something I can’t quite place.

“For you.”

A soft sound slips past her pillowy lips, and she smiles at me.

It seems grateful, loving?

I wish I could call it worship, and maybe one day I will.

I lead her past the foyer, and into the dining room, pushing the heavy oak door open and allowing it to swing shut behind us with a soft sound like a contented whisper.

A staircase curves upward to our right, the dark wood banister gleaming with fresh polish. To our left, double doors lead to what was once a formal parlor, but for Mercy, it’s become a library. Straight ahead, beyond an arched doorway beneath a stained glass panel etched with beautiful red roses, lies the kitchen—and that’s where I’ll take her.

I see the keys on the table, exactly as promised, but I leave them there. Instead, I watch Mercy’s face as she takes in her surroundings, the way her eyes widen, the mixture of fear and reluctant appreciation in her expression.

She looks happy, but at the same time, she looks like she’s afraid to be happy.

“Why would you buy a house like this?” she asks.

“Only the best for the mother of my child.”

She stops, freezing in her tracks as she slowly looks up at me.

“It’s not—”

“It is,” I say simply, reaching up and loosening my tie. I’m careful to keep any expression off my face. “Because I say it is.”