A cup hit the floor with a sharp bang, porcelain skittering across the tiles and spraying dark tea like ink.
Mark's temper snapped. He snatched at the nearest maid before she could bend to pick it up; her hair was yanked hard enough that she cried out. Her skirts rustled as she scrambled backward on unsteady legs.
"Who told you to do that?" he barked, breath ragged. The room smelled of rain and citrus oil from the servants' baskets. His voice was thin but vicious, like a sting in velvet.
"I—I'm sorry, si—sire… I won't do it again… please," she begged, voice wobbling. The tug on her hair turned her face pale. She tried to compose herself, scrambling to the fallen cup with trembling hands.
Mark shoved her with the flat of his palm. "Tell anyone what you saw today and you can kiss your neck goodbye." His jaw worked. When she nodded frantically and bolted, Mark threw himself onto the bed and kicked a cushion into disarray.
