Page 135 of House of Cards

All I can see is a malformed silhouette as he huddles over me, like a demon from someone’s nightmare.

My future nightmare.

“No!” I shout, furiously slapping at his hands. “No, no, no!”

It’s too easy for him to fend me off. A single backhand, and I’m reeling, barely conscious, as he drags my pants down my thighs.

I gather all the air in my lungs for a desperate, “Help!”

Because my savior is where? Around the corner, just waiting for my signal so he can intervene?

Silly, silly me.

All my yell does is let water into my mouth until I’m choking. On rain water, on my own panicked sobs.

I feel myself becoming untethered, floating somewhere far away from these stinking dumpsters and this wretched demon.

But that all ends when the guy Smith canned punches me in the jaw. There’s no actual pain at first. Just a sharp whine and an almost tangible flash of white light across my vision.

Then it hurts. But I have other things to worry about. Like the hands on my body, and the disgusting sensation of warm, wet skin slipping against mine.

He was trying to punch me out, but all he does is drive home the reality of what’s happening.

“No!” I scream, using every ounce of strength to push against his chest. He reels back, but for barely a second.

I’m ready, though. Soon as he’s in reach, I claw out with both hands, aiming for his bloodshot eyes. He rears back again with a snarl. But I know I’ve only bought a few seconds.

“Stop!”

My assailant freezes, his head whipping to the source of the voice. His eyes widen, and he releases me so suddenly I collapse back to the ground.

“Fuck this,” he yells as he scrambles to his feet, hastily doing up his fly.

He bolts away, heading for the alleyway I’d been so desperate to escape into. I lie there for a second, watching him, still too shocked to pull my clothes back into place. Still thinking he’s going to turn around and come back to finish what he started.

Then someone blocks my view. Someone big and brawny.

Someone familiar.

Troy.

Zoey

Kate’s pants tangle around my thighs, the wet fabric grazing painfully over my skin as I wrench them back up. Every movement causes a splash from the puddle I’m lying in. Dirty rain water soaks every inch of my body.

Troy just stands there, rain pounding down on his massive shoulders, expression unreadable. He doesn’t even seem to notice the water streaming down his face.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, gruff but deadpan, like it’s an everyday thing for him to witness someone being assaulted by the dumpsters.

My heart hammers in my chest, adrenaline still flooding my system. I try to stand but my knees keep buckling.

“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking. “Please let me go.”

I don’t know what else to do but beg. It hasn’t gotten me anywhere with Smith, but maybe Troy isn’t an all-out psychopath with zero empathy or feelings of remorse.

Here’s hoping.

Troy steps closer. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t even be here.”