Page 136 of House of Cards

Hope flares inside me, desperate and wild. “So you’ll let me go?”

I guess he’s getting sick of watching me try to stand. He lurches forward, his hand clamping around my arm as he pulls me to my feet.

“Just said it’s not up to me.”

My jaw throbs where Dylan hit me. I gingerly brush my fingers over the bruise as Troy hauls me around the dumpster.

What was he doing out here? Is this just some weird coincidence? I don’t believe in that.

I try to look behind me, to see which direction Dylan disappeared to. “Shouldn’t you be going after that guy?”

“He’s being handled.”

Being handled? I shudder, but I’m not sure if it’s because I’m cold and wet and traumatized, or because I’m pretty sure Dylan won’t be seeing another sunrise. I should feel relieved, but I just feel sick.

What kind of world is this where justice is so fucking twisted? I allegedly steal from a casino and my punishment is an undecided amount of time spent being sex trafficked to the highest bidder? Dylan assaults me and he goes to sleep with the fishes? But Smith wakes up every morning feeling like a million bucks?

Troy heads for the laundry ramp. Maybe someone spotted me leaving, and he just happened to be in the area. Seems like the employees know each other, even in a massive casino like this.

Warm, perfumed air hits me. I’m almost glad to be back inside, out of the rain and the stink. Until I remember what I’m on my way back to.

A possibly fatal date with Smith.

“Any chance we can keep this between us?” I mutter, trying to sound brave instead of terrified.

Troy lets out a bark of laughter that makes me flinch. “The mood Hutchinson’s in? Might as well slit your throat myself.”

My heart nearly fails. “No, no, no! I’m sorry, okay!” I plead, trying to dig in my heels. “Please, Troy!”

He just keeps walking, pulling me along like I weigh nothing. Fighting is useless, so I give up. But my mind keeps churning. It’s like when I’m watching a movie, always trying to figure out how it will end.

…the mood Hutchinson’s in…

I assume he’s talking about Smith. About the moodIput him in.

Realization hits me like a knock to the head. Smith was already on edge…and that wasbeforeI tried to escape. What will he do when he finds out I stole from him? When he discovers I knocked out one of his employees and fled?

My mind does Olympic-level gymnastics as I try to reason myself out of hysteria.

He won’t kill me. He needs me alive for…whatever the fuck our deal is now.

But there are worse things than death.

Like having every hole fucked until I’m raw and bleeding, perhaps. And all the other ways he’ll figure out to make me scream, patent pending.

A violent shudder chases through me.

This is insane.

Smith is a fucking accountant. Calculating, controlled. It wouldn’t make sense for him to damage his merchandise, right?

He gave me a bath. Bought me clothes. And lest we forget the chocolate cake?

Except…that’s just what captors do, don’t they? They show kindness, so you’ll be more pliable. Messing with your head so you can’t tell the difference between manipulation and basic decency anymore.

But Smith isn’t just any captor. Despite everything he’s done to me—or perhaps, because of it—something has changed. There’s this toxic, volatile chemistry building up between us.

I’ve seen the way he looks at me. The way his nostrils flare when I push back. That ghost of a smile that touches his mouth.