Page 15 of House of Cards

That was a powerful shove.

I touch my hand to the back of my neck where he had been holding me. The skin there is still too warm. And tingly.

He studies me much like I studied him, spending a moment on my hair, my lips, the hem of my A-line skirt as he adjusts his glasses like a serial killer getting ready for some fun.

Then, in that deep, silky voice, his expression the same blank mask, he murmurs, “Strip.”

My heart slams against my chest as reality crashes down on me, my hand instinctively slapping against my chest. If I still had my mother’s pearls, I’d be clutching them in a white-knuckled grip.

Sweet fuck.

I’m not leaving this place alive, am I?

But even as paralyzing terror floods my system, a traitorous heat is building low in my stomach.

It’s his presence, how it fills the tiny room, making the air between us vibrate. His commanding tone of his voice.

How his eyes darken behind those glasses as he waits for me to comply.

Knowing I will.

Expecting it.

I press my thighs together, utterly disgusted with myself for feeling anything other than outright fear or panic.

Is it normal for Stockholm syndrome to set in this fast?

Smith

People run when they’re scared, desperate to escape before the pursuer closes in.

I’d usually delegate card counters to security. But something about this woman drew my attention. Myles wants a new Angel, and I’m tired of interviewing vapid candidates who break at the first sign of pressure.

There’s more defiance than fear in her eyes.

This woman ran because she refused to let herself be caught.

Defiance is a beautiful thing, but it’s a lie. The very first lie people tell themselves when they realize they’re trapped. It flares up right before they try to bluff their way out of trouble.

But her defiance is different.

It’s louder. More stubborn.

Almostinviting.

Breaking someone is an art form. You don’t rush it. You don’t force it. You find the small, almost imperceptible fractures they keep hidden, and apply pressure until they splinter.

I see the cracks. I already know where to press.

“What are you, insane? I’m not taking my clothes off.” She shuffles to the side as I approach the desk, attempting to keep distance between us.

“You’re not the first person to call me that.” Turning my back to her, I slip out of my suit jacket, carefully folding it up before placing it on the metal desk.

“Might help if you stop telling people to strip.”

She watches me with round eyes, uneasy about what’s coming next. As if the harsh lighting, concrete walls, and poor air conditioning in this windowless room weren’t clue enough.

“If you don’t take off your clothes, I’ll do it for you.”