Page 173 of House of Cards

How dare I take something so precious from her when all I give her in return is pain?

Gravel crunches under my shoes as I follow Zoey and Troy into the villa. As I step inside, I bring my fingers to my mouth, tasting the blood coating my skin.

Christ. She clawed my face open and called me a monster, and all I can think about is how magnificent she looked doing it.

Maybe I do love her.

Too fucking bad.

Love is the one luxury even my money can’t buy me.

Not if I want to keep her alive.

Zoey

My slippered feet are silent on the marble floor compared to the steady thump of Troy’s heavy military boots. I feel like a ghost, not a flesh-and-blood woman. Drained, lifeless. Just a sad shadow, powerless to stop whatever’s coming next.

The sun came up. The sun set.

Troy came around a few times to feed me. I threw the food over the balcony in some childish form of rebellion. But then I had to watch the villa staff cleaning up my mess and it made me feel like shit.

Every time Troy came around, I begged for answers.

Shrieked, actually, until my voice gave out. But I guess he’s used to dealing with hysterical captives, because he’d just give me this long-suffering stare and then remind me that, as soon as I’d calmed down, Smith would be ready to talk.

I didn’t though. Calm down. At least, not intentionally. But it turns out I can only throw seven tantrums a day before succumbing to exhaustion.

When Troy came to my room a few minutes ago with more of the same—breakfast food, because apparently Smith’s trying to bribe me with my favorite meals—and asked if I was ready to talk, I said ‘yes’ without sounding remotely sarcastic.

Troy leads me to the villa’s library, opening one half of the massive double-doors like a grumpy, silent gentleman.

I find Smith sprawled in a wingback chair, bare feet stretched toward the flames, a tumbler of whiskey dangling from his fingertips like he’s some kind of gentleman instead of the monster who let Elonzo kill my only remaining family.

Because I know Ricky’s dead by now. No way Elonzo could have had a change of heart…he’d need to have an actual heart first.

“No, please, don’t get up,” I say dryly.

Smith doesn’t even look up from his drink. Just sits there in his gray sweats, staring into the fire like I’m not even worth acknowledging. The sight of him lounging by the fire like he doesn’t have a care in the world makes me want to throw something heavy at his head.

But why bother? I’d need a silver stake blessed by a priest to kill Smith.

I step deeper into the room, my guest slippers making zero sound on a rug worth more than most people’s cars. Yet somehow he senses I’ve entered his space, because before I’m even in his peripheries, he says, “Sit down, Zoey.”

“Fuck that.” I plant my feet wider, chin lifted like I’m ready for war. “Why’d you do it?”

Smith’s eyes drag up from his whiskey to meet mine, and I see something predatory flicker there. Like he’s pleased I still have some fight left in me. “He’s dead either way.”

The words hit like a bus, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of flinching. “You cold-blooded piece of shit.”

“Careful, kitten.” He sets his tumbler down with deliberate slowness and turns to me. The shadows on his face slide away to reveal three deep scratches on his cheek, already scabbing.

I did that. Me.

The swell of pride feels wrong, and yet so fucking right.

“Don’t.” My voice comes out low and rough. Crying non stop for a few hours is terrible for the vocal chords. “Don’t you dare call me that. Not after what you’ve done.”

When Smith rises from his chair like a snake, my every instinct screams at me to back away. But I hold my ground, even when he stalks closer. Even when I can smell the whiskey on his breath, his cologne, that indeliblesomethingthat’s so unique to him.