Page 223 of House of Cards

I’ve seen Smith every day since I woke up from surgery, but he only stays for a short while before leaving. Usually around the time I tell him I’m still waiting for him to ‘show me.’

Since I’ve been repeating those words nonstop in my mind, they’ve lost all meaning. It’s only now that I’m outside this door that apprehension is kicking in again. The eerie calm before the storm.

Smith came to see me earlier than usual. Right after the doctor told me I was off bed rest, in fact.

Coincidence? I think not.

He asked how I was feeling. I told him I was ready to start skydiving again, and he just gave me this look like he was mentally fitting me for a parachute.

Then told me to meet him one room down before dinner, and left.

To say it’s been a long fucking day is the understatement of the fucking century.

“The fuck am I doing?” I scoff quietly to myself as I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t know what’s waiting behind this door. A PowerPoint presentation of his life in the mob? Archive footage of all the murders he’s committed? Maybe I’m meeting his mother.

I’m hoping it’s sex, of course, but that seems unlikely. Smith has never been shy, or mysterious, about sex.

I flinch when the door opens and Smith steps out.

He’s wearing gray sweats and a black long-sleeved shirt, sleeves pushed up to mid-arm, hair lightly tousled like something’s been on his mind. Light glints off his glasses as he rakes his eyes over me, taking in my sleek hair and nondescript clothes.

His face set in a hard, solemn mask, but even that can’t hide the tension in his jaw. Not a single muscle in his face changes during his inspection, so I don’t know if I passed or failed that arbitrary test.

“You can end this now,” he says. “Turn around, go back to my room, and I’ll arrange transport for you in the morning. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“I hear Cancun is nice this time of year,” I say unsteadily.

“Last chance, Zoey.”

I shake my head, squaring my shoulders and staring up at him with a clenched jaw.

“Then I need to know you’ll consent to whatever is about to happen.”

“…before I even know what’s going to happen?” I tilt my head at him, scrunching up my face. “Big ask.”

Smith glances away, rolling his lips together, then looks back at me. There’s an uneasiness in his eyes that I don’t like the look of at all, even less how unsteady his voice is when he says, “Fine. You can use a safe word.”

“As in, I say it and you have you stop, no matter what?” I mean, I’ve seen movies. I know what a safe word is. But I have to make sure Smith’s on the same page as me. In the same book. In the same goddamn library.

“No matter what.”

I shrug one shoulder, glancing away. “Beetlejuice.”

“Beetle—?” Smith cuts off, visibly taking a big breath. “Fine.”

He dips his head, holding out an arm to wordlessly usher me inside.

I obey just as silently, my heart practically beating out of my chest. Did he just…

I swear my head’s spinning. I’ve never seen Smith so unbalanced before. Does the fact that he’s giving me some sliver of control really mess him up so badly?

The second I spot what’s beyond the threshold, all thought dissolves and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Oh, God.

It’s worse than anything I could’ve imagined.

I mean, the room itself is fine. Looks almost exactly the same as Smith’s suite down the hall, but different prints on the wall. Furniture rearranged a bit. Ambient lighting.