Page 39 of House of Cards

More than she’ll ever know. “Do you?”

“Positively fucking radiant.”

I adjust my glasses, catching her eyes in the mirror as I raise my hand. “Positively fucking radiant,what?”

Her eyes flicker nervously from my reflection’s eyes to my hand as she tries to figure out the magic spell that’ll make me stop spanking her. She gets there quickly, but I swear I can see her defiance take control.

“Positively fucking radiant, you sick fuck.”

That earns her another round of spanks I don’t bother telling her to count. I only stop when she splutters out a desperate, “Okay, sorry!”

I release her, step back. Watch as she scrapes herself together. She’s shaking, tears clinging to her lashes. Her half-choked whimpers caught between fury and shock.

Then there’s that flicker of panicked confusion she doesn’t seem to know what to do with, but she drowns it almost instantly with a scowl.

“Want to try that again?”

Her voice is strained. “Positively fucking radiant…my lord?”

Unusual, but I quite like the sound of it.

“I’ll allow it.”

My eyes slide down to her ass, taking in the red splotches on her creamy skin. Icouldhave kept going… but I need her to trust me. At least, for now.

Once I hand her over to one of my clients, there’s no such thing as trust or boundaries. She’ll be fending for herself. And I’m the only person she’ll be able to turn to for consolation.

There’s a sudden tightness in my chest. The thought of someone else touching makes me want to break something. Preferably them.

I force the thought out as fast as it came in.

She’d just an asset.

One I’m excited to see blossom.

When the Balmont Boys first started handing out girls for hire, it was all about the numbers.

I’ve refined the process since those early days, when broken girls were discarded like used merchandise. Created systems and protocols that keep emotions safely removed from the business side of things. Rules our clients must obey.

It all takes effort. Strict discipline. And time—mostly mine.

Which is why I’m still so pissed that the Bogota cartel hijacked our SUV en-route to a private party last month. The driver and security staff were executed roadside, but the Angels in transit that night vanished without a trace.

It’s just one in a series of similar attacks. They’ve been after our Angels for years now.

Zoey doesn’t glare at me as she straightens her robe, but there’s a sulkiness around her eyes as she rubs her backside through the fabric. I slip into a white dress shirt, attach my suspenders, and slip on my charcoal gray suit jacket.

When I turn and head for the door, I swear I hear her mutter, “Sicko,” under her breath. I beckon her over, and she studies me warily for a second before complying.

“Have you already forgotten your first lesson?”

“No, m’lord.” She freezes when I tuck a chunk of damp hair behind her ear, and flinches when I pat her face.

“There’s my good girl.”

Zoey

The more I try to calm myself down, the angrier I get.