Page 42 of House of Cards

“What?”

He remains silent until I add a grumpy, “M’lord?”

“Don’t think you’ll be able to slip away without me noticing. I have eyes all over this place.”

I snort. “Never even crossed my mind.”

Smith reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand pausing for a moment before he skates the back of his knuckles down the side of my neck.

The dark look in his equally dark eyes sends panicked goosebumps chasing over my skin.

Andheat crawling up my thighs.

“That’s my good girl.”

Those four simple words hit me like bullets. Warmth bleeds into my chest and spreads up my neck until my cheeks are suddenly as hot as the handprints he left on my ass.

What the fuck is this? My body feels tight, hot, too fragile. Like if I lost control for even a second, I’d start crying. Or worse, crawl into his lap like some pathetic bitch in heat.

My brain recognizes this for the blatant manipulation that it is, but my body falls for it anyway.

Smith scans my eyes, my lips, my throat. As if he’s figuring out where to cut first.

The emotions warring on my face only seem to make him more interested. So I clench my jaw and look away, depriving the sadistic fuck of his quick dopamine rush.

He can threaten me as much as he wants, I don’t give a fuck anymore.

Ricky’s gone, and the only thing that still held any meaning in my life has been burned to the ground. My mind goes back to the grainy photograph from the newspaper article. The blackened walls, that lurid neon graffiti viscerally fresh and new against the devastation.

I turn to look out the blackened window, but all I can see is the misery in my own eyes.

Smith has already taken my freedom. My dignity.

All that’s left is my life.

Knowing him as well as I do, he’ll take that too. Maybe not with a bullet or a knife, but slowly—bit by bit.

Until all that’s left is a shitty, broken toy he’ll toss in the trash.

Smith

Zoey is silent as I herd her through The Den’s staff hallway. She isn’t gawking at the endless stretch of gray walls, or the cameras in every corner, as if none of it registers. This is the longest time she hasn’t shot off her mouth, and it’s making me wish she’d just fucking say something.

The sharp little barbs she threw my way in the car dig under my skin like splinters I can’t pluck. Angels come two flavors—the fearful ones who go docile and submit, and the terrified ones who claw back just to feel alive.

Zoey’s neither.

She submits just enough to trick you into thinking she’s harmless and compliant. But the moment you get close, she draws blood. Like a cornered animal.

Her shoulders are slumped, her head slightly bowed. Whatever she’s mulling over has her in a glum mood. I suppose I can’t expect her to be a ray of fucking sunshine. Her life is falling apart. But there’s a wrongness to her quiet. It feels like a trap. Like she’s trying to crawl under my skin, to make me scratch until I bleed.

Until I makeherbleed.

Christ, I can’t wait to make her bleed.

But not like this, when she’s sullen and mute. I want her thrashing, spitting vitriol until her mouth’s too full of my tongue, my fingers, my cum.

Where’s the wild thing I chased through the slot machines? The one who slapped me before she even knew my name?