Page 69 of House of Cards

I’d convinced myself I could do my work while monitoring the drugged-up woman currently wrapped in my cashmere throw. I’d completed and submitted the compliance review with time to spare, and even manually approved a handful of new Den clients, just to prove to Myles that I’m still interested in doing my fucking job.

But I haven’t attended another shift at the casino. Have ignored several emails that required me to leave this room to attend to some or other issue. Turned my phone off hours ago.

It’s been three days since I carried Zoey out of my room.

Three days of watching her through these fucking screens like some voyeuristic coward. The only time I’ve left was to swap out her IV bag, feel her pulse, and then force myself to leave before I…

Fuck knows, but I made sure not to find out.

I drop my hand to my pants, finger the paper folded into the size of a credit card in my pocket.

Zoey’s medicals came back this morning. O negative, universal donor. Selenium levels a little low, but no one’s perfect. Everything else within range.

My hand drifts up to where she forked me. There are barely any marks left in my skin, but if I concentrate, I swear I can still feel them aching.

The door opens behind me, spilling harsh fluorescent light across the bank of monitors. I don’t turn around. Despite being zoned in on Zoey’s monitor, I’m still halfheartedly tracking the other feeds.

No nasty surprises.

“Turned your phone off.” Troy’s voice has just the slightest hint of concern.

He sets a mug of coffee down beside my hand. Black. No sugar. The scent hits me, rich and bitter, momentarily cutting through the fog of sleep deprivation.

“Then how’d you find me?” I sound like I’ve been gargling gravel.

“Caught Nick chain smoking behind the bar. Says you’re gonna can him.”

“Christ.” I should investigate Nick’s paranoia. Must be a reason he’s so convinced his gig is up.

Speaking of…

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

Troy doesn’t specify PM. Doesn’t need to. The hollow feeling in my stomach and the stubble on my jaw are confirmation enough. I take a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving the monitor where Zoey shifts in her sleep, tugging the cashmere throw around her shoulders.

I relive the jolt I felt when she turned to look up at the camera, like she could sense me watching her, bearing silent witness to her misery.

Twisted fuck I am, I relished every sliver of pleasure I felt at seeing her tortured face.

“You look like shit, Smith.”

I shoot him a level stare. “That your expert opinion?”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

I open my mouth, but he cuts in with a low, “In a bed, not that chair.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Troy leans against the edge of the console, deliberately blocking my view of Zoey’s monitor. “What’s the plan here, Smith? How long do you plan on watching her through this camera instead of dealing with her?”

“I’m handling it.”

“This isn’t handling it. This is obsessing over it.”

“I’m notobsessing.” I make a point of not trying to peer past Troy’s bulk, staring up at him instead.