Page 79 of House of Cards

Different player, same game.

I should be glad it’s Smith, but I’m not.

I’m even more terrified than before.

Smith

I’ve imagined catching Zoey a hundred different ways since she first ran from my blackjack table. In my fantasies, she scratches, bites, curses my name, before finally submitting.

Reality is even better.

The blood painting her lips. The fear and defiance in her eyes.

She’s everything I hoped she would be.

A worthy adversary.

The perfect conquest.

The Colombians complicate things, of course. Their presence is an unwelcome intrusion in what could have been a private game between Zoey and me. But they’ve given me something so precious in return.

The chance to be her savior…before becoming her tormentor.

Pushing through the pain my little kitten’s knee caused, I track her through the labyrinth like a wolf after blinded prey. No night vision goggles needed—I’m familiar with every inch of this maze. Tracking her is easy, cutting her off, herding her in the direction I need her to go.

Exhausted, she forces herself to run on tottering ankles, one hand trailing against the wall, the remnants of her costume clinging to a body trembling with fear and exertion.

Gorgeous.

Terrified.

Mine.

I quicken my pace, savoring the burn of my muscles, the blood pounding in my veins. A predator in my element, doing what I was born to do.

Hunt.

Capture.

Claim.

She glances over her shoulder and throws me a panicked double-take when she sees how close I am. That moment’s inattention causes her to stumble over her own tired feet. She falls, her pained yell making my entire body come alive with need. Not just my dick, already trying to punch a hole through my pants, but my skin, my mouth, my fingertips.

“When I catch you,” I call out, my voice echoing through the Labyrinth’s corridors. “I’m going to make you crawl to me on those bloody knees.”

The only answer is the sound of her frantic footsteps running faster than before. Desperation makes people do stupid things. Like trying a doorway, hoping it’s an exit, instead of running by.

The door swings closed behind her, and I pause for a moment before following.

I enter silently, taking in the scene with a quick scan. A massive desk dominates one end of the room, and a single chair with restraints bolted to the floor in front of it. Chalkboards line the wall behind the desk, tally marks covering their dusty surfaces.

Records of punishments administered, and lessons taught.

Zoey stands in the center of the room, chest heaving, eyes wild as she searches for an escape that doesn’t exist.

She barely glances at me before darting forward. She pushes against a doorway inside the room, trying to force it to open. I’m surprised she even spotted it. It’s designed to blend seamlessly with the wall, and has no handle on this side.

It’s an entrance, not an exit.