Page 114 of House of Cards

I’m straining not to press that stop button again. To pin her against the wall again, hike up that excuse of an outfit, and find out just how pretty she sounds when I claim her greedy little cunt.

I should’ve kissed her instead of slamming my fist into the wall like a goddamn teenager. But kissing her would mean losing the last of my tenuous grip on the control I so sorely need to keep myself reined in.

Control I’ve now losttwice.

I hold out my hand, opening and closing my aching fist. Christ, ithurts.

…it really fucking hurts, Smith…

I take my glasses off and rub my eyes. In the darkness, Zoey’s hitching breaths seem louder.

The elevator door opens.

She bolts into the basement parking like a rabbit that pulled its paw free of a trap. And thank God, for my sakeand hers,I don’t chase her this time.

Sheshouldrun. She’s safer outside my reach.

How much easier this would be if I could let her slip away. Just watch her run, disappear, and never come back.

But that will never happen.

She sold her soul to the Devil the day she walked into my casino.

Looks like we’ll both be paying for her bad decision.

And mine.

Zoey

“Zoey.”

It goes against every atom of self preservation I still have left, but when Smith calmly calls out my name, I somehow make myself stop. Not like I’d have been able to escape this basement parking, anyway. There’s a massive steel roller door up ahead, and no other exits.

We could have played hide and seek for a while between the cars parked down here, but he’d have found me. Possibly because I’d have let him.

Meek as fuck, I force myself to walk back to where Smith’s waiting beside the Rolls Royce. I just poked a hive of wasps with a stick. I’m sure as hell not going to swing a bat around, too.

“In.”

Like I need a fucking invitation. There’s a driver behind that privacy glass somewhere. It’s a futile hope to cling on to, but I have to believe Smith won’t throttle me to death when there’s an eyewitness a few feet away.

Just to be safe, I avoid eye contact with Smith when he opens the door for me.

I even utter a tiny, “Thank you, m’lord,” as I take my seat.

And I keep my eyes down the entire way to the casino.

I’m all too aware of the way he flexes and clenches the hand he punched into the elevator’s wall. Like it’s hurting now, and he regrets it.

Don’t we both?

Note to self. Never,ever, mention kissing around Smith again.

Talk about a fucking trigger.

After that flare up, our usual silence is almost comforting. We take the elevator up to his room, and he tosses a beige knee-length dress on the bed without a word. Then he goes into the bathroom, closing the door so hard behind him I jump.

He didn’t take out underwear for me, an explicit command that I shouldn’t wear any. How he knows that my period’s stopped is anyone’s guess but mine. I don’t think about things that could give me nightmares.

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