Page 156 of House of Cards

I glide my knuckles down the side of her face, thumb brushing the bruise along her jaw.

“You’ll spend the rest of your life chasing tonight’s high. Searching for someone who’ll give you what only I can.”

I drop my head, lips by her ear. She shivers under me, breath catching in her throat.

“When you finally admit how much you need this, how much you needme…you know where to find me.”

Zoey

I never thought I’d be grateful for a psychopath’s obsessive tendencies, yet here I am, sitting in Smith’s Bentley at 11:27 PM, clean and dressed in beige sweats. I have thirty minutes to get to the diner, or God knows what Elonzo will do to my brother.

He’ll definitely kill him, of course. But I’m sure there’ll be torture involved, too.

Giving Smith a quick side glance, I gently brush my thumb against the outside pocket of my sweats.

Troy took the bag of chips from me when he brought me back to Smith’s hotel room, but he didn’t know about the chips I’d shoved in my pocket. After Smith made me—literally,mademe—take a shower so I wouldn’t ‘raise eyebrows’ on my way home, I transferred the chips to my sweatpants when he wasn’t looking.

The world outside the tinted windows blurs as Smith takes a corner. He’s driving at the speed limit, but it feels like he’s gunning it. I grab the door handle, my knuckles whitening as I try to ground myself in something solid while my mind spins with everything that’s happened.

His belt around my neck.

His brutal invasion of my body.

His tongue licking blood off my face, like a starving beast.

And worst of all? How I came so hard I nearly passed out. Several times.

“Let me out at that bus stop up ahead,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady despite the hurricane of emotions tearing through me.

Smith’s jaw tightens as he takes another corner. “That wasn’t the agreement.”

“Agreement?” I scoff. “You practically threw me in the car and told me you’re taking me home.”

“Didn’t hear you argue.”

“Well, I’m arguing now.” I cross my hands over my chest. “Stop the car.”

He says nothing, but his bandaged hands flex on the steering wheel. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it. He looks like a street fighter, one hand bandaged around the knuckles, the other around the palm.

Annoyed by his silence, I snap, “Like hell I’m telling you where I live. For all I know, you’ll show up one night and break down my door.”

“You’d like it if I did,” he says. His deadpan delivery makes that certain truth hit so much harder.

My cheeks go warm. “Pull over.”

“I know where you live, Zoey.”

There’s a sudden chill in the air that seeps into my flesh like I’m sitting here naked on these custom leather seats. “No you don’t.”

He’s bluffing. He’s got to be.

Smith draws a long, audible breath through his nose. “The apartment above the diner.” He pauses, giving me a quick, interrogatory side-eye. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

My stomach drops.

Shit.

I stare through the windshield, stunned into silence.

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