Page 17 of House of Cards

TROY

Zoey Dennen.

First timer.

Money’s legit. Luck isn’t.

Checking known affiliations.

I slip my phone back into my pocket.

So I was right about one thing, wrong about everything else.

Christ, I hate being wrong.

I tilt my head to the side and step closer. “You obviously don’t understand how much trouble you’re in, kitten.”

Her matte red lips twitch at ‘kitten’ but she bundles up her dress and tosses it at me without another word.

I snatch the green satin out of the air and lift it to my nose to catch her scent. There’s a flicker of confusion in her eyes as she watches, then she smooths out her expression and walks stiffly over to the chair.

She winces when her ass touches the cool metal and shifts forward until she’s perching on the edge. Sitting so primly, she looks like a lingerie model wondering what wrong turn she took to wind up at this dodgy photo shoot.

“Name.”

Zoey glares at me, silently seething, but her expression slips when I walk up to her chair. She hurriedly leans back, watching warily as I unclip my suspenders and fold them into an inch-thick strap.

“Name.”

The interrogation room’s chill air raises goosebumps on her exposed skin. Air that smells of industrial cleaner and fear. The harsh fluorescent light catches the gold flecks in her hazel eyes when she glares at me.

Her red lips tighten like she’s holding back a curse.

I slap the side of her thigh with my improvised strap, adjusting my glasses when the shock of the blow moves them slightly down my nose.

“Jesus!” she yelps as she shifts her legs away from the lick of pain, those hazel eyes rounder than ever. She recovers quickly, sending another glare my way as I walk a slow circle around her chair.

I crack my strap against my gloved palm. “This game is a lot simpler than blackjack, kitten. I ask, you answer…or I punish you.”

Her jaw bunches as she rubs furiously at the mark I left on her thigh, but she remains silent.

“What. Is. Your. Name?”

When she doesn’t answer, I raise my arm for another blow, aiming for her other thigh.

“Zoey.” Her voice shakes, but she swallows down her nervousness, tilting her chin up just enough to show she’s not cowed.

“Who sent you?”

“What?”

“A high roller in a budget prom dress? You were so easy to spot, I almost feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“ She gasps when I lash the side of her arm, catching a good portion of her breast in the blow. She flinches away again, wrapping her arms over her chest.

“No one sent me!”

“I hate liars.”

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