Page 198 of House of Cards

I turn away, making deliberate eye contact with our security team where they’re lined up against the wall. Some are too injured to realize I’m planning an attack, but three of our men give me silent confirmation that they’re on board with whatever happens next.

Tear Drop is first. He’s following Zoey’s progress across the room, rifle still dangling forgotten at his side. Still the easiest victim.

Elonzo stops at the doorway, scanning back as if to check if there’s someone else he wants to invite to the party.

The moment his eyes land on me, I realize this has all just been fucking theatrics.

Elonzo played me from the start.

“Front-row seat,gringo.” Elonzo beckons me, his already depraved smile becoming lecherous. “You’re a numbers man. Let’s see if you can count how many dicks your girl can take before she splits open.”

Zoey

Weird, but, I’m not even angry anymore.

Of course I felt pure fury hot enough caramelize crème brûlée when Smith offered me up like a fucking party favor to a cartel gangbanger, but now that rage has simmered into something closer to dark annoyance.

Less, ‘Eat shit and die, motherfucker,’ and more, ‘Oh, so we’re doing this now? Cool, cool, cool.’

Luis’s fingers dig into my arm as he drags me up the stairs. Because of course he’s the one that grabbed me.

“Keep moving,” he hisses when I stumble.

I want to tell him that technically falling up the stairs is still moving, albeit slower and clumsier, but my brain’s too busy playingTraitor Smith, The Greatest Hits.

I’m jamming out to classics like,

…Fights like a virgin…

…Trained and ready…

And my all-time favorite, multi-platinum single,

…Her screams only make me harder…

God, I’m an idiot.

Only an Olympic gold-medal-winning moron could think someone like Smith might actually give a shit about me. Could evenconsiderthe possibility ofmaybefalling in love with him.

I bet the Universe is laughing its cosmic ass off right now.

“Been waiting for this.” Luis’s free hand grabs my ass.

I jerk away instinctively and stumble onto the landing.

“Calienta huevos?1,” he growls as he wrenches me to my feet. His fist slams into my stomach, driving out all the air.

Fuck, that hurts.

I could have fended him off, but with my hands ties behind my back I’m useless. I swear I saw something on social media where you can kind of tuck your wrists under your butt and get your hands in front of you that way. Maybe I should fake another stumble and try it.

Soon as I’ve got my breath back.

Soon as my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s digesting a bag of rusty nails anymore.

I glance back to get my bearings, trying to figure out if my flimsy plan has even a one percent chance of working.

Five armed men versus one zip-tied woman. If this were Vegas, I wouldn’t bet on me. Then again, I’ve survived worse odds.

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