Page 216 of House of Cards

“You’re sedated.”

“Tripping balls, you mean. How else do you explain this?” I try to point at him, but my arm doesn’t feel like cooperating. “You being allnormal.”

A shadow crosses his face. “Zoey?—”

“Where am I?” The room tilts slightly as I try to focus.

“You’re safe.”

I scoff, instantly regretting it as a stab of pain goes through my chest. “Last time you told me that,” I croak, “I nearly died.”

Smith flinches, looks away. Serves him right, lying to me about how safe I was.

I blink hard, trying to clear the fog from my brain. The room comes into sharper focus, and my heart sinks. Dark gray carpets. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Obscenely expensive furniture.

“We’re at the Devil’s Luck?” I mutter.

My hearing keeps dipping, so I look down at Smith’s mouth as he speaks. His split lip is puffy but healing. He speaks carefully, like it still hurts.

“The villa was compromised.”

Memories crash down like a collapsing ceiling.

The villa. Elonzo. The gun pointed at my head. The knife in my hand. Blood everywhere.

“Elonzo.” I try to sit up, panic clawing at my throat. “Is he?—?”

“He’s dead.” Smith’s hands hover near my shoulders, ready to steady me if I fall.

“You’re sure?”

“If he wasn’t before we buried him, he is now.”

It should make me sick hearing him speak like that, but all I feel is intense relief. Then utter sadness as I remember why I’m here.

Relief, pain, exhaustion, loss and grief—it all pours out of me in violent, heaving sobs I’m powerless to stop.

“Zoey, hey!” Smith steps closer as my shoulders begin to shake.

Everything hurts, but I can’t tell what’s physical, and what’s emotional pain. Smith’s arms slide gently around my shoulders, pressing me against his warm body. “Shh.”

“Ri-Ri-Ri—” is all I can push through the sobs.

Smith leans back to study my face, his lips thinning. “Ricky?”

I nod, face crumpling through another sob.

“Zoey, he’s okay. Ricky’s alive.”

I’m so shocked, I stop sobbing. But only for one second, long enough to wail out, “Really?” before I burst into tears again.

“Yeah, kitten, yeah,” Smith murmurs against my hair as he drags me against him again. Harder this time, but I don’t mind. It hurts, but his forceful grip makes me feel like I’m back on solid ground again, not bobbing around like a Goodyear blimp.

“He’s down the hall,” Smith says. “Been here every day, waiting for you to wake up. Want me to get him for you?”

“Yes!” I gasp in a brief lull between sobs.

Smith pulls back to study my face again, then nods. “I’ll get him.”

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