Page 97 of House of Cards

Suppose there are worse ways to spend my days in captivity. I thought I’d be living with Anita and the others, fucking strangers twenty-four-seven to repay my debt.

Smith doesn’t seem very fond of that idea. Me fucking strangers, or me being further than ten feet away from him.

Ever since that day in the maze, I’ve hardly left his side.

Trying to figure out which conspiracy theory to go with is driving me insane. Did he know those men were Elonzo’s henchmen or not? Or did they go further than he’d agreed with them?

I’m sure the Devil’s Den is the kind of place that runs checks on the people it lets inside.

So how did those two get inside without raising any red flags? Maybe someone messed up, and that’s why he’s so overprotective now.

Or, maybe…he just likes me.

I’m not gonna lie. I kinda like him, even when I’m busy hating him.

This must be what they call Stockholm Syndrome.

I mean, Smith is a lot of things, but he’s not hard on the eyes. And while he’s doing his utmost best to ignore my presence while simultaneously making sure he’s always got me in his peripheral vision, on rare occasions he gets stuck in his work and seems to forget I’m even there.

There’s this thing he does when he’s deep in thought, pinching and rolling his bottom lip with his fingers, that makes me want to sit on his face.

Then I remember how he called me a whore and choked me so hard I blacked out, and I get over itrealquick.

There’s a two-seater dining table near the balcony, with a view of the city if the curtains are drawn. When I nag him enough, he’ll order room service for us. Sometimes eventwicea day, if he’s feeling generous. I’ve learned to eat like a bear, stuffing my face until I want to puke, and then hibernating until my next feeding to conserve energy.

Must have lost half my body weight since the fateful day I walked into this fucking casino of his.

Luckily for me, Smith didn’t like that I was walking around in a silk robe the whole time, so he ordered me clothes. I assume the fabric was so expensive that they couldn’t order dye because everything is beige.

Not sure why he bothered when a potato sack might have served him better, but damn, the fabric is so silky soft I might never wear another pair of sweatpants in my life.

Would have to tie dye them, though.

My leg is up, foot on the chair near my ass as I side eye the mountain of vegetables still left in one of the serving dishes.

I’ve been craving something sweet for days now. Even had a dream about inventing a chocolate apple pie recipe that was sogood, I got a crown and a mansion in the middle of nowhere. God, I’d kill for one of those rainbow sprinkle protein shakes, just for the artificial sugar.

I spear a baby carrot, which is the closest it seems I’ll ever get to tasting sugar again, and nibble on it as I try to study Smith without him noticing.

He’s on his phone, endlessly scrolling. Not doom scrolling like a normal person, but reading some incredibly long article that has his finger flicking over the screen every second.

That finger could be put to so much better use?—

No! Bad girl!

Smith glances up when he hears the faint crunch of the carrot. He locks his phone without taking his eyes off me, sits back in his chair, and adjusts his glasses.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I say with a shrug. “Just wish I had my phone, too. Must be hundreds of dick pics waiting for me on Tindr by now.”

Smith folds his arms over his chest, making his toned biceps strain against his white dress shirt. He loves rolling up his sleeves when we come back from a shift at the casino. Him with his smoldering lawyer-core aesthetic, me…bringing beige back in a knee length pencil skirt, kitten heels, and a blouse my dead grandmother wouldn’t hesitate to wear to church.

“You have a Tindr account?” His jaw tightens just a fraction, but his voice could have kept a bottle of wine chilled all night.

My smile is sweet as chocolate-apple-pie. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Smith.”

“Professional curiosity.” He takes a sip from his bottle of mineral water, eyes never leaving mine, even when he has to tip his head back.

“You’re seriously asking for my body count when you have a fucking harem of call girls at your disposal?” I toss the rest of the carrot into my mouth, giving it a few angry chews beforeswallowing most of it down. “I’m curious. Howdoesthat work? Can you just zip over there and fuck one of them whenever you’re feeling horny, or do you have to sign them out on a—“ I wave my hand, grabbing another carrot on the way “—dunno, on a register of some kind? You being so techy, you probably have an app.”

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