Page 99 of House of Cards

Must be all those orgasms.

I strip off my pants, dabbing at the underwear, but so much blood came out when I coughed it soaked through to my sweats as well.

Great. Had to get Smith riled up right moments before I needed his help, didn’t I?

I wad up some toilet paper and shove it between my legs, hobbling over to the door. I take a second to gather myself, forehead pressed to the cool wood, before I call out, “Smith?”

“I’m here.”

“Jesus!” I sway away from the door, heart pounding at the jump scare he gave me.

He’s right outside the door.

I glance at the lock, then at the door handle. But thank God, he doesn’t come in. I mean, I could lock it…but I doubt that would end well, and who knows what he’d do once he’d busted his way through.

“I, uh…”

“Is everything okay?” His voice is deep and low as ever, but there’s this touch of urgency to it that makes me shiver.

“Yes, m’lord,” I reply dryly. “It’s just a little blood. Happens every month.”

Silence.

“So, uh, I kind of need?—”

“I’ll ask room service to bring up some tampons. Or do you prefer napkins?”

Now I’m the silent one. I suppose running a harem of sex slaves, you’ve gotta know about cycles and stuff, but this is just…fucking weird.

“Tampons are fine. And clean clothes. Please.”

That last makes me feel like fucking Oliver Twist begging for some more, but I swallow down my pride and somehow manage not to add something snarky to my oh-so-humble request.

Feels like dying a little, but I do it.

“Anything else?”

“Nope.” I pop that P a little too hard.

Does this mean I get an even longer reprieve from the whoring? I mean, can’t have clients trying to bang me on my period, right? I should be relieved, but there’s just tightness in my chest and an angry flush on my face.

It’s the waiting I can’t stand.

If Elonzo can reach me behind the secure, vaulted doors of the Devil’s Den, what’s to say he can’t send an assassin into Smith’s room to finish the job? I’m a sitting duck.

While I’m waiting for my change of clothes, I wash out my underwear in the sink, but even Smith’s expensive-as-fuck soap leaves a rusty-colored outline behind on the pale fabric.

I toss it over the towel rail to dry and bundle the sweats into the laundry hamper. Then I keep myself occupied by going through his cabinets, making a mental list of anything that might prove useful in future escape attempts.

Reinforcements arrive a few minutes later.

There’s a light tap on the door. “May I come in?”

“You may most certainly not,” I snap, snatching a fluffy bathrobe from its hook on the wall as I hurry over to the door. I open it just wide enough to stick my arm through, and Smith pushes it open the rest of the way, nearly bowling me over.

“Hey!”

He holds out a box of tampons, giving me a quick once over as if he’s making sure I’m not, in fact, bleeding out. I tighten my hand in the soft fabric, in case he tries to rip it off.

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