Page 115 of House of Cards

I tug on the dress, zip it up as far as I can in the back, and go to wait on the balcony.

My eyes drift down before darting up again.

No matter how desperate I am, jumping isnotan option.

I take big hits of the clean, crisp night air, trying to steady my nerves. The dress means he has a shift at the casino. And since I’m apparently three years old and can’t be left alone, I have to accompany him.

Honestly, I enjoy our outings a hell of a lot more than ordering room service and watching mindless television.

Returning inside, I stare at myself in the dressing table mirror as I fuss with my hair. Smith exits the bathroom a moment later, a cloud of cologne and shaving cream escaping with him. He walks straight up to me and zips up the back of my dress with a violent tug.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, that casual glance instantly becoming a staring match. A game I would have won had he not grabbed a fistful of my hair and wrenched my head back.

“Cheater,” I mumble.

“It’s not cheating if you make the rules.”

“And what happens when this made-up game of yours ends, huh?” I stare up at him, but he keeps his gaze on my reflection. “Is there even a chance I’ll win, or do you just toss all the pieces in the trash when you’re done?”

His expression freezes, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Everyone loses in this game, Zoey.”

“Even if they cheat?”

He wraps his other hand around my throat, but for once, he doesn’t squeeze. He just glides his thumb along my lower jaw, eyes unfocused, like he’s visiting some distant memory. An unpleasant one, from the way his lips thin.

“Especially if they cheat.”

Sometimes Troy joins us at the casino, and then he and Smith will have their little private conversations that I can never eavesdrop on because the casino’s too loud. But most of the time it’s just him and me, winding through the two levels of the casino. Usually, all the lights and sounds and people milling about kinda make me happy, even with stony faced Smith at my side.

But tonight, the merry jingles and jangles start grating against my shot nerves the moment we enter the casino floor.

The lights are too bright.

The people are all too…frantic.

I’m getting bad vibes that can’t be blamed on my period anymore.

Must be the stress.

Smith walks ahead, not bothering to glance back and make sure I’m following. He doesn’t need to—there are hundreds of cameras monitoring every inch of this place. Even if I make it to the door, that’s probably the farthest I’ll get.

So I follow Smith’s tall frame through the casino he owns and manages, and I try to pretend I’m here by choice, just like I did in the Rolls Royce the first time Smith drove me to the Devil’s Den.

It helps that Smith oozes authority from every pore. When the staff spot him, they stand a little straighter, smile a little brighter, and move more precisely than before.

And the guests? Women seem to smell him coming, turning in anticipation and openly eyeing him as he walks past. Men either watch him with respect gleaming in their eyes, or envy twisting their mouths.

Bet none of them have seen him dent a fucking elevator wall with his fist.

We climb the stairs to the mezzanine level where the card tables are—me trying to stare at his ass through the slit in the back of his dark suit jacket, him scanning the lower level like a general surveying a battlefield.

I can’t believe I egged him on like that.

What thehellwas I thinking?

I put him in such a dour, doom-and-gloom mood that it’s making what would have been a pseudo-fun outing feel like the walk to my own hanging.

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