Page 215 of House of Cards

Lub-dub.

I nestle closer, letting Smith’s incomprehensible voice drone around me as I listen to his heart.

Huh.

Guess this monster has a heart, after all.

Is it beating for me?

Smith’s lips brush the top of my head. I’m jostled up and down with every step, the villa blurring around me. Paintings, pot plants, statues, then a blue-gray sky on the cusp of dawn, barely a handful of stars still sparkling.

“Stay with me, Zoey,” he whispers. “Stay with me.”

I’m not sure if it’s a command or a plea, but as he says those words, I realize something that terrifies me more than anything ever could.

I do love him.

As incomprehensible, as ridiculous, as stupid as it is…I’ve fallen in love with this monster. And I only realized it now because a sinister voice inside me is whispering something I don’t want to hear.

…close your eyes, go to sleep…

…will all be over soon…

…going away now, away forever…

I don’t want to leave him, but?—

Warm wetness spreads down my arm and chest, almost immediately cooling as it soaks through my hoodie. There’s a sharp, throbbing ache below my collarbone, like someone’s twisting a knife deeper and deeper and deeper.

—I might not have a choice.

Zoey

ONE WEEK LATER

Either I’m dead, or I’m having the world’s most fucked-up fever dream. If this is what dying feels like, I’m not even mad about it. Last thing I remember, I was bleeding out in Smith’s arms. Now I’m starring in a luxury hotel commercial while in a delightful, drug-induced haze.

What else could explain this soft bed, these silky sheets, the sunlight that casts everything in a warm, golden glow?

Everything, including the man beside my bed, currently reading a book. A man who looks like Smith, but couldn’t possibly be the same person.

The Smith I know paces like a caged animal, barks order, and plans other people’s demise while he’s having his morning cup of coffee.

This doppelgänger is just reading a book like a normal person.

He’s not even dressed like Smith. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, his dark hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. No blood. No weapons.

He looks almost...peaceful.

As much as I’d love to stay in La-La Land forever, I’d rather know what the hell is really happening to me. I try to move and immediately regret it. Pain shoots through my shoulder, sharp and insistent. Now my arm feels like it’s on fire.

Smith’s head snaps up at my pained gasp, his book now forgotten on his lap as he leans forward.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re awake.”

His voice is different. Gentle. Concerned. Like he actually gives a shit whether I live or die.

“Am I dreaming, or did you give me the good shit?” I mumble, my tongue thick and clumsy. Everything looks and feels fuzzy around the edges.

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