Page 28 of House of Cards

“Where’d you run off to?” Richmond demands.

I rip off my glasses, rubbing the base of my thumb against my forehead. “I’m at the Luck.”

“Thought we were having a drink.”

“I’m busy.”

“This about that girl of yours?”

“She’s not my—” I cut off with a growl, take one glance at my hotel room door, and stalking toward the elevator. “Christ.”

Richmond laughs. “Fuck, you really are riled up. Thought Myles was kidding when he said?—”

I don’t know what Myles said, because I end the call with a stab of my thumb, ramming my glasses back on my nose as I pivot inside the elevator.

I’m eager to go back inside my room and continue what I started, but Richmond’s call—as annoying as it was—snapped me back to reality.

The last thing I need right now is a distraction.

Now that we have a new Angel—trained or not—I need to line up one of our more trusted clients for her first session. Some of our clients are better at sticking to the rules than others.

My cock gives a sullen ache inside my pants.

Christ, what’s wrong with me?

If I need a quick fuck, there’s a handful of women in The Den to pick from, all desperate to let me do anything I want to them.

But none of them have ever made me this hard.

This angry.

This...obsessed.

I’ve trained dozens of Angels for The Den. Broken them, then reshaped them into exactly what our clients desire.

It’s different with Zoey.

I don’t want to break her for someone else. I want all that hatred, that fear, that reluctant pleasure for myself.

Which is exactly why I should stay the fuck away from her.

Zoey

Waking up in a luxurious hotel suite isn’t as much fun when you’re being held against your will. I spend a minute or two writhing against the silky sheets as my mind emerges from the fog of sleep like a ferry on a cold winter morning. But when I remember where I am and, more important, whoputme here, I’m wide awake and scowling.

I have a brief out-of-body experience, watching my idiotic self as I race to the door and rattle on the door handle. It didn’t open last night, but, somehow I think it will open this morning.

It doesn’t.

Then I run to the hotel phone and lift it off the receiver. No dial tone, just like last night.

I hurry over to my purse Troy left on the creamy velvet armchair placed just-so against the window and rummage through it, expecting to find my phone even though I’ve already been through this and I know it’s not inside anymore.

It’s probably in the same place my money is.

And then, because I guess I’ve gone crazy, I run onto the balcony wearing just Smith’s t-shirt. The wind whips my hair into my face as I stare over the railing with serious intent, likeI’ve been transported to a hotel suite that’s one story from the ground and not a bone-breaking three.

Thankfully, the frosty morning air forces my mind into lucidity.

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