Page 29 of House of Cards

I’m still trapped. Still one hundred percent unclear what this guy plans on doing to me.

…You belong to me now…

Well, shit. He made himself pretty fucking clear.

Smith believes I robbed him, so I have to repay him in sexual favors. I should be horrified, but compared to going back home and possibly being set on fire, sexual servitude doesn’t sound all that bad.

Especially after he made it clear that the alternative was dismemberment and a dentist’s appointment I’ll never forget.

Another gust of icy wind chases me back inside. I push the sliding doors closed and rest my head on the cool glass for a moment, trying to herd my scattered thoughts together.

Despite sleeping like the dead, I don’t feel refreshed.

I shove myself away from the glass doors, glaring at the outside world like it’s done me a personal injustice.

Fuck this.

I’m no one’s plaything.

I have to figure a way out of this mess.

A phone on the other side of the room rings, scaring me half to death. I scowl at it as I stride over, snatching it off the cradle.

“This is kidnapping!” I snap into the mouthpiece. “You can’t keep me here against?—”

“Hello?”

My mouth is still open. I close it with a click of teeth. It’s not Smith on the other end of the line. I don’t think he couldeversound that uncertain. He’s a walking, talking wall of lethal confidence and sex appeal.

Damn it. I’m thinking about his dick again.

I clear my throat. “Yes?” I ask grimly.

“This is the hotel? Uh, the kitchen?” the man on the other end hedges. “I-I’m calling to find out how you’d like your eggs?”

“Eggs?Eggs?” I’m yelling again. Can’t seem to stop. “I’ll tell you how I like my eggs, buddy. In myownapartment, where I’m free to come and go as I please!”

I go to slam the phone, but my body fights me. Slowly, I put the receiver back to my ear.

On second thought…If I’m going to survive this, I’ll need to keep my strength up.

“Sunny side up,” I mutter. “Brown bread, not white. And make sure the bacon’s not burnt. Only dragons eat charcoal. Ooh, and get me an Americano with oat milk. Do you have croissants? But like freshly baked, real butter croissants, none of that processed crap.”

“…oat milk…croissants…” he whispers frantically, like he’s taking down my order. “Is that everything?”

“How about my freedom?” It’s not a yell, but it’s the next best thing.

“Uh…I’ve got blueberry muffins?”

My stomach grumbles.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” I hang up with enough force that I’m sure the guy’s ear will ring for a week. It should have been satisfying as hell, but I’m too mad to enjoy it.

Eggs?Eggs?

The fucking nerve of Smith.

I pace like a caged tiger, hands fisted at my sides. Okay, maybe not a tiger. More like a feral tabby.

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