Page 58 of House of Cards

Won’t even scar.

Pity.

I twist around to face her, grip the edge of her robe with two fingers, and inch it up her thigh.

Higher, higher.

Until I see the first perfect welt caned into her soft flesh. Then the next. The next.

…twelve lashes?…

It was too much for a first caning. But it could have been worse. It could have been a belt, or a paddle.

Could have been a razor blade, Smith.

JesusfuckingChrist.

I flick her robe back down her leg, my breath shallow and harsh as I rush to my feet. I storm away to I fetch my shirt and jacket from the bathroom but I’m back seconds later, watching Zoey sleep as I roll my sleeves up my arm. Everything’s already wrinkled to hell, no point in pretending I have my shit together.

She looks so damn peaceful. Nothing like the traumatized captive I dragged in here this morning. Her skin is red but not as inflamed as before. A perfect canvas for the ladder of sullen strips over her ass and upper thighs.

Only two of the twelve marks came close to drawing blood.

My hands are in fists, and they ache when I force them open.

I should apply more salve, but my shift at the casino starts in a few minutes. I’ll barely have enough time to head over to the Devil’s Luck and change into a fresh suit, let alone take Zoey down to the Angel’s quarters.

But I don’t dare leave her in this room.

Gently, making sure not to wake her, I gather a sheet-bundled Zoey into my arms and leave, heading for the basement.

Christ knows I don’t want to, and that’s exactly why I should.

She belongs with the other girls, earning her keep. Repaying her debt.

Nottempting me to lose control.

Eddie gives me a double take when he sees me coming down the hall but, good man that he is, says nothing as he opens the door for me. Zoey stirred a few times on the way over, but didn’t wake. Not unexpected after a session like the one she had.

Her body is in shock. It needs all the time it can to heal. And the body heals when it sleeps.

If I don’t bombard my brain with logic, I’ll just turn around and take her back upstairs.

I lay her down in the narrow single bed, cocooning her like an invalid. Brushing hair from her face. Pulling the sheet over one of her toes when I see it peeking out.

Delaying.

Stalling.

Christ, why is this so hard?

I almost slam her bedroom door, but stop myself just in time. Eddie gives me a somber nod when I storm out, but again—good fucking man—he says nothing.

He can probably sense the barely contained violence inside me.

I tug my clothes straight as I head for the parking garage. I’m late for my shift, but that’s not why I keep fisting and flexing my hands.

Troy should have messaged me to check in by now.

---