Page 70 of House of Cards

“Could’ve fooled me.” He nods toward the screen. “What’s so special about her, anyway?”

“Fuck off, Troy.” The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with a venom that has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

With what happens in my mind every time I try to talk myself down from this dangerous cliff’s edge I seem so keen to dance on lately.

Silence stretches between us. I drag a hand down my face, stubble scratching against my palm.

“Sorry,” I mutter finally.

Troy shrugs, but his eyes stay pinned on me. Assessing.

“Compliance review done?”

“Yesterday.”

“So what’s your excuse now?”

I don’t have one. That’s the problem. I’ve run out of reasons to keep Zoey isolated, to keep her to myself. Myles’ seventy-two-hours expired at midnight.

I’m running on borrowed time.

On the screen, Zoey slowly turns over, her face now visible to the camera. Even in sleep, her brow is furrowed, mouth set in a defiant line. Fighting demons in her heavily sedated dreams.

Do they wear my face?

“Tomorrow,” I say finally. “Tomorrow I’ll fetch her. Get her trained. She’ll be ready to see her next client by the end of the week.”

Troy’s expression says it all.

Can’t blame him.

If I’d had any intention of doing it, it would already be done. I’m not known to procrastinate.

“While I’m happy that you’ve finally committed to doing your job, Dom, I’m afraid your time’s up,” Troy says quietly.

I sip at my coffee, grimacing. It tastes like tar.

“They sent you to fetch her,” I say, just as somber.

“Labyrinth. Nine PM.”

My head snaps up. “The Labyrinth? Who the fuck arranged that?”

“Rich. Said if he’d get her ready if you didn’t show.”

“The fuck he will!”

The rage that floods through me is instant and overwhelming. I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, chair rolling back across the floor and slamming into the doorjamb.

My mug slams down so hard, coffee sloshes over the rim, burning my fingers and seeping into the keyboard on the console. I wait for sparks, or smoke, but nothing happens.

Myles is usually the one pushing my buttons—claims it keeps us on our toes—but Rich seems to have taken a particular interest in Zoey that I can only assume is anything but benign.

“Cancel,” I spit.

“Can’t. Myles approved it.”

“Who?”

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