Page 73 of House of Cards

I obey, lifting my hair without him asking. His fingers brush against my neck as he fastens the collar, lingering a beat too long. There’s a pendant on the front—a large red gem encrusted with diamonds—that bumps against my throat as I move. When I turn back, his eyes are darker, jaw clenched tight.

He steps back, forcing me to confront the mysterious door.

My eyes grudgingly scan the plaque as Smith swipes his keycard against the panel beside the dark door.

“So what kind of joyride is this?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended, the sassy sarcasm all but wilted.

“It’s more a game than a ride.” His dark gaze flicks to the door, then back to me. “This client has specific…tastes.”

I swallow hard, brushing the collar when it tightens against my throat. “Let me guess, just do what he says and try not to insult his dick?”

Something flashes across Smith’s face, briefly tugging at his mouth.

Anger, or amusement?

“Not this time, kitten.” He steps closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “This time, I want you to run.”

I blink, turning to face him, sure I’ve misheard. “Run?”

“It’s a maze. You get a thirty-second head start.” His words are measured, clinical, but his eyes never leave mine. “Your only goal is to avoid capture for as long as possible.”

A cold weight settles in my stomach. “And if I’m caught?”

Smith’s jaw ticks. His hands curl to fists at his side. Now there’s no mistaking the anger smoldering in his eyes.

Smith’s expression hardens. “Then youfuckingfight.”

The world tilts slightly, sounds muffled like I’m underwater.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Smith puts his hand on the small of my back, turning me to face the door. The heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric of my dress. “There are three exits hidden throughout the maze,” he whispers. “Find one, and you win your freedom.”

I glance up at him over my shoulder. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems as reluctant to open the door as I am to step through it.

“And if I can’t find an exit?”

“Keep running.” His eyes darken. “And don’t let him catch you.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Who is this guy?”

“Someone who enjoys the chase.” Smith’s voice is tighter.

We’re standing so close now I can smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. His hand moves from my back to my arm, fingers curling around my upper arm.

“Someone who likes it when his prey struggles.”

There’s something he’s not telling me. Something in the intensity of his gaze, the slight tremor in his fingers against my skin.

I’m trembling, but I lift my chin, refusing to show how terrified I am.

“Someone who doesn’t care if his prey enjoys the hunt as much as he does.”

Before I can process what that means, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a brief touch so tender it steals my breath.

The moment stretches between us, electric and dangerous.

Then, as if catching himself, he blinks and steps back, running a hand down the front of his body as if smoothing his tie. His face shutters, that frigid mask sliding back into place.

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