Page 47 of House of Cards
Smith’s a sadist. His friend is a sadist. This Howler guy who’s apparently on his way is a sadist.
They’re all fucking?—
“Ow!”
“Too tight, kitten?” Smith’s eyebrows twitch, but he keeps his head down, working ruthlessly at securing the last strap around my ankle from his crouched position. He’s eye level with my crotch, but shockingly, I haven’t caught him looking at my body. Not even my tits.
I yank at my bound wrists. “Sadistic asshole.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Smith says calmly.
My stomach sinks.
The way he’s fastening me to this cross, my back is to most of the room. I guess so his client has easier access to my backside. Which, in my very limited experience, is apparently where sickos like Smith likes spankingkittenslike me.
The cuffs are tight around my wrists and ankles, digging into my skin like shackles despite the thin strip of padding. The pressure against my spread arms and legs isn’t painful yet, but I’m sure it’ll get worse.
Smith fastens the last buckle, slides a finger behind the cuff, and adjusts it a quarter inch.
I yank at all four cuffs, trying to get a little more room, which is when I realize just how fucked I am. The X feels impossibly solid. It doesn’t jiggle or shake no matter how hard I pull.
I’m not going anywhere.
My breathing stutters, shallow and fast, and it feels like there’s something stuck in my throat. I yank again, frantic, but hopelessness pounces on me when the only thing that moves is my already straining body.
“Smith, please, don’t do this,” I blurt out in a panicked whisper.
His eyes dart up to mine, a sharp frown between his brows. But silent, like he’s giving me a chance to retract my words.
I don’t.
All in, baby.
“My money’s yours,” I whisper fervently. “Every cent. Every chip. Please,pleasejust let me go. I’ll just slip out. No one will even know. Please, please, please.”
My body tightens as he slowly stands, his expression growing darker with every foot. One hand goes to his chest, his fingers rubbing over the fabric of his neatly pressed charcoal suit.
Right where I stabbed him.
Gone is the aloof accountant-cum-sex-trafficker. He looks like a man who, when they finally catch him, is found with seventeen bodies buried in his back yard. Someone who took his time with each of his victims. Who kept trophies. Whose incredulous neighbors still claim was ‘such a nice man’.
Someone likeHowler?
Hot pressure builds behind my eyes, tears welling so quickly I barely have time to blink them back. Guess that breakdown is right around the corner.
He grabs my chin, studying for one long, angry moment before he uses that grip to shove my head to the side, like he’s sick of looking at my pathetic face.
I don’t blame him.
There’s not a trace of courage left in me. I feel hollowed out. Empty.
What’s the use of fighting anymore?
Even if I got out of here, I have nothing to go back to.
He was right. If I hadpeople, I wouldn’t be here.
Smith stalks away, opening a metal closet painted white to match the rest of the room. His body does a good job of hiding whatever’s inside, but I’m not even sure I want to know at this stage.
