Page 121 of House of Cards

No one would stop me.

No one could.

She’s mine to ruin. Mine to destroy.

And that’s exactly what I’ll do…but not now.

I know myself. If I go back in there now, there’ll be no time to enjoy what comes next. Just white-out rage, and the empty, taunting void that follows.

Not now.

But soon. Tonight, even.

Because the alternative is worse.

The alternative is admitting that I’m not just losing control, I’m losing myself.

To her.

This feeling clawing at my gut isn’t lust, or the need to dominate.

It’s something unfamiliar and terrifying that begs me to keep her close, while the logical part of my brain screams that I should end this now.

I want to break her, yes. But I also want to keep her.

Not just as a toy, but as...something more. Something I swore I’d never allow myself again.

The realization makes me slam my fist into the elevator button hard enough to leave a furrow in my skin.

Zoey

The moment I hear the door lock, a wall inside me collapses. Even when I clap a hand over my mouth, it barely stifles the ragged sob that bursts out. I try to push back the fear and the turmoil swirling around in my head, but my emotions are done being repressed.

After what that psychopath just said to me, I can’t even blame them. I just saw the predator lurking behind those polished glasses and impeccable wardrobe, and I’m fucking shook.

“Fuck!” I turn, trying to see through tear-blurred eyes as I head in the vague direction of the bathroom. My throat burns with each sob that rips itself free. Tears wobble my vision, making it impossible to see where I’m going.

No wonder I catch my hip against the sideboard beside the bathroom door.

“Fuck!” Even though the impact is hard enough to throw me off balance, the pain barely registers.

My hand flies out to steady myself. Landing on the floor is not an option, because I know that’s where I’ll stay until I’ve cried myself out.

Until Smith comes back and makes good on his obscene threat.

Something clatters onto the walnut sideboard, then bashes into my waist before hitting my leg.

Jesus, now the furniture’s attacking me?

I swipe a hand over my eyes, staring at the phone receiver dangling on its curled cord as it bounces a few times, bumping gently against the sideboard.

A lot of things happen all at once.

My brain is suddenly in overdrive as I fight back another surge of tears. My hand fumbles with the cord, twisting it in my stupid fingers as I try to pick up the phone with one hand. The other is stabbing down on the cradle?—

clack—clack—clack

—while I’m desperately trying to remember the code, I saw Smith key into this keypad the other day when he made a call. It feels like a fucking lifetime ago, and my brain is still cowering in the corner calculating just how many ways there are to make someone scream.

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