Page 146 of House of Cards

She widens her eyes at me. “Oh no, did I hit a nerve? I knew all this macho crap was just a way for you to deal with your short dick syn?—”

I twist her arm until I feel the shoulder joint shift. Not enough to pop it completely out of its socket, but enough to send white-hot pain through her body. The moment her voice dissolves into a hoarse yell, I release the pressure, letting the joint to slide back into place.

She glares at me with pained incredulity. “Youfuckingass?—”

A sharp gasp this time as I ram her into the vanity. She tries to fend me off, but I’ve rendered one of her arms too weak to use, and I’ve already wedged my legs between hers, so she couldn’t kick me even if she tried.

She goes for my eyes with clawed fingers, but I just turn my face away and grab a handful of her damp hair, wrenching her head back.

“Shh,” I whisper.

Normally, this would just enrage her even more, turning my little kitten into a feral alley cat. But I don’t normally have a shard of glass pressed to the soft flesh under her jaw.

Right beneath that mysterious bruise.

Something in the back of my mind is trying to get my attention—the bruise, the casino uniform—but all I’m interested in right now is Zoey, and the glimmer of fearful dread in her hazel eyes.

There’s that trembling mouth. The body shaking against mine as reality sinks in. I scrape the edge of the glass down her throat, right beside the column of her windpipe, leaving a faint red mark behind.

Not drawing blood.

I’m savoring the anticipation too much. Edging myself, like I always do.

The harder the chase, the sweeter the reward.

“Is this going to take long?” Zoey says. “I’ve got places to be.”

The forced calm in her voice belies the anger in her eyes.

“You’re trying so hard to be brave, kitten,” I murmur, looping the glass up her neck again, making her strain away from my touch as the point scrapes harder against her skin. “Aren’t you tired of always fighting?”

I’m entranced by the faint lines the glass leaves on her skin, but something else catches my eye.

Light.

Not reflecting off the shard of glass in my hand, or those still clinging to the mirror frame like silver fangs.

But the light glittering in Zoey’s eyes as tears build along her lower lid.

The moment we make eye contact, she blinks them away. But too fiercely—always so fiercely.

One tear falls, skating down her cheek, heading straight for the edge pressed to her throat.

I can feel the thrum of my pulse against the flat of the glass where I’m gripping it. It’s racing. My chest is so tight I’m not sure I’m breathing anymore. And no wonder she thinks all I want to do is fuck her—my cock is grinding into her hip so hard I feel like a teenager dry humping his girlfriend on the couch.

Before the tear draws level with the side of her trembling mouth, I dimple her skin with the sharp tip of the glass.

She sounds like she was about to say something, but even the smallest sound makes her throat move. Still, she can’t hold back a strangled whimper as the shard of mirror pierces her skin.

A bright red dot wells up.

If that single tear gliding down her cheek wasn’t a trigger, this sure as fuck is.

“Christ,” I huff out, gaze transfixed on her throat, on that tiny ruby droplet clinging to her creamy skin. “Look what you’ve made me do.”

A shudder courses through me.

No.

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