Page 160 of House of Cards

“I can handle this.”

“I wasn’t disputing that.”

I blink, breaking out of my downward spiral of despair to turn and stare at Smith. I expected a smirk or something on his face, but those dark eyes of his are dead serious, his mouth set in a tight line. There’s the smallest frown between his eyebrows, barely a crease.

Damn, he’s handsome.

And this might just be the imminent end-of-life situation talking, but for a brief second, I wish we’d met under different circumstances. That we’d explored something approaching a conventional relationship.

Something tells me that would never, ever have been a possibility, though.

Smith doesn’t do normal.

“Fine,” I say, my gaze dropping to his mouth before I can stop myself. I force my eyes back to his. “But none of your cocky alpha-male bullshit. This guy is a lunatic.”

Smith’s one eyebrow darts up. “Alpha-male?—?”

He cuts off, glancing away, one wrist draped over the top of the steering wheel, the other going to his seat belt.

I should be terrified of bringing another predator to this feeding ground. But there’s a twisted comfort in having Smith beside me.

I’ve felt his teeth.

I’m starting to understand his hunger.

And some dark, feral part of me wants to watch him tear into someone else for a change.

I want to watch him to taste blood that isn’t mine and see if it gives him the same satisfaction.

A selfish part of me hopes that will never happen.

Then it hits me out of nowhere, a lightning bolt of terrifying clarity. I don’t just want Smith beside me for protection. For vengeance.

I want him beside me. Period.

Fucking hilarious, since I didn’t know this man existed a few weeks ago. Now I’m entertaining a future where I never leave his side?

My mental disorder has blown straight through Stockholm Syndrome into full on delusions…and it scares me more than the thought of Elonzo and his Zippo.

My voice is hoarse, but firm. “I mean it, Smith.” He looks away, face hardening. “Pinky swear you won’t?—“

Smith unlatches his seat belt with a flick of his fingers. He grabs my seat belt, jerking it so hard that it locks in place over my chest, cutting off the rest of my sentence.

I grab it reflexively, and Smith yanks it even tighter, trapping my fingers.

Then he leans over, so close I can feel his breath on my lips.

“I’m not promising anything, kitten,” he murmurs.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and when they flick back up to my eyes, there’s a terrifying, carnivorous light in them. He might not be making any promises, but those eyes of his sure as fuck are.

This doesn’t end tonight. Not here, not now, anyway.

Too much has been left unsaid.

Too much has been left undone.

But I guess there’s one thing on his list needs checking off, and he’s not letting me leave this car until that to-do is taken care of.

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