Page 195 of House of Cards

No. No, no, no!

I don’t love him for it.

Love is supposed to be soft and safe and gentle. Love is supposed to make you better, not worse. Love doesn’t involve mercy killings, or whipping tied up women, or breaking down bathroom doors.

This isn’t love.

It’s something dark, and twisted, and forbidden.

Thisisn’tlove…because I can’t be in love with a monster.

Smith

Michelle, Elonzo’ssister, was DEA.

I expect to feel rage, betrayal. But there’s just a cold hollowness spreading through my chest like I’m being pumped full of nitrogen.

“If it wasn’t you who put a bullet in her...” Elonzo’s voice fades to white noise as I drop my head.

I stare at the marble floor, watching my blood drip onto the polished surface. Each drop is a second ticking by, another moment closer to extinction. Because I know what comes next. The Bogota Cartel doesn’t just kill their enemies. They send a message, loud and fucking clear. They’ve mowed down several rival families like this—gathering everyone in the same room before gunning them down, execution style.

But not before they’ve had their fun.

The zip ties bite into my wrists as I test them, feeling for weakness. But there isn’t any. Not yet. I could pull free, but it would take dislocating a thumb, and that’s not something I can do on the sly.

“She was dead the moment she walked into that warehouse,” I say woodenly.

“Don’t be sad, Hutch. You did her a favor. I’d have made it messy.” He waits until I force my eyes to meet his before continuing. “But you? You’re not getting the same courtesy.”

I keep my face blank.

Let him gloat. He’s proud he landed a blow, and he’s milking it for all its worth.

That can’t be what I focus on right now. Survival is the only thing that matters. Processing all the shit he told me can come later, when everyone’s safe.

I take in my surroundings—a quick scan through lowered lashes.

Elonzo wasn’t taking any chances. Fourteen armed men. Almost as many hostages, but only a handful even know how to fire a weapon.

Ricky is bleeding out beside me.

Troy is MIA. Either dead or incapacitated. Something else I can’t afford to process right now.

Then there’s Zoey. Fierce, beautiful, brave Zoey in her oversized hoodie, murder in her eyes.

Her breath comes in short, rapid bursts that I mistake for panic until I see the disgust and loathing in her eyes.

She’s looking at me like I’m a monster.

No time to process that.

I force my eyes away, continue cataloging the room. The cartel soldier closest to me—a lanky kid with tear-drop tattoos—holds his weapon carelessly, almost forgotten at his side. He’s a weak point in Elonzo’s armor, but attacking him would be like tossing a grenade into a crowded room and hoping it only hits your intended target.

The goal is simple.

I need to get Zoey out of here, so I know she’s safe while I deal with the rest of the hostages.

Elonzo focuses on Zoey, the change in his voice drawing my attention back to him.

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