Page 211 of House of Cards

Elonzo probably just dropped and rolled, escaping without so much as a sprained ankle.

Now he’s out there, waiting to creep into my bedroom one night so he can?—

I don’t hear a noise, butsomethingmakes me turn around. Maybe I’ve developed some kind of sixth sense after all the time I’ve spent around Mr. Unpredictable.

Elonzo is standing between me and the bedroom door like I thought him into existence.

Fuck, maybe I did.

Amazing how, despite all the gore I’ve seen tonight, him standing there so casually is honestly the most terrifying thing I’ve witnessed yet.

It’s the almost indifferent malice gleaming in his black eyes. The way his mouth twitches, then relaxes, like he’s thinking up a hundred awful things to do to me, each worse than the last.

Blood soaks the left side of his white vest where Troy’s bullet caught him, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

Adrenaline’s a hell of a drug.

So is pure, unfiltered psychopathy, I guess.

“Alone at last,” he chuckles, spreading his arms.

His gun’s tucked behind his belt. So cocky, he thinks it’ll just get in the way.

My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. I back up slowly, throwing a quick glance over my shoulder, wondering if I should risk broken bones in lieu of the rape and torture Elonzo most certainly has planned for me.

Those flagstones are looking more appealing by the second.

“Hell no,mamacita,” Elonzo drawls when he catches me contemplating suicide. “That’s not how our story ends.”

“Our story?” I spit out, my voice a hell of a lot steadier than my legs. “Don’t you mean this delusion where you’re convinced I owe you money?”

He glances away, his laugh almost sounding genuine as he takes his lighter out of his pocket and flips open the lid.

Snick

“Nah, our story goes way back.”

He thumbs the flint wheel, a flame hissing into existence before he snuffs it out, a flick of hand snapping closed the lid.

Hiss, click.

He’s absolutely fucking insane. How the hell are you supposed to negotiate with a madman?

“Yes,” I say carefully. “Ricky owed you money, and he disappeared. So you?—”

“Ricky?” Elonzo groans up at the ceiling, his Adam’s apple stark against his tattooed neck. “Fuck Ricky.”

He flicks the lighter, killing the fresh flame in the same quick gesture as before.

Snick.

Hiss, click.

“La familia es eterna,”?1 he says, fucking cryptically. “You two are new generation.”

“Huh?”

I’m not trying to aggravate him. My brain is just failing me completely. Also, I don’t know any Spanish.

---