Page 171 of House of Cards

I don’t know if she hears me. Her mouth moves, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. The whine in my ears is a hard buzz, a live wire snapping and whipping through my mind.

The world narrows to the space between her pulse and my palm as a symphony builds inside my skull.

Ragged breathing.

Thundering heartbeat.

And beneath it all, the malevolent whispers?—

…she deserves this for making me feel…

…making me weak…

…for looking at me like I’m something worth saving, when we both know I’m not…

—feeding a desperate hunger.

My fingers tighten around her throat as I remember how it felt to watch the light fade from another pair of eyes, how beautiful that fatal aria, when you’re the one conducting the orchestra.

Christ, she has no idea how right she is about me being a monster.

How close I am to proving it.

The beast I keep choke-chained inside is clawing its way up my throat, demanding blood, demanding silence. I’m balanced on a razor’s edge between salvation and damnation, and the onlything keeping me from falling is the dread knowledge that if I let go now, I’ll take her with me.

“Smith.” The plea puffs from her lips softer than a whisper.

But she’s right—Iama monster. And monsters don’t save people.

They devour them.

Bone by bone. Breath by breath. Drop by drop of blood.

Until there’s nothing left but the memory of what they used to be.

A hand lands on my shoulder, squeezes me.

“That’s enough, Smith,” Troy’s voice cuts through the haze.

When I don’t move, when I don’t release Zoey, he drags me away and tosses me onto my back in the gravel.

My vision clears.

The tightness around my chest dissipates.

Like I was drowning, but my head’s finally breached the surface.

By the time I’ve scrambled into a sit, Troy has put himself between me and Zoey, staring me down like he’s ready to attack if I make the wrong move.

Zoey rushes to her feet, hand on her throat like I was seconds away from strangling her. I suppose I was.

“You sick fuck. You sick, twisted fuck!”

“Please, just listen,” I say, but even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds. “It was a setup. He wasn’t going to let Ricky?—“

“You don’t get to say his name!” She’s shaking now, adrenaline and terror making her voice quaver. Compared to my flat, measured monotone, she sounds like the one who’s losing their mind, not me.

“You fucking killed him! He’s dead, and it’s all your fault!”

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