Page 230 of House of Cards

“Fuck, kitten.” The words are muffled as I graze my teeth over her knee, her kneecap so close to the skin I could bite down and leave marks.

“You don’t know what it does to me when you obey.”

“I do,” she challenges in a hoarse whisper, biting down on her bottom lip as she grinds the heel of her foot into my lap.

There’s so much pleasure mingled with the pain I can’t separate the two. I lose myself to it, when I really shouldn’t. Drag my fingers through that shallow well of blood, when I really, really shouldn’t.

And force my eyes open so I can stare at Zoey as I bring my fingers to my mouth, tasting her.

It’s a test. One I expect her to fail.

Expecting her to recoil—disgust, shock, perhaps even confusion twisting her features.

It’s whatshouldhappen.

It’s what happened all those years ago, an eternity now, when I was barely fourteen. In and out of foster homes since I was born. A trouble maker, a wiseass. Never a permanent home because I could never convince anyone to love me.

On my way back to a youth shelter, a handful of stolen Slim Jims in my pocket and a packet of cigarettes I preferred to use as currency instead of calming my nerves.

My nerves have been calm since the day Linda—foster mom number five—told me she deserved the split lip her husband gave her. That I’d learn to deserve mine, too.

I’m still not sure how I convinced myself to run away instead of slitting his throat in his sleep.

But it’s why I was on that street that day, the exact time a truck ran the red, and a soccer mom’s minivan swerved, lost control, flipped.

I watched it roll over, over, and come screeching over the tarmac.

Thought I was done for.

Didn’t even get a recap of the pathetic life I’d led—just a hard buzz in my ears as something came tumbling out of the smashed windshield like a big bag of laundry.

The driver. A woman—blond and used to be pretty. But after scraping over the road and being tossed in my direction by an invisible hand, she wasn’t pretty anymore.

So much blood.

And more pooling under her.

I was compelled to go up to her, watching as her body twitched and jerked.

So much fucking blood.

She was in pain. I could tell by how she croaked for help. And I think I wanted to help her, because why else would I touch her blood-slicked forehead?

Warm, slippery blood coated my fingers. I kept rubbing my fingertips together as I watched her drag in an awful breath. Then another.

I brought my hand to my mouth, wanted to know if her blood tasted like mine, but the look of revulsion on her face made me stop.

That’s the look I’m expecting on Zoey’s face.

But instead of revulsion, she looks the way I must have whenever I took a bullet or a knife or a fist. When I’d coat my fingers in my own blood, and know for just a second, just one blissful fucking second…that I was alive.

Face flushed.

Chest rising and falling in rapid bursts as she pants.

Eye doe-like, pupils dilated—not with fear, but with lust.

Every breath brings me her scent—the metallic tang of blood, floral body lotion, arousal. I’m sure I’m imagining the last, despite how desperately she reached between her legs a moment ago.