Francis Underwood had never been an irritable person. He always remained calm – never broke poise, even when he had his fingers clutched around the spiny neck of a 13 year old terrier. That dog had lived too long anyway. The world was very clear to Frank. There are two kinds of pain; the kind that makes you strong, and useless pain – the sort that gives you suffering. He had no patience for useless things.
The dog was dormant on the cold ground by the time Steve arrived with the next door neighbours – the Wardens - he rolled his eyes at the thought. Frank prepared himself for another sickening bout of heart wrenching touchy-feely bullshit.
"I'm so sorry." He began in a long Southern drawl. "He went quickly. I know you must feel terrible."
He got up and put his hand on Mrs Warden's shoulder, making sure it wasn't the same he had used just a moment ago to put an end to her beloved pup. It was all the same anyway – she wasn't paying him any attention, nuzzling her tear-soaked cheeks into Robert's suit jacket. Terrible, wasn't it – Mr Warden would have to take that to the dry cleaner's to get the salt stains out.
As he washed his hands off in the sink, letting small brown furs rinse away down the plug hole, he spotted Claire's face gazing at him in the mirror. He rinsed off the last of the soap lather and dried his hands on a towel, all the while moving towards her – his eyes fixed on her like a wolf hungry for prey.
He placed his hands around her waist and moved them slowly up the back of her dress, drawing up the zipper snug as a pelt. His head rested on her bare shoulder, murmuring in her ear. 'Shall we?'