Page 10 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

Waking up in a luxurious hotel suite isn’t as much fun when you’re being held against your will.

I spend a minute or two writhing against the silky sheets as my mind emerges from the fog of sleep like a ferry on a cold winter morning.

But when I remember where I am and, more important, who put me here, I’m wide awake and scowling.

I have a brief out-of-body experience, watching my idiotic self as I race to the door and rattle on the door handle. It didn’t open last night, but, somehow I think it will open this morning.

It doesn’t.

Then I run to the hotel phone and lift it off the receiver. No dial tone, just like last night.

I hurry over to my purse Troy left on the creamy velvet armchair placed just-so against the window and rummage through it, expecting to find my phone even though I’ve already been through this and I know it’s not inside anymore.

It’s probably in the same place my money is.

And then, because I guess I’ve gone crazy, I run onto the balcony wearing just Smith’s t-shirt. The wind whips my hair into my face as I stare over the railing with serious intent, like I’ve been transported to a hotel suite that’s one story from the ground and not a bone-breaking three.

Thankfully, the frosty morning air forces my mind into lucidity.

I’m still trapped. Still one hundred percent unclear what this guy plans on doing to me.

…You belong to me now…

Well, shit. He made himself pretty fucking clear.

Smith believes I robbed him, so I have to repay him in sexual favors. I should be horrified, but compared to going back home and possibly being set on fire, sexual servitude doesn’t sound all that bad.

Especially after he made it clear that the alternative was dismemberment and a dentist’s appointment I’ll never forget.

Another gust of icy wind chases me back inside. I push the sliding doors closed and rest my head on the cool glass for a moment, trying to herd my scattered thoughts together.

Despite sleeping like the dead, I don’t feel refreshed.

I shove myself away from the glass doors, glaring at the outside world like it’s done me a personal injustice.

Fuck this.

I’m no one’s plaything.

I have to figure a way out of this mess.

A phone on the other side of the room rings, scaring me half to death. I scowl at it as I stride over, snatching it off the cradle.

“This is kidnapping!” I snap into the mouthpiece. “You can’t keep me here against?—”

“Hello?”

My mouth is still open. I close it with a click of teeth. It’s not Smith on the other end of the line. I don’t think he could ever sound that uncertain. He’s a walking, talking wall of lethal confidence and sex appeal.

Damn it. I’m thinking about his dick again.

I clear my throat. “Yes?” I ask grimly.

“This is the hotel? Uh, the kitchen?” the man on the other end hedges. “I-I’m calling to find out how you’d like your eggs?”

“Eggs? Eggs? ” I’m yelling again. Can’t seem to stop. “I’ll tell you how I like my eggs, buddy. In my own apartment , where I’m free to come and go as I please!”

I go to slam the phone, but my body fights me. Slowly, I put the receiver back to my ear.

On second thought…If I’m going to survive this, I’ll need to keep my strength up.

“Sunny side up,” I mutter. “Brown bread, not white. And make sure the bacon’s not burnt. Only dragons eat charcoal. Ooh, and get me an Americano with oat milk. Do you have croissants? But like freshly baked, real butter croissants, none of that processed crap.”

“…oat milk…croissants…” he whispers frantically, like he’s taking down my order. “Is that everything?”

“How about my freedom?” It’s not a yell, but it’s the next best thing.

“Uh…I’ve got blueberry muffins?”

My stomach grumbles.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” I hang up with enough force that I’m sure the guy’s ear will ring for a week. It should have been satisfying as hell, but I’m too mad to enjoy it.

Eggs? Eggs?

The fucking nerve of Smith.

I pace like a caged tiger, hands fisted at my sides. Okay, maybe not a tiger. More like a feral tabby.

Then I stop.

Room service is on the way. Someone’s going to be here in a few minutes with my breakfast. My stomach growls, but I clap my hands over my belly and will it to be silent.

This is the break I was looking for. Someone is going to open the door in a few minutes. I need to be ready.

I rush into the bathroom, stopping to stare at the beautiful black marble floor and gold fittings before I can force myself to move again. Last night I came in here to pee and change into one of Smith’s t-shirts, but I didn’t bother turning on the light to get a good look at the place.

By then I’d figured he’d either forgotten about me, or he was too busy doing other shady shit to rough me up some more. So I took a chance and went to sleep.

Figured since I couldn’t escape anyway, I might as well preserve my energy.

I step into the shower that takes up the entire back wall of the black and gold bathroom, and turn on the faucet. Then I back up and close the door to a crack.

Smith’s t-shirt barely covers my butt.

This doesn’t concern me as much as the fact that I have no weapon.

Steam slowly fills the bathroom as I go through the cabinets. Since I doubt a can of shaving cream could do more than irritate someone’s eye, I slip out of the bathroom and hunt through the room.

For a sex trafficking casino boss who caries knives around in his pocket, this room sure doesn’t have the wide selection of weapons I’d have expected.

Not even a fucking umbrella.

There’s a sound from the room door. I drop to my belly beside the bed, a panicked gasp caught in my throat.

The velvet-lined base of the bed goes all the way to the thick carpet, so there’s no way I can hide under the base, but I hope I’m crowding close enough that the hotel clerk can’t see me from the door.

There’s a squeak-squeak-squeak as someone wheels a cart through the door. I try not to breathe, resisting the urge to peek over the top of the mattress. I’m not close enough to the door. There’s no way I can make it out before the porter sees me and tries to stop me.

“Hmm.”

Smith.

Suddenly, I’m angry again.

Anyone with half a brain should realize that I’m in the shower—courtesy of the steam billowing out through the partially open bathroom door—and would then obviously wait for me to come out.

Nope.

Not Smith, the sex-crazed psycho who whipped me with his fucking suspenders yesterday and then made me come all over his large, powerful hand.

Normal etiquette rules don’t apply to my owner. He pushes open the bathroom door and goes right inside. Shooting to my feet, I glare at the steam now billowing out of the bathroom.

How dare he waltz in here like he owns the place?

Well, I guess he does technically own the place. And according to him, he now owns me too, but that’s neither here nor there.

I glance over at the food cart, and my eyes light up when I spot a side plate stacked with cutlery.

One of them is a knife. It’s nothing like the dangerously sharp, highly specialized torture utensil he used to cut off my underwear, but if wielded with enough force, I’m sure it could make someone bleed.

The door is closed, and I’m pretty sure it auto-locks. My only way out is to get his keycard, the one I assume he keeps in his pocket.

I pick up the knife and edge my way toward the bathroom.

Smith left the door open wide when he went inside.

But I guess the hot water in this place is scorching, because there’s still enough steam piling out of the room to obscure the interior.

Only hints of the basin and toilet appear sporadically through the milky, roiling fog.

My heart pounds inside my chest, and even though I’m the one wielding the knife, I feel like I’m the victim in a slasher movie. Psycho ’s soundtrack hacks and slashes its way through my mind as I inch toward the shower.

Closer.

Closer…

“Kittens shouldn’t play with knives.” A hand clamps around my upraised wrist, twisting fiercely. I yell out in pain, dropping the knife. It barely clatters to the floor before he kicks it into the billowing steam.

Before I have time to blink, there’s a muscular arm wrapped around my throat, my back pressed to concrete stomach and steel thighs.

My pulse surges with anger, fear, outrage.

He’s so close, too close, and everything in my body wants to fight him off, even as my mind screams that it won’t matter.

He’s too strong.

There’s just too much of him.

But if the past few days have taught me anything, it’s that even when the odds are most definitely not in my favor, I’m still going to push all my chips over the table and whisper, “ All in .”

“Let go!” I shout, stomping with my feet. If he feels my heel grinding into his shoe, he doesn’t mention it. I try to elbow him and end up getting another round of funny elbow. What is it with this guy? You’d swear his stomach was carved out of wood.

And speaking of wood…

I freeze up when I realize the thing poking into my lower back can’t possibly be a French loaf.

“Trying to be clever only works if you’ve thought through every eventuality,” he murmurs into my ear.

“You’re right.” I try to laugh, but it’s wheezy and ineffectual with the tight grip he has on my neck. “Should’ve taken into account what a fucking pervert you are.”

Smith tightens his arm, and I instinctively grab him to pull him away. He uses his free hand to cup one of my tits. “I take time out of my day to come feed you, and this is the thanks I get?”

I swear I can feel his cock getting harder. I arch my back, trying to move my ass away from his rigid shaft, and he lets out a dark chuckle as if he knows exactly what’s making me so damn uncomfortable.

“Let’s discuss better ways for you to show gratitude.”

Since I’ve already pissed him off, I don’t even hesitate to make the situation worse. With a yell of frustration mingled with fury, I curl my hand into a fist and slam it backward into his crotch.