Page 18 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

Myles is waiting for us in the hallway when I exit the playroom with a shell-shocked Zoey at my side. The red robe she arrived in hangs from her shoulders, but she’s doing a shitty job of holding it closed in the front.

Probably because her hands are still shaking.

“Twelve lashes? Oof! That’s gotta hurt,” Myles says through a wince.

“Eddie’s got painkillers.” I try to move past him, but he grabs my arm, halting me. And in effect halting Zoey, since I’m guiding her with a hand to the back of her neck.

“She nearly cost us a client,” he says, glancing toward Zoey’s bowed head.

“Nearly,” I reply calmly. A miracle, since I’m combusting inside. “If that’s all? I’ve got work to do.”

If he notices my tone is a little icier than usual, he doesn’t comment on it.

“Oh, I bet.” He glances down at my crotch. “Don’t work too hard.”

Because of course he noticed the rock hard cock straining against my pants. I wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t get me hard. That would just be fucking weird.

I leave at a fast walk, pushing Zoey ahead with a merciless shove.

She lets out a pained, if weak, protest—like a wounded animal.

I have to wrench my mind out of a visceral replay of Zoey’s body jerking in pain. Her ragged breathing.

How fucking wet she was.

Should never have chased her when I caught her at the blackjack table. Should never have decided, on a whim, that she’d be fun to break. Should fucking never have brought her in here, strapped her to that X, and let Howler have his fun.

I saw it in Myles’s eyes. She’s locked in, now. The only way she’s getting out of The Den is in a body bag, unless she can convince Balmont to let her go.

If we used body bags.

Smaller parts are easier to dispose of, so it’ll be in an assortment of trash bags. Various sizes, and brands, to make it look like a cartel hit, because that’s how it works around here.

I head down the staff corridor with a mute Zoey. If she notices we’re not headed back the same way we came in, she doesn’t seem to care.

She’s so deep in subspace, it could be a horned, winged demon leading her down this passage and she wouldn’t bat an eye.

When I approach the door to the Angels’s living quarters, the guard stationed outside steps forward to take Zoey from me.

We’re both surprised when I yank her back, out of reach.

The guard’s brow furrows. “Boss?”

“Eddie.”

He’s one of only two employees taller than me, and the only person I know of who benches more than Troy at the gym.

My knuckles creak as I clench my hand into a fist.

I clear my throat.

Tweak my glasses.

Rub my bandage through my shirt. I’d forgotten about it until it just started aching again.

“Been good?” I ask.

Eddie’s frown deepens. “Sure, boss.”

When he focuses on me instead of Zoey, something traitorous inside me finally relaxes.

I turn to leave, herding Zoey along by her elbow.

“Boss?”

My jaw clenches as I spin back around.

Eddie’s smile has disappeared. He nods toward Zoey. Guess my master escape plan has a few flaws in it. Like how Eddie’s not stupid enough to let me just walk away with The Den’s property without an explanation.

An explanation I can neither produce, nor invent. Not now. Not after what just happened in that play room.

I stare at him, then cut my eyes to the door. “I’ll do it.”

He obeys, head ducking down as he carefully takes his keycard out of his pocket and swipes it methodically against the panel. The door swings open and, out of sheer habit, he reaches for Zoey again.

Again, I pull her away from his hand.

There’s a naked woman lying on her stomach on a day bed, facing a flat screen television playing an animated Disney movie, volume down, subtitles on. She’s eating popcorn, lying on her stomach because her shoulders, ass, and thighs are laced with bright red splotches greasy with ointment.

She glances over at us with a panicked look.

“It’s a drop off, not a collection,” Eddie says from the doorway.

She puffs out a relieved breath and goes back to her movie, shoving a handful of popcorn into her mouth, half of which lands on the day bed.

“Room three,” Eddie says.

He’s keeping his distance, which should please me, but it’s only making me more agitated. I hardly ever set foot in here. Eddie usually has the girls waiting outside in the hallway when me or Richmond to collect them.

Zoey doesn’t bother lifting her head to take in her new surroundings. Not in the small living area, nor when I guide her into her tiny room.

My eyes immediately go to the surveillance camera in the top corner. I turn my back, but it doesn’t help. I still feel invisible eyes on me, and I know it’s not just my imagination.

There’s a control room with a handful of men trained to keep watch over every inch of the Devil’s Den. It’s how we’ve managed to keep this operation under the radar for so long.

And to think, before I came onboard, they made do with armed guards and walkie-talkies.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” I tell Zoey, releasing her reluctantly.

I rub my palm over the back of my neck as I wait for her reaction.

Which never arrives.

“There’s, uh—“ My voice sticks until I clear my throat. Why the fuck is it so hard to speak? “There’s ointment, in the drawer. Put it on soon as you can. It’ll help with the inflammation.”

Zoey doesn’t look at me, just turns and shuffles over to the bed. I’d been forcing her to walk at a fast pace, but seeing her move so carefully now, so deliberately, I realize every step must have been agony.

She slides her knees onto the bed and gingerly lowers herself down onto her stomach, silent, turning her head to face the wall.

My voice is harder than it should be. “The ointment, Zoey.”

She doesn’t move.

Christ. Is this foreign ache in my chest guilt, or pity?

Neither are fucking welcome.

I take out my phone, glance at the time. Sigh as I slide a finger behind my glasses to rub my temple. Myles insists on us having lunch together whenever he’s in town, and that leaves me with only a few hours of spare time.

This bed looks harder than I remember, and the room stuffy and claustrophobic, despite the air conditioner.

Not a boarding room, but a prison cell.

“Get up,” I grate.

But Zoey just lies there like a fucking corpse. It’s possible she’s already passed out, but I don’t give a fuck.

I can’t leave her here.

I grab her arm, wrenching her off the bed.

She hisses in pain, but doesn’t fight me. I want to shake her, if only so she’ll glare at me in rage, but I restrain myself. She’s not herself right now. She’s in a place most never will never go. Unprepared, the first time can feel like psychological torture.

I rip open her nightstand drawer, stuff the tube of ointment in my pocket, and throw open the door like it did me a personal injustice.

Anita scrambles to her feet as we cross back through living area, not bothering to cover herself as we pass.

She’s been around long enough not to care. Long enough to know not to ask questions. Long enough to know that, even if she did, she’s not entitled to answers.

Eddie’s brow furrows when I reappear with Zoey at my side. “Boss?”

“Not done with her yet,” I mutter, stalking away before Eddie can catch more than a glimpse of my face.

I head down the hall and into the elevator, swiping my keycard to access the top level of the Devil’s Den.

We don’t run a hotel here like we do at the casino, but we’ve frequently needed guest rooms and it hardly put a dent in our profits to build a few suites above the nightclub.

Discrete red lights on the key panels beside each door indicate if they’re occupied or not.

I stop beside the first unoccupied room and swipe my keycard again, knowing it’s going to show up on an access control log somewhere.

That someone is going to see that I accessed this room at quarter to ten in the morning.

Then there are the cameras.

They’re fucking everywhere.

The Devil’s Den suite feels oppressive with its charcoal carpets, deep red curtains, and heavy ornate furniture centered around a four-poster bed, but it’s a hell of a let better than the beige jail cell Zoey would have spent the night in.

“What now?” she mumbles, sounding drunk. “New client?”

“Got to get you cleaned up, kitten.” My voice is gruff, and when I look down, she’s gazing up at me with bleary eyes, but she still finds the strength to argue.

“But…tired.” Her lips barely move.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

She sighs, but doesn’t protest further when I take her into the bathroom. I turn on the shower, peel off her robe, and maneuver her under the spray. She hisses when it touches her tender skin.

“Hot!”

“Warm water helps.”

She throws me a blank look over her shoulder. “You really think warm water’s what I need right now? What I need is probably illegal in most states.”

I was going to let her shower in privacy, but after that comment, I decide against it. With her back turned, she doesn’t seem to notice when I step in behind her. I take a moment to assess her before taking off my glasses.

Her bright red, puffy skin. Those vivid, raised welts covering her ass. Her tangled hair. The way her hand shakes as she holds a hand under the soap dispenser.

I strip, leaving my clothes in a messy pile beside the shower, for once not bothering to fold them. Too eager to step up behind her.

Only when I reach past Zoey for the bottle of shampoo does she realize she’s not alone in the shower anymore.

She jerks in surprise, bumping into me as she tries to retreat. Instantly, my cock is on high alert, already getting hard from that brief touch. I catch her as she tries to turn around, keeping her in place.

“You couldn’t wait until I was done?” she snaps. The shower seems to have revived her a little.

We usually leave the aftercare to Eddie. He makes sure the Angels hydrate, bathe, and apply ointment after each session.

This is highly irregular, but so was everything that happened in that playroom.