Page 22 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

I reluctantly open my eyes, groaning at the pain radiating off my backside. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force myself to drift off. Should’ve been easy with a head stuffed with cotton balls.

If I’m asleep, I don’t hurt.

If I’m asleep, I don’t need anything from him .

But I’m hungry, thirsty, and I desperately have to pee.

Except…this isn’t the same room I went to sleep in. I’m in a tiny, vaguely familiar room, barely large enough for the narrow single bed and clinical nightstand. There’s an IV drip attached to my arm, and a single camera blinking one red eye at me from the top corner of the room.

I’m not sure which of those freaks me out more.

“The hell?”

I push myself up on shaking arms, wincing in expectation of more pain, but all I feel is a sullen throb. I swing rusty-feeling legs over the side of the bed so I can stand. Either gravity increased, or I’ve gained a couple hundred pounds, because getting to my feet is a monumental effort.

I take a few seconds to straighten out my body into a full stand because every move seems to pull at another stiff muscle I never knew existed.

It feels like I ran a marathon. After climbing Mount Everest. But somehow I slept through it all.

I peel the tape from my skin, gritting my teeth and taking a big slow breath before pulling the needle out of my arm.

It doesn’t hurt like it should.

Nothing does.

My eyes flick to the half-drained bag hanging from the IV stand beside the bed. Must be some heavy duty painkillers in there. Smith is no doubt expecting me to be grateful that he drugged me without my consent. He’d probably tell me it was to help me heal faster.

Psycho asshole.

I’m still standing there, working out a kink in my neck with a slow roll of my head when I hear a noise behind me. I turn to the door, facing a doe-eyed girl that’s as vaguely familiar as this weird little room.

She starts when she sees me, a hand fluttering to her chest. “Geez,” she mutters, “Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Should have given me stronger drugs.” I toss the needle onto the bed, hoping Smith or one of his cronies stands on it barefoot and ends up needing a tetanus injection.

The girl giggles, which is an odd sound coming from someone who looks as drugged as I feel.

It’s the shadows under her eyes, the way her eyes roam around like she can’t find the energy to be interested in anything for longer than a millisecond, her fingers absently rubbing the fabric of her red silk gown.

“Thought you were in a coma,” she says. “Bet you’re starving.”

“Could care less about food right now.” My stomach rumbles like it thinks it’s invited to this conversation, but I ignore it.

The girl shrugs. “Wanna watch a movie?”

I push past her gently, but firmly. Don’t want to break her little bird bones or anything. “I’m getting the fuck out of here,” I mutter, more for myself than to her.

“Uh…okay…” The girl yawns, her voice following me from the room. “I’m Anita, by the way. Smith said you’re Zoey? That’s a nice name.”

Anita can’t read a room to save her life, because despite my frigid silence, she trails me as I search the weird sex trafficking dorm I’ve been imprisoned in.

There’s an exit, but a sliver of memory warns that there’s a burly man stationed outside who could snap my neck without breaking a sweat.

No phone. No windows. A couple more doors, all except one closed.

“Bathroom?” I ask, already heading for the door.

“Oh, yeah. The flusher’s weird, you got to hold it down?—“

I slam the door in Anita’s face before she can follow me inside the white room.

It would have looked like something out of a horror movie, one of those where everything in the too-white bathroom gets splashed with blood, but someone put a vase of now-wilting peonies near the tub, and the towels are pastel pink.

Still no windows, just the quiet hum from a nearby ventilation unit.

“I’m gonna make some popcorn,” Anita calls through the door. “You want some?”

My stomach perks up again, but I poke it into submission. “It’s probably drugged, dummy,” I whisper. “Bet everything in here is soaked with tranquilizers. Or heroin. You want heroin-coated popcorn, you idiot?”

I’m not mad at my stomach. It’s not its fault that I’m stuck in this hellhole.

“There’s protein shakes,” Anita calls out, voice slightly muffled by the door. “The rainbow cookie one’s the best, but I had the last one this morning. I’ll go ask Eddie to bring us some more.”

“Shut it, Anita!” someone yells, making me fumble with the toothbrush I was holding. I was wondering whether I could carve it into a shiv.

The scare does something to my straining bladder muscles. I almost pee myself before I can make it to the toilet. My idiot brain doesn’t seem to care about getting me out of here. It’s ruminating on whether Anita will track down some of that highly prized rainbow cookie flavored protein shake.

While I’m wrestling with my mind, trying to get it to focus on escape, not nutrition, it rebels and floods me with a visceral memory of Smith applying lotion to my skin. Bundling me in a warm blanket. Cradling me to his chest.

I bark out a laugh, shaking my head as I stand and flush—on the third attempt.

That’s a fantasy if ever there was one. Smith, treating me kindly ?

There’s not a single parallel universe containing that version of him.

I go to wash my hands, smirking when I realize there’s no mirror above the vanity. A nice big shard of mirror would make an excellent self-defense—or self-attack—weapon. Plus, I’m guessing the women who live here don’t need a reminder of the damage being done to them.

Cold water splashed on my face wrings a little more life into me.

Anita slips back into the living area as I come out of the bathroom. She widens her eyes at me, nodding enthusiastically as she hikes a thumb over her shoulder.

“Eddie’ll fetch some for us,” she says, grinning.

Grinning.

Because of protein shakes.

She catches my elbow as I come hurtling past, trying to stop me from reaching the door.

“What’re you doing?” she whispers furiously.

“Leaving!”

“Shut up!” the same woman yells from behind one of the closed doors.

“Zoey, no!” Anita tries to pull me back, but I got some of my strength back, and it’s ridiculously easy to pull out of her grip.

I yank on the door handle, but it must be locked.

“Anita?” comes a voice from outside, followed by what sounds like a sigh, then a beep. The handle moves down.

As soon as the door opens, I dart forward—and almost run face-first into the wall of human flesh in my way.

Eddie.

“Thought you said he was going to fetch us some shakes,” I snap at Anita.

“Someone will bring them,” Eddie says.

“Yeah, Eddie never leaves,” Zoey says, sliding a bony hand around my arm and trying to pull me away from the door. “Come on, Z. Let’s grab some pop from the fridge or something.”

“Don’t want pop ,” I mutter, staring down Eddie like we’re a couple of boxers in a ring. “I want to leave .”

Eddie shakes his head, brown eyes narrowing as he tucks his thumbs into his belt loops. There’s a gun clipped to a holster on one side, something that might be a walkie talkie balancing it out on the other side.

“’Fraid that’s not happening.”

He and Troy probably go to the gym together. Lift weights, inject themselves with steroids, that kind of thing. No wonder he’s Anita’s go-to for protein shakes. Probably buys them in bulk.

“This is illegal,” I whisper. “When I get out?—”

“ If you get out,” Anita cuts in, for once not sounding as cheery.

My mouth works, but those quiet words just knocked the fucking wind out of me. Eddie’s jaw tics, an almost sympathetic look flashing in his eyes. If someone who looks like he eats a dozen raw eggs a day could even be capable of sympathy.

“Go back inside with Anita and watch a movie.” And, as if he’s on my side , adds, “I won’t tell Smith you tried to leave.”

I slink back when Anita tugs on my arm, and I let her lead me into the kitchen. The door closes quietly behind us, and there’s the unmistakable beep of the lock.

“So we have cherry, cola…” Anita’s voice fades, replaced by an urgent buzzing in my ears as my gaze flicks around my prison. The kitchen is as sterile as the rest of the place. High end appliances and furnishings, all in gray or brushed steel.

And, Jesus, someone thought creating a fake window with cute little lace curtains was an appropriate design choice, and not at all a slap in the face for the women locked up in here.

Anita grabs my wrist, manipulating my hand around an icy can of soda. “Drink it. It’ll make you feel better.”

I want to yell at her. To shake her by her bony shoulders until her eyes roll around in their roomy sockets.

But this isn’t her fault.

So I pop open the can and drink, shivering as the cold, sweet liquid foams its way down my throat. And Anita’s right—it makes me feel better. When the sugar hits my brain, the rusted cogwheels finally start turning.

“Why’d you say I was in a coma?”

Anita stares at me owlishly over the top of her can. “You took forever to wake up. And Smith kept coming to check in on you, like he was worried or something.”

I snort. “If he was so fucking worried, he’d have let me go.”

She shrugs. “I think it’s romantic.”

“Romantic,” I croak woodenly.

Anita’s cheeks turn pink. “Yeah. Like, you know, Sleeping Beauty or something.”

I snort again. “He’s not a prince, Anita. If anything, he’s the motherfucking villain.”

Another shrug. “I was always a Lex Luthor girl, myself.”

“Whatever. So how long was I pulling my Disney princess impression?” Must have been at least overnight, judging from how shitty I feel. I reach a hand under my robe, gingerly stroking a welt on my ass. It’s definitely had time to heal.

“A couple of days.”

I inhale soda, and nearly cough up a lung. “ Days ?”

Anita slurps noisily at her soda, patting me absently on the back. “You sure you don’t wanna watch a movie? It’s the only thing that makes the time go by. That, and sleeping.”

Days .