Page 24 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

Rows of monitors bathe the tiny control room in a sickly blue glow, each screen a window into a different part of The Den. I’ve been here for six hours straight, eyes flickering from feed to feed, pretending I’m surveilling, not stalking.

Zoey is curled up on her bed, facing away from the camera. Despite the grainy night-vision feed, I can make out the rise and fall of her breathing.

Slow. Even.

Finally asleep. Her tears finally dried up.

Our usual setup from the Angels’s quarters is a feed that switches from room to room every thirty seconds.

Room one through ten, living area, repeat.

I adjusted that feed as soon as I relieved the two security officers usually stationed in this control room. Right after I assured them they weren’t being fired. Nick still looked uneasy when he left, like I’d asked to use his laptop and he hadn’t had time to clear his browser history.

I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, the burn of exhaustion making them water.

When last did I leave this room long enough to do more than take a piss? I haven’t opened my laptop in well over a day.

My intentions were pure. In the beginning.

I’d convinced myself I could do my work while monitoring the drugged-up woman currently wrapped in my cashmere throw.

I’d completed and submitted the compliance review with time to spare, and even manually approved a handful of new Den clients, just to prove to Myles that I’m still interested in doing my fucking job.

But I haven’t attended another shift at the casino. Have ignored several emails that required me to leave this room to attend to some or other issue. Turned my phone off hours ago.

It’s been three days since I carried Zoey out of my room.

Three days of watching her through these fucking screens like some voyeuristic coward. The only time I’ve left was to swap out her IV bag, feel her pulse, and then force myself to leave before I…

Fuck knows, but I made sure not to find out.

I drop my hand to my pants, finger the paper folded into the size of a credit card in my pocket.

Zoey’s medicals came back this morning. O negative, universal donor. Selenium levels a little low, but no one’s perfect. Everything else within range.

My hand drifts up to where she forked me. There are barely any marks left in my skin, but if I concentrate, I swear I can still feel them aching.

The door opens behind me, spilling harsh fluorescent light across the bank of monitors. I don’t turn around. Despite being zoned in on Zoey’s monitor, I’m still halfheartedly tracking the other feeds.

No nasty surprises.

“Turned your phone off.” Troy’s voice has just the slightest hint of concern.

He sets a mug of coffee down beside my hand. Black. No sugar. The scent hits me, rich and bitter, momentarily cutting through the fog of sleep deprivation.

“Then how’d you find me?” I sound like I’ve been gargling gravel.

“Caught Nick chain smoking behind the bar. Says you’re gonna can him.”

“Christ.” I should investigate Nick’s paranoia. Must be a reason he’s so convinced his gig is up.

Speaking of…

“What time is it?”

“Six-thirty.”

Troy doesn’t specify PM. Doesn’t need to. The hollow feeling in my stomach and the stubble on my jaw are confirmation enough. I take a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving the monitor where Zoey shifts in her sleep, tugging the cashmere throw around her shoulders.

I relive the jolt I felt when she turned to look up at the camera, like she could sense me watching her, bearing silent witness to her misery.

Twisted fuck I am, I relished every sliver of pleasure I felt at seeing her tortured face.

“You look like shit, Smith.”

I shoot him a level stare. “That your expert opinion?”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

I open my mouth, but he cuts in with a low, “In a bed, not that chair.”

My fingers tighten around the mug. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, obviously.” Troy leans against the edge of the console, deliberately blocking my view of Zoey’s monitor. “What’s the plan here, Smith? How long do you plan on watching her through this camera instead of dealing with her?”

“I’m handling it.”

“This isn’t handling it. This is obsessing over it.”

“I’m not obsessing .” I make a point of not trying to peer past Troy’s bulk, staring up at him instead.

“Could’ve fooled me.” He nods toward the screen. “What’s so special about her, anyway?”

“Fuck off, Troy.” The words come out sharper than I intended, laced with a venom that has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.

With what happens in my mind every time I try to talk myself down from this dangerous cliff’s edge I seem so keen to dance on lately.

Silence stretches between us. I drag a hand down my face, stubble scratching against my palm.

“Sorry,” I mutter finally.

Troy shrugs, but his eyes stay pinned on me. Assessing.

“Compliance review done?”

“Yesterday.”

“So what’s your excuse now?”

I don’t have one. That’s the problem. I’ve run out of reasons to keep Zoey isolated, to keep her to myself. Myles’ seventy-two-hours expired at midnight.

I’m running on borrowed time.

On the screen, Zoey slowly turns over, her face now visible to the camera. Even in sleep, her brow is furrowed, mouth set in a defiant line. Fighting demons in her heavily sedated dreams.

Do they wear my face?

“Tomorrow,” I say finally. “Tomorrow I’ll fetch her. Get her trained. She’ll be ready to see her next client by the end of the week.”

Troy’s expression says it all.

Can’t blame him.

If I’d had any intention of doing it, it would already be done. I’m not known to procrastinate.

“While I’m happy that you’ve finally committed to doing your job, Dom, I’m afraid your time’s up,” Troy says quietly.

I sip at my coffee, grimacing. It tastes like tar.

“They sent you to fetch her,” I say, just as somber.

“Labyrinth. Nine PM.”

My head snaps up. “The Labyrinth? Who the fuck arranged that?”

“Rich. Said if he’d get her ready if you didn’t show.”

“The fuck he will!”

The rage that floods through me is instant and overwhelming. I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, chair rolling back across the floor and slamming into the doorjamb.

My mug slams down so hard, coffee sloshes over the rim, burning my fingers and seeping into the keyboard on the console. I wait for sparks, or smoke, but nothing happens.

Myles is usually the one pushing my buttons—claims it keeps us on our toes—but Rich seems to have taken a particular interest in Zoey that I can only assume is anything but benign.

“Cancel,” I spit.

“Can’t. Myles approved it.”

“Who?”

“Luis Molina.”

“I only just vetted him.”

“What’s your point?”

My mouth works, but fuck knows what else I can say.

Troy tilts back his head to study me. “Tell me again how you’re not obsessing over her?”

I turn back to the monitor, watching Zoey’s sleeping form over Troy’s shoulder. So small in that narrow bed. So fucking defiant, even after everything.

Mine .

The thought comes unbidden, unwanted, but undeniable.

“Get out,” I breathe.

Troy hesitates, then sighs. “I’m fetching her at eight, Smith. You’ve got a little over an hour to get whatever this is—“ he gestures to me, to the monitors, to the obvious mess I’ve become, “—under control. Else Myles will happily do it for you.”

He pushes my chair out of the doorway so he can leave, throwing me a disgusted look over his shoulder.

“And for God’s sake, shave.”

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the blue glow of the monitors and the sleeping girl who’s somehow dismantled every wall I’ve spent years building.

I reach for the coffee, but my hand is shaking too badly to pick up the mug.

The Labyrinth? Well played, Myles. Well played.

I nearly laugh.

And everything thinks I’m the sadist.