Page 25 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

Jesus, I feel like I’m going to pass out.

“Sure you couldn’t make it tighter?” I mutter sourly.

This dress’s cinched bodice turns my breasts into two scoops of ice cream on a waffle. The skirt barely covers my ass, and when I bend even slightly, the white ruffled panties pop out beneath the hem.

I stare at my reflection in the polished metal of the elevator doors. A stranger dressed as a Bavarian beer maid, complete with white stockings and black Mary Janes that pinch my toes, glares back at me.

“Quiet,” Troy mutters beside me.

He has explained nothing to me. Not where I’m going, not why I’m wearing this ridiculous outfit.

Not why it’s him, not Smith, fetching me.

Guess you’ve finally reached the end of the line, Zoey. Wonder what this ride has in store? Could be the spinning teacups, could be the zipper.

My stomach is a pit of acid.

The elevator stops with a soft ping. When the doors slide open, my gaze locks onto the figure standing just outside.

Smith.

My heart stutters at the sight of him.

Three days of nothing, and now here he is—pressed charcoal gray suit with the jacket open to show off his black tie, dark leather suspenders, perfectly styled hair and clean-shaven face, eyes hidden behind designer glasses that reflect the harsh overhead lights like mirrors.

“I’ve got it from here, Troy,” he says, voice clipped.

“Thought you were still indisposed.” Troy eyes him for a second. “Took hell of convincing to let Rich swap out with me.”

Smith’s eyes are still locked onto mine. “I owe you one.”

Troy retreats into the elevator without another word.

When I stay rooted to the spot, Smith steps forward, angling his head a fraction like he’s wondering what the hell’s the holdup. I can see his eyes as they sweep over me. Clinical and cold as they are, there’s a tightness around his mouth, a tension in his shoulders.

“Come.” He turns without waiting for a response, leading me down a corridor I’ve never been in before.

Every time I’ve cataloged the extent of Smith’s world, I’m forced down another weird hallway, into another lavish elevator, through another mysterious door.

Those rooms in the sex trafficking dorm? Not all of them have beds inside.

Anita woke me up from a muddled dream where I was being chased by drug dealing thugs on jet skis trying to inject me with heroin. The one in the lead looked like Smith, and Buzzcut was just behind him, both of them grinning like fucking Jack-o’-lanterns.

I’ve been a bit too preoccupied to dwell on the life I left behind. Or, should I say, the one Smith forcibly wrenched me from. I’m not even that mad at Ricky anymore. I’m used to his disappearing acts by now.

I just hope he’s okay.

Anita jammed a protein shake in my hand, and began chattering about how she’d have loved ‘this gig’, but they never give it to her because of her asthma as she led me into a walk-in closet larger than my burned down apartment.

A closet filled with everything from Halloween costumes to evening gowns. Shelves crammed with shoes. Mink stoles and feather boas. Handbags in every size, shape, and color. Jewelery, makeup, and wigs.

For a moment, a sweet, gorgeous moment, I thought I was still dreaming as I ran my hand through the evening gowns and felt the creamy fabric.

But when I turned back to Anita, she was holding out one of the Halloween costumes.

She was adamant it wasn’t a joke.

My stomach had dropped to my fucking toes back there, but that creeping unease I felt is nothing like what I’m feeling now.

Gone are the sterile gray carpets and beige walls of the staff corridors, the fake windows and pastel pink towels where the Angels live. Now I’m surrounded by darkly paneled walls, and walking over elaborately patterned carpets.

The hallway ends at an ornate door with a brass plaque.

THE LABYRINTH

Smith should look surreal against such a moody backdrop, what with his pressed pants and immaculately styled hair…but he blends right in. Like a distinguished crypt keeper.

As I reach him, Smith slides his large hand into his jacket, his back angled to me.

I freeze, convinced he’s reaching for a gun.

That this is the hallway where they snuff out girls who are taking too long to repay their debt.

Or who made fun of their clients. Or who just put up too much of a fight…

even when that’s exactly what the clients wanted.

Smith’s hand emerges with a black collar. The words ‘Property of—’ are embossed in gold across the leather. His fingers cover up the last bit, leaving my mind to fill in the blanks.

Property of who? Myles, the guy Smith so reluctantly reports to? Or maybe they sold me to someone. One transaction, nice and neat, no more fuss.

Property of…

…Smith?

A feeling courses through me, so strong goosebumps break out on my skin, and my nipples harden. I can’t figure out if it’s fear or fascination.

“Turn around,” he orders calmly.

Always so fucking calm…until he’s not.

I obey, lifting my hair without him asking.

His fingers brush against my neck as he fastens the collar, lingering a beat too long.

There’s a pendant on the front—a large red gem encrusted with diamonds—that bumps against my throat as I move.

When I turn back, his eyes are darker, jaw clenched tight.

He steps back, forcing me to confront the mysterious door.

My eyes grudgingly scan the plaque as Smith swipes his keycard against the panel beside the dark door.

“So what kind of joyride is this?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended, the sassy sarcasm all but wilted.

“It’s more a game than a ride.” His dark gaze flicks to the door, then back to me. “This client has specific…tastes.”

I swallow hard, brushing the collar when it tightens against my throat. “Let me guess, just do what he says and try not to insult his dick?”

Something flashes across Smith’s face, briefly tugging at his mouth.

Anger, or amusement?

“Not this time, kitten.” He steps closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “This time, I want you to run.”

I blink, turning to face him, sure I’ve misheard. “ Run ?”

“It’s a maze. You get a thirty-second head start.” His words are measured, clinical, but his eyes never leave mine. “Your only goal is to avoid capture for as long as possible.”

A cold weight settles in my stomach. “And if I’m caught?”

Smith’s jaw ticks. His hands curl to fists at his side. Now there’s no mistaking the anger smoldering in his eyes.

Smith’s expression hardens. “Then you fucking fight.”

The world tilts slightly, sounds muffled like I’m underwater.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Smith puts his hand on the small of my back, turning me to face the door. The heat of his palm burns through the thin fabric of my dress. “There are three exits hidden throughout the maze,” he whispers. “Find one, and you win your freedom.”

I glance up at him over my shoulder. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems as reluctant to open the door as I am to step through it.

“And if I can’t find an exit?”

“Keep running.” His eyes darken. “And don’t let him catch you.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Who is this guy?”

“Someone who enjoys the chase.” Smith’s voice is tighter.

We’re standing so close now I can smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. His hand moves from my back to my arm, fingers curling around my upper arm.

“Someone who likes it when his prey struggles.”

There’s something he’s not telling me. Something in the intensity of his gaze, the slight tremor in his fingers against my skin.

I’m trembling, but I lift my chin, refusing to show how terrified I am.

“Someone who doesn’t care if his prey enjoys the hunt as much as he does.”

Before I can process what that means, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a brief touch so tender it steals my breath.

The moment stretches between us, electric and dangerous.

Then, as if catching himself, he blinks and steps back, running a hand down the front of his body as if smoothing his tie. His face shutters, that frigid mask sliding back into place.

“Don’t disappoint me, kitten,” he says as the door to the Labyrinth swings open. “I’ll be watching.”