Page 34 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

I prefer Smith’s casino suite to the one he has at the Devil’s Den. It’s larger, brighter, airier. The television in here faces away from the windows, so there’s no glare on the screen. Very important, seeing as I fill my days mindlessly bingeing Netflix.

Suppose there are worse ways to spend my days in captivity. I thought I’d be living with Anita and the others, fucking strangers twenty-four-seven to repay my debt.

Smith doesn’t seem very fond of that idea. Me fucking strangers, or me being further than ten feet away from him.

Ever since that day in the maze, I’ve hardly left his side.

Trying to figure out which conspiracy theory to go with is driving me insane. Did he know those men were Elonzo’s henchmen or not? Or did they go further than he’d agreed with them?

I’m sure the Devil’s Den is the kind of place that runs checks on the people it lets inside.

So how did those two get inside without raising any red flags? Maybe someone messed up, and that’s why he’s so overprotective now.

Or, maybe…he just likes me.

I’m not gonna lie. I kinda like him, even when I’m busy hating him.

This must be what they call Stockholm Syndrome.

I mean, Smith is a lot of things, but he’s not hard on the eyes. And while he’s doing his utmost best to ignore my presence while simultaneously making sure he’s always got me in his peripheral vision, on rare occasions he gets stuck in his work and seems to forget I’m even there.

There’s this thing he does when he’s deep in thought, pinching and rolling his bottom lip with his fingers, that makes me want to sit on his face.

Then I remember how he called me a whore and choked me so hard I blacked out, and I get over it real quick.

There’s a two-seater dining table near the balcony, with a view of the city if the curtains are drawn.

When I nag him enough, he’ll order room service for us.

Sometimes even twice a day, if he’s feeling generous.

I’ve learned to eat like a bear, stuffing my face until I want to puke, and then hibernating until my next feeding to conserve energy.

Must have lost half my body weight since the fateful day I walked into this fucking casino of his.

Luckily for me, Smith didn’t like that I was walking around in a silk robe the whole time, so he ordered me clothes. I assume the fabric was so expensive that they couldn’t order dye because everything is beige.

Not sure why he bothered when a potato sack might have served him better, but damn, the fabric is so silky soft I might never wear another pair of sweatpants in my life.

Would have to tie dye them, though.

My leg is up, foot on the chair near my ass as I side eye the mountain of vegetables still left in one of the serving dishes.

I’ve been craving something sweet for days now. Even had a dream about inventing a chocolate apple pie recipe that was so good, I got a crown and a mansion in the middle of nowhere. God, I’d kill for one of those rainbow sprinkle protein shakes, just for the artificial sugar.

I spear a baby carrot, which is the closest it seems I’ll ever get to tasting sugar again, and nibble on it as I try to study Smith without him noticing.

He’s on his phone, endlessly scrolling. Not doom scrolling like a normal person, but reading some incredibly long article that has his finger flicking over the screen every second.

That finger could be put to so much better use?—

No! Bad girl!

Smith glances up when he hears the faint crunch of the carrot. He locks his phone without taking his eyes off me, sits back in his chair, and adjusts his glasses.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I say with a shrug. “Just wish I had my phone, too. Must be hundreds of dick pics waiting for me on Tindr by now.”

Smith folds his arms over his chest, making his toned biceps strain against his white dress shirt.

He loves rolling up his sleeves when we come back from a shift at the casino.

Him with his smoldering lawyer-core aesthetic, me…

bringing beige back in a knee length pencil skirt, kitten heels, and a blouse my dead grandmother wouldn’t hesitate to wear to church.

“You have a Tindr account?” His jaw tightens just a fraction, but his voice could have kept a bottle of wine chilled all night.

My smile is sweet as chocolate-apple-pie. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Smith.”

“Professional curiosity.” He takes a sip from his bottle of mineral water, eyes never leaving mine, even when he has to tip his head back.

“You’re seriously asking for my body count when you have a fucking harem of call girls at your disposal?

” I toss the rest of the carrot into my mouth, giving it a few angry chews before swallowing most of it down.

“I’m curious. How does that work? Can you just zip over there and fuck one of them whenever you’re feeling horny, or do you have to sign them out on a—“ I wave my hand, grabbing another carrot on the way “—dunno, on a register of some kind? You being so techy, you probably have an app.”

Smith puts his water back on the table and leans back to study me. Might be the shadows in the room, but I swear he’s smirking at me. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, kitten.”

“Curiosity.” I point the carrot at him. “ Professional curiosity. I mean, I’m supposed to be one of them, right?”

He glances at the carrot as I use it to emphasize my point.

“Yet here I am, Rapunzel in her beige tower, and you won’t even let anyone get close enough so I can throw down my hair.”

He frowns at ‘beige’, then shakes his head like he’s dealing with a daft child. “So you’d prefer I shared you?”

If anything, I’m the one pulling mom duty here. “No, Smith, I’d just like to know where the fuck I stand.” Carrot goes left, then right. “Am I supposed to repay my alleged debt, or is this some secret government experiment to see how long I’ll last without sugar before keeling over?”

“You stand exactly where I put you.” He tightens the cross of his arms. “And right now, that’s at my side.”

“For how long, huh? Another week? A month? Forever?”

Smith rocks forward in his seat so fast, I rear back like he’s going to attack me. His voice is quiet, but brutal. “Until the only thing coming out of that smart mouth of yours is, ‘Yes, Sir,’ ‘Please, Sir,’ and ‘May I swallow, Sir?’”

My fork drops to the plate, and I wince at the loud clatter.

Jesus.

Now I remember why me and Smith have barely spoken the past week. Whenever we do, all I’m left with are more questions. And a headache.

Seriously, though, how long have I been at Smith’s side?

I’m losing track of time.

Of myself.

I finally started caring about things again after Mom passed. It all started when Ricky began closing the diner earlier and earlier every night. We always used to stay open until midnight. Then Mom was mugged in the alley, and Ricky started closing at eleven. Ten-thirty.

We lost money, and at first I thought I knew why he was doing it. He didn’t want a repeat of what happened to Mom. But then he started disappearing for days on end, and when he came back, he’d insist we close even sooner.

There was no arguing with him. He’d pull ‘big brother’ rank every time, and I was too broken back then to put up a fight.

But then he disappeared for an entire week, one of the quietest we’d had in months, and I took matters into my own hands and kept the diner open until midnight.

Should have listened to him.

If I’d stuck to Ricky’s rules, the diner would have been closed by the time Buzzcut came knocking, and I wouldn’t be in this fucking mess.

“Whatever,” I mutter, inhaling a deep, calming breath—that turns into a coughing fit when I inhale a piece of carrot that hasn’t made it all the way down my throat.

Smith bolts to his feet, snatching a bottle of water from the tray that arrived with dinner, but I wave him away, letting out one last hard cough to clear the obstruction.

Which clears a whole different obstruction I hadn’t—but should’ve—been aware of.

“No,” I whisper as heat floods my face and the crotch of my definitely-no-longer-beige panties.

I rush to my feet, turning to face Smith as I shuffle toward the bathroom without moving my thighs.

“You okay?” he frowns at me, taking a wary step closer, hand outstretched.

“Yeah.” I wave him away, trying to ignore how panicked I sound. “Yeah!”

I slam the bathroom door closed and hurry to the toilet, my stomach sinking when I tug down my sweats and see the mess in my panties.

Right on time, if a little heavier than usual. Usually, I get a cramp or two before I start, but this time…nothing.

Must be all those orgasms.

I strip off my pants, dabbing at the underwear, but so much blood came out when I coughed it soaked through to my sweats as well.

Great. Had to get Smith riled up right moments before I needed his help, didn’t I?

I wad up some toilet paper and shove it between my legs, hobbling over to the door. I take a second to gather myself, forehead pressed to the cool wood, before I call out, “Smith?”

“I’m here.”

“Jesus!” I sway away from the door, heart pounding at the jump scare he gave me.

He’s right outside the door.

I glance at the lock, then at the door handle. But thank God, he doesn’t come in. I mean, I could lock it…but I doubt that would end well, and who knows what he’d do once he’d busted his way through.

“I, uh…”

“Is everything okay?” His voice is deep and low as ever, but there’s this touch of urgency to it that makes me shiver.

“Yes, m’lord,” I reply dryly. “It’s just a little blood. Happens every month.”

Silence.

“So, uh, I kind of need?—”

“I’ll ask room service to bring up some tampons. Or do you prefer napkins?”

Now I’m the silent one. I suppose running a harem of sex slaves, you’ve gotta know about cycles and stuff, but this is just…fucking weird.

“Tampons are fine. And clean clothes. Please.”

That last makes me feel like fucking Oliver Twist begging for some more, but I swallow down my pride and somehow manage not to add something snarky to my oh-so-humble request.