Page 4 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

Shit, shit, shit!

My heart pounds inside my chest as I rush toward the casino’s exit as fast as I can without flat-out running. Turns out the Devil’s Luck is the unluckiest place I could have chosen.

Why am I not surprised?

…two hundred. Two weeks…

Buzzcut’s words echo in my head with every step. The hundred and something thousand in my purse isn’t enough. Buzzcut won’t accept partial payment, and he sure as hell won’t extend my deadline. Negotiating with him would probably involve zip ties and whatever pliers they remove fingernails with.

If I don’t make it out of here with this money, I might as well hand him the Zippo myself.

Damn it, I should have cashed out the instant I saw that man in the designer suit looking at me. But those stern, dark eyes behind his expensive-looking glasses caught me completely off guard.

As soon as I realized he was the floor manager, I began sweating.

No way he was just doing his normal rounds. The dealer at my table must have sent for him, like a minion of hell summoning the Devil.

I hurry down the staircase and slip into the chaos of the casino’s ground floor. The clatter of coins cascading into the metal trays of the slot machines is already deafening, but on top of that, people are laughing, yelling, begging as they win, lose, or try to talk themselves out of divorce.

Damn it, I was so careful!

I’ve been here for hours. Started off slow, small bets to start, waiting until the cards turned in my favor. If it hadn’t been for that mouth breather sitting next to me, I’d have gotten away with it.

No, Zoey, if it hadn’t been for you, you’d be scot-free right now.

I’ve only been able to scare up seventy thousand in loans in the few days since Buzzcut came looking for Ricky. When my bank manager told me it could take up to eight weeks to get a second mortgage on the diner, I was out of options.

Except one.

I could double, even triple, my seventy at a casino…playing blackjack.

Counting cards isn’t difficult.

Honestly, when Ricky first taught me, I thought I’d have to be some kind of prodigy. But if you can handle basic addition and subtraction, then you’ve got it. The hardest part is not losing concentration.

And when some Colombian gangster tells you to pay up or he’ll set you on fire…well, it’s motivating as fuck.

I glance over my shoulder and nearly have a heart attack when I see the floor manager walking down the stairs. There isn’t a single black hair out of place on his neatly styled head.

“Shit!”

This feels like a Terminator sequel.

I dart between a row of slot machines, the bright lights and loud sounds making my head spin.

I’m lightheaded, my mouth cork-dry.

I’m regretting the three vodka-tonics I had as much as the audacity I dared to have. What does someone like that even do to people who count cards? Call the cops? Break my fucking knee caps?

A man gets up from a slot machine right in front of me. I can’t dodge fast enough and crash headlong into him.

I briefly consider apologizing, but when I look back over my shoulder, there he is again .

Rounding the corner, calm as ever.

Not running. Not rushing.

As if there’s no need to chase now that he’s caught my scent. Like he’ll just keep coming, catching up to me as I sleep.

Shit, shit, shit!

My pulse pounds in my ears, nearly drowning out the chiming, clattering slot machines. I turn a corner, then another. Another. Desperately hoping to lose him by doubling, then tripling back through the slot machines.

Just when I think I’ve lost him, I slam into a solid wall of man-flesh.

I bounce right off, and try to keep my momentum going by backtracking, but he’s too fast.

The floor manager snatches up my wrist and drags me right up against him.

“What makes you think running from someone like me is a good idea?” His deep, silky voice oozes authority and calm menace…and disrespect.

I’m struck mute.

Both by fear and panty-melting disbelief at the man who has no right looking and sounding this handsome as he takes me in with an emotionless sweep of his dark eyes. There isn’t a single smudge on his glasses. Not one crease in his suit.

Heat radiates from his body, enveloping me in a scent that’s all expensive cologne and male skin.

My body betrays me with a shiver that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how tight he grips my wrist, how his height forces me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

God, how would those full lips of his feel against my?—

Wait, what the actual fuck?

This guy isn’t some dreamboat I can fantasize about at night when I can’t fall asleep.

He’s dangerous in a way I haven’t quite figured out yet.

Dear God, I hope I won’t get a chance to.

I struggle in his grip. “Is this where I beg, or do we just skip straight to the part where you break my kneecaps?”

“If I wanted to break you, kitten, I wouldn’t start with your kneecaps.”

“ Kitten ?”

My slap catches us both off guard, but he recovers first, fingers brushing against the splotch of red on his cheek. Then he slowly tilts his head, his lashes lowering as his lips curl into something faint, unreadable.

Not a smile.

Smiles aren’t supposed to be that menacing.

My pulse stutters, and I tug harder at my trapped wrist.

Fuck. Did I make him mad? I can’t afford to piss off another dangerous man. One tattooed psycho threatening to burn me alive has already maxed out my quota.

“Let go!” Why do I sound so high-strung? I mean, we’re in the middle of a casino. What’s he going to do?

He flicks my hair over my shoulder, making my stomach clench, and then grabs the back of my neck and spins me around. It happens so fast that I’m facing in the other direction before I realize what’s happened.

A few casino guests look in my direction, but apparently they know better than to interfere because they quickly turn back to their machines like they saw nothing.

“Are you going to call the police?” Why do I sound so frightened?

“The police?” His brows rise slightly, like the thought vaguely amuses him. “I don’t think so.”

My stomach drops.

I should be relieved. Buzzcut made it damn clear that getting the cops involved would void our agreement.

But if this guy isn’t calling the cops, then...

… keep fucking around, sweetheart. I got another weapon in my pants I’m itching to take out…

Great. So now I’ve got one psycho threatening to burn down my diner and another who’d rather deal with me himself than call the police. The universe really is committed to this whole ‘fuck Zoey’s life’ bit.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” I blurt out.

The only response is a slight tightening in his fingers, a touch that’s doing weird things to my body. At first cool, his skin is warming against mine. The longer he grips me, the more I’m trembling inside.

When it looks like he’s leading me to the casino’s front entrance, a blast of icy relief chases through me…but then he angles me away and shoves me through a nondescript metal door, into a dimly lit passage.

I force a swallow when that heavy door slides shut behind us, muting the noise from the casino.

“Where are you taking me?” I wish I could sound indignant, but my voice is shaking too much.

“Somewhere private.”

Goosebumps scatter over my arms.

Oh, God. This is bad.

Maybe not ‘Buzzcut burning down my diner with me in it’ bad, but still.

“You can’t do this,” I say, clearing my throat when I hear how pathetic my voice sounds. “I have rights!”

“You’ll know when I want you to speak, because I’ll have asked you a question.”

“Look, I get it. People look up to you.” Literally. This guy is tall. “You have a reputation to uphold. But I’m not?—”

“Last warning.”

I throw him a glare over my shoulder, but when I catch sight of the man’s calm expression, I realize I’m alone in a dimly lit hallway with a psychopath. And since this is not the hill I plan to die on, I shut the hell up.

He drags me into a tiny room with zero windows, a dented metal desk, and a chair that’s seen better days.

The casino’s chaos is gone. The hum of an ancient air conditioner fills the silence like white noise, the only other sound that of my pulse thudding in my ears as my mind races.

Eyewitnesses saw him chasing me through the casino. If he commits a crime, then he’d be arrested and?—

In a week’s time, Buzzcut will still burn down Mom’s diner, because he always keeps his appointments.

I grunt when he gives me a hard push, and barely catch myself against the edge of the desk. My skirt flares out when I spin around, ready to defend myself, but he simply kicks up his heel and pushes the door closed behind him, eyes locked with mine.

My gaze flickers to his suspenders as he slowly slides a thumb down the inside of that dark leather strap, where it strains against the hint of muscle beneath his white button-up shirt. I force my eyes back to his, trying to ignore the pulse of unease that flutters through me.

That was a powerful shove.

I touch my hand to the back of my neck where he had been holding me. The skin there is still too warm. And tingly.

He studies me much like I studied him, spending a moment on my hair, my lips, the hem of my A-line skirt as he adjusts his glasses like a serial killer getting ready for some fun.

Then, in that deep, silky voice, his expression the same blank mask, he murmurs, “Strip.”

My heart slams against my chest as reality crashes down on me, my hand instinctively slapping against my chest. If I still had my mother’s pearls, I’d be clutching them in a white-knuckled grip.

Sweet fuck.

I’m not leaving this place alive, am I?

But even as paralyzing terror floods my system, a traitorous heat is building low in my stomach.

It’s his presence, how it fills the tiny room, making the air between us vibrate. His commanding tone of his voice.

How his eyes darken behind those glasses as he waits for me to comply.

Knowing I will.

Expecting it.

I press my thighs together, utterly disgusted with myself for feeling anything other than outright fear or panic.

Is it normal for Stockholm syndrome to set in this fast?