Page 41 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

“Zoey.”

It goes against every atom of self preservation I still have left, but when Smith calmly calls out my name, I somehow make myself stop. Not like I’d have been able to escape this basement parking, anyway. There’s a massive steel roller door up ahead, and no other exits.

We could have played hide and seek for a while between the cars parked down here, but he’d have found me. Possibly because I’d have let him.

Meek as fuck, I force myself to walk back to where Smith’s waiting beside the Rolls Royce. I just poked a hive of wasps with a stick. I’m sure as hell not going to swing a bat around, too.

“In.”

Like I need a fucking invitation. There’s a driver behind that privacy glass somewhere. It’s a futile hope to cling on to, but I have to believe Smith won’t throttle me to death when there’s an eyewitness a few feet away.

Just to be safe, I avoid eye contact with Smith when he opens the door for me.

I even utter a tiny, “Thank you, m’lord,” as I take my seat.

And I keep my eyes down the entire way to the casino.

I’m all too aware of the way he flexes and clenches the hand he punched into the elevator’s wall. Like it’s hurting now, and he regrets it.

Don’t we both?

Note to self. Never, ever , mention kissing around Smith again.

Talk about a fucking trigger.

After that flare up, our usual silence is almost comforting. We take the elevator up to his room, and he tosses a beige knee-length dress on the bed without a word. Then he goes into the bathroom, closing the door so hard behind him I jump.

He didn’t take out underwear for me, an explicit command that I shouldn’t wear any. How he knows that my period’s stopped is anyone’s guess but mine. I don’t think about things that could give me nightmares.

I tug on the dress, zip it up as far as I can in the back, and go to wait on the balcony.

My eyes drift down before darting up again.

No matter how desperate I am, jumping is not an option.

I take big hits of the clean, crisp night air, trying to steady my nerves. The dress means he has a shift at the casino. And since I’m apparently three years old and can’t be left alone, I have to accompany him.

Honestly, I enjoy our outings a hell of a lot more than ordering room service and watching mindless television.

Returning inside, I stare at myself in the dressing table mirror as I fuss with my hair. Smith exits the bathroom a moment later, a cloud of cologne and shaving cream escaping with him. He walks straight up to me and zips up the back of my dress with a violent tug.

Our eyes meet in the mirror, that casual glance instantly becoming a staring match. A game I would have won had he not grabbed a fistful of my hair and wrenched my head back.

“Cheater,” I mumble.

“It’s not cheating if you make the rules.”

“And what happens when this made-up game of yours ends, huh?” I stare up at him, but he keeps his gaze on my reflection. “Is there even a chance I’ll win, or do you just toss all the pieces in the trash when you’re done?”

His expression freezes, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Everyone loses in this game, Zoey.”

“Even if they cheat?”

He wraps his other hand around my throat, but for once, he doesn’t squeeze. He just glides his thumb along my lower jaw, eyes unfocused, like he’s visiting some distant memory. An unpleasant one, from the way his lips thin.

“Especially if they cheat.”

Sometimes Troy joins us at the casino, and then he and Smith will have their little private conversations that I can never eavesdrop on because the casino’s too loud.

But most of the time it’s just him and me, winding through the two levels of the casino.

Usually, all the lights and sounds and people milling about kinda make me happy, even with stony faced Smith at my side.

But tonight, the merry jingles and jangles start grating against my shot nerves the moment we enter the casino floor.

The lights are too bright.

The people are all too…frantic.

I’m getting bad vibes that can’t be blamed on my period anymore.

Must be the stress.

Smith walks ahead, not bothering to glance back and make sure I’m following. He doesn’t need to—there are hundreds of cameras monitoring every inch of this place. Even if I make it to the door, that’s probably the farthest I’ll get.

So I follow Smith’s tall frame through the casino he owns and manages, and I try to pretend I’m here by choice, just like I did in the Rolls Royce the first time Smith drove me to the Devil’s Den.

It helps that Smith oozes authority from every pore. When the staff spot him, they stand a little straighter, smile a little brighter, and move more precisely than before.

And the guests? Women seem to smell him coming, turning in anticipation and openly eyeing him as he walks past. Men either watch him with respect gleaming in their eyes, or envy twisting their mouths.

Bet none of them have seen him dent a fucking elevator wall with his fist.

We climb the stairs to the mezzanine level where the card tables are—me trying to stare at his ass through the slit in the back of his dark suit jacket, him scanning the lower level like a general surveying a battlefield.

I can’t believe I egged him on like that.

What the hell was I thinking?

I put him in such a dour, doom-and-gloom mood that it’s making what would have been a pseudo-fun outing feel like the walk to my own hanging.

Smith’s presence precedes him. There’s a wave of turned heads as he walks through the tables, and the dealers’ smiles turn on like Christmas lights.

He comes to a halt a few feet away from one of the blackjack tables, and I hesitate before coming to stand beside him. This VIP table is nestled deep inside the mezzanine level, a screen of plants in big, elegant pots providing some semblance of privacy.

His dark eyes flicker over the table as he watches the players placing their bets.

This is one of those somber games, the players keenly focused, faces impassive.

Such a different energy compared to the tables with smaller bets.

People betting thousands of dollars on a hand don’t seem fazed by their losses or their wins.

All you can hear from the cheaper tables are eager yesses and angry nos.

Guess winning or losing wouldn’t make much of a difference to their bank balance.

It’s all about the game for them.

The dealer gets blackjack, and three of the players at the five-seater table get up and step away. Only one of them looks remotely upset that they’ve lost their hand, but that’s probably a headache from keeping track of all his offshore accounts.

Judging from the small pile of chips left in front of the two remaining men, the house has been on a winning streak.

Smith grips me just above my elbow and steers me to the table. “Sit.”

Well, this is new.

My ass lands on the chair before I have time to question why. There’s an empty seat between us and the other two players, Smith taking the seat closest to them, with me at his side.

He’s wearing a black button-down shirt tonight instead of his usual white. It makes him look even more severe, like he’s just come back from a funeral. The only spot of color is his tie, but even that’s dark red.

The color of dried blood.

He takes a black chip out of his pocket and sets it down on the green felt. The casino’s logo is engraved on the surface, and nothing else.

God, it feels like centuries have passed since I made the fatal mistake of walking into the Devil’s Luck to try my non-existent luck. My heart jolts in my chest when the dealer transfers those chips into ten piles of the highest domination chips in the casino.

That’s what…two hundred grand?

She slides over the chips, and Smith splits them evenly between us.

I think I’m having a heart attack.

“You’re going to play without counting,” he says.

I’d laugh if I wasn’t still in shock. As if I could muster enough concentration to count cards right now.

“Bet,” Smith says, tapping the empty spot on the felt where my wager should be. There’s already a stack of chips in his wager box.

More than I’ve ever bet on a single hand in my life.

I force a swallow, try to ignore my racing pulse, and slide over one chip.

He lets out a bemused huff as the dealer draws the first cards. “You’re not even playing with your own money.”

“You’re stupid for betting so much out of the gate.” I flinch when he glides his hand over my thigh and gives me a squeeze.

“It’s called gambling for a reason.”

I stare at the nine of hearts and ten of spades I’m dealt, before running my gaze over the other players’ cards. “Gambling is stupid.”

“Testing my patience isn’t smart either.”

“Control freak,” I mutter, but under my breath so he can’t hear me.

The dealer has a ten of diamonds.

Smith has a six of spades and a king of diamonds.

The player to Smith’s right busts. The one next to him stands at seventeen.

I nearly faint when Smith doubles his wager.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

“Gambling. Try it. You might just like it.” Smith toys with the hem of my beige dress, as if he likes the feel of the fabric. My skin tingles wherever he touches, making it difficult for me to focus on keeping track of the cards.

Smith’s next card is a four of clubs. A rush of cold moves through my body. The only thing that can beat that is if the dealer gets twenty-one.

The dealer looks at me, and I wave my hand over my cards. I couldn’t even care if I’m going to win this hand or not. I just want to see what the hell the dealer has so I know if Smith’s won or not.

The dealer’s next card is a seven of hearts.

My heart takes a gallop inside my chest. “You won!”

Smith glances at me with a tiny frown between his brows as he absently accepts the stack of chips the dealer slides over the table to him. “That’s the point.”

I realize I’m acting like an idiot, and blush to my roots. Smith is still watching me as he fiddles with the hem of my dress.