Page 45 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

The sound of black, glossy nails scraping over the table’s felt shouldn’t be so loud. Shouldn’t be so fucking annoying . But in an effort to hone in on our poker game, I’m instead obsessing over my opponent’s tics.

This deep into the mezzanine level, the constant background noise of the casino is muted. We’re seated close to where Zoey and I played blackjack just a short while ago. Where I got her off and then got slapped for my efforts.

It’s been roughly thirty seconds since I last thought about her.

“Smith?”

Nathalie smiles when I look up at her, lipstick so sharp she could have drawn it on with a red sharpie. She owns a cosmetic company, so I guess it’s second nature for her makeup to be flawless, but that’s annoying me too, tonight. It feels as staged as my performance at this game.

“Smith!” Her voice is sharper this time, a waft of her musky, floral perfume hitting my nose when she leans in. “You’re so distracted tonight. I’m taking it personally.”

“Don’t.”

I made the mistake of indulging Nathalie with a few hands of poker some months ago, the first time she graced our casino.

I was still a wreck after the whole thing with Michelle, and Nathalie was an easy distraction.

Now, whenever Nathalie comes to town, she always asks for me.

Somehow, Myles locked on to the fact, and always makes sure I’m available.

Keeping whales happy isn’t in my job description, but to deny her would mean less legitimate money flowing into the casino…and she can spend upwards of a hundred grand with us when the odds aren’t in her favor.

Even if she arrived penniless tonight, I should be eager for the distraction.

Yet here I am, seconds away from telling her to fuck off.

I glance down at my cards.

The king of diamonds and the eight of clubs stare back at me, but I barely register them. I don’t care how this hand ends. All I care about is getting back to Zoey.

Which is why I can’t allow myself to leave this table yet.

Nathalie studies me across the baize, a lazy smile curving her lips.

She doesn’t care how this hand ends either.

She thrives on the performance. The slow sip of her overpriced cocktail, the way she glances at me through her eyelashes, how her knee brushes against mine under the table like it’s an accident.

It isn’t.

“I believe you’re brooding, Sir,” she purrs, tipping her martini glass toward me before taking a sip of her espresso martini. Her nails tap once against the side of the glass before scraping over the patterns on the felt again. “What’s her name?”

For once, it’s not just Zoey who’s clouding my mind.

I was pacing through the rows of slots machines, where I knew Nathalie wouldn’t be caught dead, trying to ignore Myles’s summons. Then Troy messaged me about a staff issue.

Dylan’s gotten several warnings for sexual harassment over the past few months, verbal and written, and was subjected to hours of educational training materials to help him understand why what he was doing was wrong.

Narcissistic little shit thinks none of that applies to him. That if he wants to grope his girlfriends during his shift, he was fully entitled to do so.

Problem is, neither Kate nor Nicky are dating him. And I sincerely hope they press sexual assault charges against him like I insisted they did.

Then there was his drinking. He was barely two hours into his shift, but I smelt booze on him the moment I walked into the HR office.

I fired him on the spot, then had to physically remove him from the property when he refused to leave. That’s around when he began yelling about suing me.

“So not a girl, then,” Nathalie murmurs with a faint smile. “Bad cards?”

I exhale through my nose, flicking my gaze over the rim of my cards to find her watching me like I’m a puzzle she intends to solve.

I’m supposed to answer. Flash a smirk, make some idle remark, play pretend like I always do. But I’d rather stab a fork in my other pec than put up with this any longer.

I know how this ends.

Her, kneeling without being asked, bowing her head just enough to appear obedient. But her submission was never real, just a role she was playing.

A script she’s perfected over the months she’s played at being the perfect little sub.

Usually, I let her push the illusion forward for as long as it entertains me. She calls me Sir and purrs out, “please.” When I decide she’s earned it, I take what I want from her, as rough and degrading as I want.

Even then, her part is pure performance. Back arched just so. Panting and moaning like she’s rehearsed it.

No need to earn her surrender. She offers it like a gift, and I tear off the wrapping the same way every single time.

“Listen, Nathalie. Tonight’s not?—“

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out, glancing briefly at the screen.

Troy

Got another issue. You available?

Thank fuck.

I toss my cards onto the table and shove my chair back.

“We’re in the middle of a game,” Nathalie huffs, tacking on an irritated, “Sir.”

But I’m already rising from my seat, leaving my chips on the table because I know the dealer will make sure they find their way back to me.

“Not even a goodbye?” she calls after me, her voice a much too loud for the mezzanine level.

If the carpet hadn’t been so thick, I might have heard her heels clicking after me. But I’ve forgotten her already as I tap out a quick reply to Troy.

Smith

Where?

A slim hand slides into the crook of my arm, tugging so hard that my phone jostles out of my hand and bounces on the floor.

Surprise darts over Nathalie’s face, briefly bringing her features to life—as much as possible—with all the Botox.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” She drops to her knees, grabbing my phone and holding it up for me to take.

I stare down at her, barely holding back a growl. “Get up.”

She obeys, but slowly. Coyly. Like she expects me to tilt her chin up and reward her submission with a kiss.

My mind flickers to Zoey, how different she’d look in this position.

On her knees, lips swollen and bruised, thighs marked by my teeth, eyes vacant with fear as my hand fists in her hair. Throat raw from screaming.

No longer submitting, but truly broken.

The image is so clear I can almost feel the weight of a belt in my hand, hear the desperate whimpers she’ll make when I tell her we’re only getting started.

The vision dissolves, and it’s just Nathalie again, murmuring a shy little, “Yes, Sir.”

Christ.

I snatch my phone from her hand, and she somehow slips her hand under my jacket and grabs hold of my suspender before I can turn away.

I’m definitely off my game tonight.

“You forgot these,” she says, opening her hand to show me some chips I left behind.

I keep still as she lets them drop into my inner pocket, because I’m concerned if I move, it might be to shove her away from me.

She stares up at me with darkly ringed eyes and a perfectly contoured face, her pitch black hair shimmering under the bright casino lights. “And this,” she whispers. Something larger clinks into my pocket. “Same room as last time.”

When she releases my suspender to pat my pocket, I take a hurried step before she can latch onto me again and adjust my glasses as I glare down at her.

Any other night, I’d have accepted her offer.

Bound her.

Spread her.

Belted her until her screams became whimpers.

But tonight, I want none of it.

The only screams I care about are the ones I can’t allow myself to have.

Yet.

I shove a hand in my pocket to take out the room card and toss it back at her, but my phone goes off in my other hand. My pulse ticks faster, a prickle chasing up my spine. Troy’s ‘issue’ could be anything…but I know it’s not.

Since I met Zoey, it’s always been her. What the fuck has my little kitten done now?

“Good evening, Nathalie.”

The incredulous look on her face is almost worth the backlash I’ll face from Myles when he finds out I pissed off one of our whales.

I don’t risk another second in her presence. Turning on my heel, I stalk away, scanning Troy’s reply on my cellphone.

I’ll drop Nathalie’s unwanted room card off at reception…right after I find out what the fuck is going on in the kitchen.