Page 47 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

Walking into the kitchen feels like an assault on the senses after the quiet, dead air of the staff corridor.

People yelling, pots and pans clanging, and the hot, stuffy, food-scented air wage war against my mind.

The fervor here is almost identical to the one I feel whenever I walk into The Den, but for entirely different reasons.

Kitchen staff step aside as soon as they see me, but I’m still forced to weave my way around stationary carts and trolleys.

I push past the last cart, looking for Troy’s bulky, black-clad figure among the bustling kitchen staff in their red and black uniforms. My eyes find him near the back exit, close to the employee break area.

“The fuck is going on?” I have to yell for my voice to cut through the kitchen noise.

He turns, face grim. “Cameras picked up someone throwing bottles against the wall in the alley. They stopped a few minutes ago when it started raining, but they weren’t seen leaving the area.”

I frown, flicking my wrist to check my watch. “Where’s security?”

“En route.”

“Anyone seen coming in or out of that door?” I point to the kitchen’s exit.

“A room service attendant on her smoke break, but the rain chased her back inside a minute ago.”

“She seem disgruntled at all?”

Troy gives me one of his deadpan looks.

He’s right. We treat our employees well, so the likelihood of one of them out there smashing bottles is a little farfetched. The alleyway isn’t closed off or restricted, but no one in their right mind would dare loiter this close to the casino. Especially with ill intent.

That being said, more and more people seem to not be in their right minds lately. It’s like everyone just thinks they can do whatever the hell they want, and fuck the consequences.

Zoey. Nathalie. Me.

Dylan.

Dylan.

I escorted him off the premises…but what if he came back?

I adjust my glasses, check my watch again. “Fuck it. I’ll handle this.”

“That’s not protocol.” Troy’s expression remains neutral, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

The heavy door slams against the wall as I push through into the service yard, my shoes splatting over the wet concrete.

It’s almost as loud out here as it was in there, the rumble of the hotel’s HVAC units competing with multiple hissing air vents.

The hotel’s laundry room leads out to this area too, but the cloud of fabric softener can’t compete with the stench of rotting produce, despite the drumming rain.

Even at night, most of the courtyard is well light by the spotlights reflecting off the puddling rain.

I have a perfect line of sight down the alley, but the rain cuts the distance I can see in half. Rain that’s now splattered against my glasses, blurring my vision even more. But it’s obvious the narrow delivery road is empty.

A muffled sound pulls my gaze to the end of the row of dumpsters. The top of a young man’s head bobs above the last container’s lid. A nearby spotlight shines on the side of his face, making it easy to see the snarl twisting his face.

I recognize him immediately.

Dylan. The piece of shit I fired earlier.

He ducks down out of sight, his back still turned to me. There’s what looks like a spray of broken glass nearby, but it’s hard to tell through the rain.

At first, I think he’s bending to pick up another bottle or something from the shadowed ground in front of him. Until his head bobs up again as he veers back from a hand clawing at his face.

There’s someone else in those shadows.

Someone smaller.

Someone desperately struggling to get away.

“Help!”

Zoey is fucking everywhere.

Even now, I hear her voice in that frantic plea. It’s impossible, of course. But logic doesn’t stop the thought that it could be her fighting off Dylan slashing into the primal core of my mind where instinct lurks.

Rain stings my face as I sprint forward.

“Stop!” Troy yells behind me, but my blurry vision is already tunneling from the rage building in my chest.

Troy’s yell alerts Dylan before I’m even halfway to the dumpsters.

He takes one glance over his shoulder, spots me, and makes a beeline for the alley, yelling something that could have been, “Fuck this.”

I should have let him go.

Should just have let him fucking go.

But the darkness inside me prevails, like it always does.

I bank to the right, barely keeping my balance as my dress shoes slip on the smooth, wet cement. Dylan’s trainers have a much better grip, but I have the advantage of pure, unbridled fury.

Just as he takes the corner into the alley, I body-slam him into the edge.

“Fu—!” The rest cuts off as all the air is driven from his lungs. His head connects with the corner of the wall. I hear his head crack against the rough bricks.

Fuck, I feel it.

I expect him to go down, but the waste of human skin has a thick skull.

He bounces off the wall and tries to run.

Latching onto the back of his faded denim jacket, I hurl him against the wall again.

Rain drums on the top of my head, my face, my hands.

My suit is soaked through, my hair plastered against my skull.

A spotlight looms almost directly above us, casting Dylan’s terrified face in harsh relief.

But that’s not why the world goes white.

A numbing impact jars repeatedly through my body.

Rhythmic. Soothing.

Something much warmer than the biting rain sprays against my cheek, my nose, my glasses.

I blink, white turning to red. Then pink, as the rain cleans my glasses.

My eyes slowly focus on Dylan’s face.

A tremor races through me when I see the blood. The split skin and chunks of flesh. Bone, wetly gleaming.

Fuck.

Dylan makes a damp, spluttering sound that might have been a plea. Hard to tell through his ruined lips.

The air feels like concrete when I stand, resisting me as I stagger around. I’m panting for breath, pulling as much rain water into my mouth as I am air.

Troy is nowhere in sight.

I take off my glasses, drag my hand down my face, and put them back on just in time to see the kitchen door burst open to a handful of security guards. They swarm around Dylan, forcing me to back up so I don’t get in their way.

They lift him by his clothes, his head lolling limply down as they hurry down the alley.

Fuck knows if he’s still alive. Where they’ll dispose of his body if he isn’t. Unlike Zoey, he isn’t my problem anymore.

I hold out my arms, ball my blood-soaked hands into fists.

But the rain is letting up, refusing me the courtesy of cleansing my sins.