Page 5 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

People run when they’re scared, desperate to escape before the pursuer closes in.

I’d usually delegate card counters to security. But something about this woman drew my attention. Myles wants a new Angel, and I’m tired of interviewing vapid candidates who break at the first sign of pressure.

There’s more defiance than fear in her eyes.

This woman ran because she refused to let herself be caught.

Defiance is a beautiful thing, but it’s a lie. The very first lie people tell themselves when they realize they’re trapped. It flares up right before they try to bluff their way out of trouble.

But her defiance is different.

It’s louder. More stubborn.

Almost inviting.

Breaking someone is an art form. You don’t rush it. You don’t force it. You find the small, almost imperceptible fractures they keep hidden, and apply pressure until they splinter.

I see the cracks. I already know where to press.

“What are you, insane? I’m not taking my clothes off.” She shuffles to the side as I approach the desk, attempting to keep distance between us.

“You’re not the first person to call me that.” Turning my back to her, I slip out of my suit jacket, carefully folding it up before placing it on the metal desk.

“Might help if you stop telling people to strip.”

She watches me with round eyes, uneasy about what’s coming next. As if the harsh lighting, concrete walls, and poor air conditioning in this windowless room weren’t clue enough.

“If you don’t take off your clothes, I’ll do it for you.”

“Yeah? Then what?” Her hands curl into fists at her side, lifting her chin as I turn back to her. Not sure where she’s getting this little spark of bravery, but it won’t be around much longer.

When I pull a pair of black gloves out of my pocket, her skin pales.

“You just carry those around with you wherever you go?” she breathes, clearly fighting not to show her terror.

“Ever tried getting blood out of your cuticles?” I curl my hand into a fist, and she stares at my glove as though mesmerized by the dark, clingy leather.

“And you wonder why people call you names,” she mutters, fingers trembling as she reaches behind her to drag down the zip. The satin fabric hugs her amble breasts and curvy waist, snug enough that I’m doubting she’s wearing a wire.

She’s the perfect operative. Pretty enough to fit in with the arm-candy most men bring with them to the casino. DEA, FBI, a rival organization…could be any of them.

Someone’s always watching. Always trying to listen in.

“Faster,” I snap.

“Does anyone ever perform better under pressure?” she mutters, hazel eyes darting up to glare at me.

Her dress shouldn’t distract me as much as it does. It’s snug enough to hug every curve, her tits straining against the fabric, the hem skimming her thighs.

But it’s the bare skin above her neckline that keeps drawing my eye.

Begging for a string of pearls.

Or a hand around her pale throat.

The way I’m drinking in the sight of her makes the woman freeze.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

She licks her lips, and slowly peels off her bodice, baring creamy, heavy tits behind a lacy emerald bra.

Most women keep their heads bowed and eyes downcast around me. Submissive. Eager to please. So why does my cock stir when her hazel eyes narrow into challenging slits?

“This isn’t a striptease.”

Glaring, she yanks the rest of the dress down her legs.

I swear I hear her mutter, “Asshole,” as she’s bending.

I twirl my finger, and she scowls at me before reluctantly shuffling around in a circle, her dress in a pile at her feet. She faces me again with color on her cheeks, but it seems equal parts anger and embarrassment.

No wire.

No reason to suspect she’s anything but someone in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Her flush deepens as she crosses her arms over her chest, trying to shield herself from my gaze.

The sinister calm in my murmured, “Good girl,” makes her pale.

I flick my eyes toward the chair, my voice back to a cold bite as I tell her, “Sit.”

She bends to pull up her dress, freezing when I tut her.

“You won’t be needing that.”

Her flush deepens as she crosses her arms over her chest. “There’s a ton of free porn on the internet you can jerk off to, perve.”

Lucky for her, my phone vibrates in my pocket, snapping me out of dark thoughts. Thoughts about her on her knees, my belt around her throat as I forced her to choke on my cock.

TROY

Zoey Dennen.

First timer.

Money’s legit. Luck isn’t.

Checking known affiliations.

I slip my phone back into my pocket.

So I was right about one thing, wrong about everything else.

Christ, I hate being wrong.

I tilt my head to the side and step closer. “You obviously don’t understand how much trouble you’re in, kitten.”

Her matte red lips twitch at ‘kitten’ but she bundles up her dress and tosses it at me without another word.

I snatch the green satin out of the air and lift it to my nose to catch her scent. There’s a flicker of confusion in her eyes as she watches, then she smooths out her expression and walks stiffly over to the chair.

She winces when her ass touches the cool metal and shifts forward until she’s perching on the edge. Sitting so primly, she looks like a lingerie model wondering what wrong turn she took to wind up at this dodgy photo shoot.

“Name.”

Zoey glares at me, silently seething, but her expression slips when I walk up to her chair. She hurriedly leans back, watching warily as I unclip my suspenders and fold them into an inch-thick strap.

“ Name .”

The interrogation room’s chill air raises goosebumps on her exposed skin. Air that smells of industrial cleaner and fear. The harsh fluorescent light catches the gold flecks in her hazel eyes when she glares at me.

Her red lips tighten like she’s holding back a curse.

I slap the side of her thigh with my improvised strap, adjusting my glasses when the shock of the blow moves them slightly down my nose.

“Jesus!” she yelps as she shifts her legs away from the lick of pain, those hazel eyes rounder than ever. She recovers quickly, sending another glare my way as I walk a slow circle around her chair.

I crack my strap against my gloved palm. “This game is a lot simpler than blackjack, kitten. I ask, you answer…or I punish you.”

Her jaw bunches as she rubs furiously at the mark I left on her thigh, but she remains silent.

“What. Is. Your. Name?”

When she doesn’t answer, I raise my arm for another blow, aiming for her other thigh.

“Zoey.” Her voice shakes, but she swallows down her nervousness, tilting her chin up just enough to show she’s not cowed.

“Who sent you?”

“What?”

“A high roller in a budget prom dress? You were so easy to spot, I almost feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“ She gasps when I lash the side of her arm, catching a good portion of her breast in the blow. She flinches away again, wrapping her arms over her chest.

“No one sent me!”

“I hate liars.”

Calm. Firm.

The same voice I use in The Den when training new Angels. A voice that promises consequences for disobedience.

Her legs tremble as if she’s expecting another slap. “I swear it! No one sent me. I just…I need the money, okay?”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

I suppose it’s possible her only intention was making a quick buck. But Zoey’s pretty hazel eyes won’t ingratiate her to me enough to let her off the hook for what she did.

She might as well have emptied my personal bank account.

Not that her night of card counting could sink this casino, obviously.

But if anyone else had noticed what she was doing, and saw her getting away with it…

word would spread. Not only would the Devil’s Luck draw every Tom, Dick, and Sally who thought they could cheat their way into some winnings, but the Balmont Boys would be seen as too weak or ignorant to stop it.

This casino means everything to me. If it hadn’t been for Myles Balmont, I’d still be serving time for racketeering, the fall guy for a poorly run branch of the mob one state over.

I owe him my freedom, a debt I repay every day by keeping this casino running like the well-oiled money-laundering operation it is.

I move a wave of brown hair away from Zoey’s cheek with the tip of my finger. She hurriedly leans back to avoid my touch, her lipstick even more vivid as she pales.

“Your mistake wasn’t stealing from me. It was thinking you’d get away with it.”

When she says nothing, I lash her again, this time on the other breast. She flinches, throwing me an angry look. “That wasn’t a question!”

“Careful, kitten. I’m still in a relatively good mood. You wouldn’t want to piss me off.”

I go over to my suit jacket, drawing my switchblade from one of its hidden pockets.

The moment she spots it, Zoey sits bolt upright on the chair. Her hands drop, clutching the seat on either side of her trembling thighs, her tits nearly spilling out of her strapless bra as her breath hitches.

She yelps when I lunge at her, her hands coming up instinctively to protect her face. But I knock away her arms with one of mine, grab her throat, and keep her in place as I bring the knife to her sternum.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she looks down, watching dumbfounded as I unlatch her front-clasping bra with a flick of my knife.

“Fuck!” She grabs for the bra, but I snag it on the tip of the knife, stepping back and bringing it to my nose.

Her scent is stronger on the lacy fabric.

Cheap perfume and desperation.

I barely glimpse her nipples before Zoey claps both hands over her tits, glaring up at me with hatred simmering in her eyes. I pause, allowing the moment to stretch between us.

Her breath quickens, her lips part.

I push my glasses back up my nose the tiny fraction they’ve slipped before tossing her bra to the floor by her feet. Then I move closer, tucking her hair behind her ear with the tip of my knife despite how she tries to move away.

So many emotions war in her eyes. Anger, frustration, panic. And that ever-present determination.

“What’s the money for, kitten?”

Her jaw clenches, but her tone is breezy when she says, “I’ve had my eye on this really nice pair of shoes?—“

I grab her throat again and squeeze, relishing the feel of her muscles as they cord under my fingers.

“Stop wasting my time.”

When she wets her lips with her tongue, my knuckles squeeze tight around the knife.

“Fuck you,” she mutters.

Her defiance awakens something I’ve kept dormant for too long. Most women who cross my path either fear me instantly or try to seduce their way out of trouble. Zoey fights back with a fierceness that makes my blood heat in a way I haven’t felt since?—

No. This is business. Nothing more.

But suppress it as I might, a feral thought still claws its way through years of self-discipline.

What will her mouth taste like, tangy with blood and fear…?

She has no idea how much restraint it takes not to lean forward and bite those plump lips. But she must see something unpleasant in my eyes, because her eyelashes flutter, and the fight bleeds out of her inch by inch.

I watch as she wilts under my stare, burning the sight into my memory for later.

What I wouldn’t give to watch her crumble like this as I slowly tighten the grip on her throat while I’m inside her, filling her with my seed.

“I owe someone a lot of money,” she mutters, defiance flaring one last time before she looks down, lashes shading her eyes.

I’m reluctant to release her throat, but I do it knowing that this isn’t the last opportunity I’ll have to discipline her.

This isn’t about scratching an itch. Wanting satisfaction.

I need to break her.

This isn’t about attraction. It’s about control, power, and discipline.

Zoey doesn’t know it yet, but she’s just reached a crossroads…and this devil’s about to make a deal with her.