Page 51 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

Zoey’s hazel eyes are more brown than green, dark with barely suppressed panic. Hands in fists. Bruised jaw locked. Like she’s facing down a rabid dog and doesn’t know whether to fight for her life or freeze.

Resist, or submit.

I can’t blame her. I’ve been nothing but mercurial since the night she took flight from that blackjack table. Even now that I’ve decided to get rid of her, I’m reluctant to let go.

Why am I so driven to know how this torrid affair ends when it’s already over?

I take my keycard out of my damp suit jacket and hold it out to her.

“Take it.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “What?” she croaks, blinking like she’s waking from a dream.

I flick the card. Left, right, taunting her. “It’s all yours.”

Her eyes flicker from my hand, to the door, to the balcony as she calculates exits and options. Her shoulders slump when she realizes what I already know.

She doesn’t have any.

But that doesn’t stop her eyes narrowing, her lips tightening. She’s terrified, but defiant as ever.

Good. I want every nerve in her body electrified with fear and adrenaline. It’ll make her fight me that much harder.

“What—” She cuts off with a hard swallow. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you gone. But you’re not going anywhere without this.”

Whatever spell she was under breaks the instant I step closer. She staggers back, gasping when her calves crash into the bottom of the bed. I suppose she wasn’t expecting it to be that close behind her.

She darts forward, snatching the keycard from my fingers, eyes flashing wide like she was expecting me to lunge at her.

“Good girl.”

Her lip curls into an angry sneer. “Fucking asshole.”

She lunges, trying to dart past me to get to the door. I pivot smoothly, catching her arm, and use her own momentum to fling her onto the bed. She bounces once on the mattress before scrambling to her knees.

“That’s it,” I encourage her, my voice dropping to a low rumble. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” She backs away until her shoulders hit the headboard. “You said I could leave!”

“Soon as you’ve earned your freedom.”

“Earned it?” Indignation makes her cheeks glow. “That’s what I’ve been doing this whole fucking time!”

My lips curl up at her flash of bravado.

“That was business.” I let the belt dangle from my hand, one loop wrapped around my palm beneath my bandaged knuckles. “This is personal.”

I allow myself a smirk. Seeing as I’m being so fucking self indulgent today, why not?

“All you have to do is make it to the door, and you’re free.”

“Get out of my way, then,” she mutters.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

From the glint of hatred in Zoey’s eyes, it’s clear she doesn’t agree that any part of this is fun, but again, she has no choice but to play along. Snarling, she launches herself off the bed and races for the door.

A surge of muscle-tensing, chest-locking anticipation crushes my body as I turn on my heel and give chase. I reach her as she fumbles to swipe the keycard over the lock, grab the back of her drenched shirt, and haul her backward.

She falls onto her side, silent but for a grunt of pain, but she’s up a second later.

Christ, how my heart is pounding.

I advance on her, but she’s already spinning away, desperately searching for a different escape route. She fakes for the balcony door, then bolts into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard that a vase falls off the sideboard and shatters.

The lock turns, and she lets out a muffled, “What now, sicko?” followed by what sounds like a manic giggle.

I walk up to the door and rattle at the handle, imagining her backing away wide-eyed.

“Attagirl,” I murmur, stepping back.

There’s silence behind the door as I shrug my shoulders and drop the belt to the floor.

As I loosen my tie.

Roll my neck.

Quiet, until I lunge forward and slam my foot against the wood beside the lock.

Zoey yells, “Fuck!” in surprise, then laughs. “You’re delusional, you know that? There’s no way you’re getting?—“

She cuts off when the door shudders under the impact of another kick.

“Stop it!”

Crash.

“You’re not getting in!”

Crash.

The door’s barely showing any signs of giving way, but I could care less because the world’s gone white again and the only thing in the universe that matters right now is me breaking through this door to reach Zoey. What I’ll do to her when I’m inside.

Is she bundled in on herself, weeping?

Or frantically searching for a weapon, determined to make it out of this in one piece?

I picture her behind the door, arms clasped around her chest.

Her shivering body.

Her shaking hands.

Her trembling lips.

Those wide, fear soaked eyes, and the sounds I’ll wrench from her throat once my hands are wrapped around it.

Christ, my dick’s getting hard just at the thought.

She’s quiet now—or maybe I can’t hear her through my own noise. Panting breath, damp fabric whisking, the resounding crash as my shoe slams into the door beside the handle.

Crash!

Zoey screams when the wood finally splinters and gives way.

That sound swells my dick until it’s a hard ridge under my virgin wool Brioni trousers.

I’m grinning, but my jaw is bunched so tight it probably looks more like a grimace. She tries to retreat, but I’m filling the doorway, leaving her nowhere to run.

Not that it stops her trying.

She lunges for the shower. I’m there in two thundering strides, but she dodges me, spinning to avoid my clutching hand, then crashes into the vanity as she scrambles for the door.

My foot lands on a slab of wood. I slip, and she almost makes it out.

But I recover quickly.

Grab her by the hair.

Yank her back.

She screams in pain, in frustration, her eyes feverish as she twists and tries to knock my arm away with hers. When that doesn’t work, she slashes at my face.

Light glints off something in her hand.

I barely react in time, so fixated on her, so fucking desperate to drag her closer that she nearly slices my cheek with a shard of glass. She bares her teeth when I grab her wrist, then yelps and falls to her knees when I twist it at a sharp angle.

There’s a moment of peace as we’re both still, both softly panting. Me taking stock of the situation, her looking like she’s trying to set me on fire with the power of her mind.

My eyes flick to the shattered mirror.

She must have broken it while I was battering down the door.

“Clever girl,” I murmur, twisting her wrist just a little more.

She gasps, trying to angle into the pain to take the pressure off.

“Question,” she says in a tight voice. “Do you play these fucked up games with all your sex slaves? Or should I feel flattered?”

I pluck the shard of glass from her fingers, examining it. She was just as likely to be cut by it as I was, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

It always seems to annoy her when I don’t answer her straight away.

“So what now, huh? I finally get to pretend your tiny dick can make me come?”

“The last thing you should do right now is piss me off.”

She widens her eyes at me. “Oh no, did I hit a nerve? I knew all this macho crap was just a way for you to deal with your short dick syn?—”

I twist her arm until I feel the shoulder joint shift. Not enough to pop it completely out of its socket, but enough to send white-hot pain through her body. The moment her voice dissolves into a hoarse yell, I release the pressure, letting the joint to slide back into place.

She glares at me with pained incredulity. “You fucking ass? —”

A sharp gasp this time as I ram her into the vanity. She tries to fend me off, but I’ve rendered one of her arms too weak to use, and I’ve already wedged my legs between hers, so she couldn’t kick me even if she tried.

She goes for my eyes with clawed fingers, but I just turn my face away and grab a handful of her damp hair, wrenching her head back.

“Shh,” I whisper.

Normally, this would just enrage her even more, turning my little kitten into a feral alley cat. But I don’t normally have a shard of glass pressed to the soft flesh under her jaw.

Right beneath that mysterious bruise.

Something in the back of my mind is trying to get my attention—the bruise, the casino uniform—but all I’m interested in right now is Zoey, and the glimmer of fearful dread in her hazel eyes.

There’s that trembling mouth. The body shaking against mine as reality sinks in. I scrape the edge of the glass down her throat, right beside the column of her windpipe, leaving a faint red mark behind.

Not drawing blood.

I’m savoring the anticipation too much. Edging myself, like I always do.

The harder the chase, the sweeter the reward.

“Is this going to take long?” Zoey says. “I’ve got places to be.”

The forced calm in her voice belies the anger in her eyes.

“You’re trying so hard to be brave, kitten,” I murmur, looping the glass up her neck again, making her strain away from my touch as the point scrapes harder against her skin. “Aren’t you tired of always fighting?”

I’m entranced by the faint lines the glass leaves on her skin, but something else catches my eye.

Light.

Not reflecting off the shard of glass in my hand, or those still clinging to the mirror frame like silver fangs.

But the light glittering in Zoey’s eyes as tears build along her lower lid.

The moment we make eye contact, she blinks them away. But too fiercely—always so fiercely.

One tear falls, skating down her cheek, heading straight for the edge pressed to her throat.

I can feel the thrum of my pulse against the flat of the glass where I’m gripping it.

It’s racing. My chest is so tight I’m not sure I’m breathing anymore.

And no wonder she thinks all I want to do is fuck her—my cock is grinding into her hip so hard I feel like a teenager dry humping his girlfriend on the couch.

Before the tear draws level with the side of her trembling mouth, I dimple her skin with the sharp tip of the glass.