Page 62 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Smith

The Bentley may as well be a fucking hearse. That’s how fucking dead I am inside.

Twelve hours.

I lasted twelve hours at the Devil’s Luck before I cracked.

Twelve miserable, soul-crushing hours of pretending I give a shit about the large cash deposit Archie needed cleaned, while every fiber of my being screamed to get back to Zoey.

Myles insisted on brunch and then kept shooting me looks across the restaurant table like he was waiting for me to snap. Fair enough. I was barely holding onto my sanity by then, and it only got worse with every passing hour.

I keep telling myself she’s safer without me. Not just because the chance of her being strangled drops significantly if I’m not around, but because Elonzo made it his life’s work to fuck me over.

It started with Michelle.

Looks like it’ll end with Zoey.

I’m supposed to be doing the right thing for once in my miserable life.

Letting her go.

Keeping her safe. From me.

But Christ, it feels like torture.

A message comes through on the console, the Bentley’s built in assistant asking if she can read it to me.

“Yes.”

TROY

She’s pissed. Asked why you left.

I nearly swerve into oncoming traffic.

She asked why I left?

I pull over, hands shaking as I take out my phone to make sure the voice assistant read Troy’s message right.

Why would she even care? After everything I’ve done to her—kidnapping her, lying to her, letting her brother die, nearly strangling her in a goddamn driveway—why would she give a single fuck if I left?

The whole reason I took off at dawn was because I knew she wouldn’t. That she’d probably feel safer knowing I wasn’t around. That moving on to her new life would be easier if I wasn’t there, bossing her around the whole time.

Unless...

Fuck, no. I’m not going there.

Zoey is many things, but a simp is not one of them. She wasn’t asking after me because she cared. She was probably pissed that I left before she could give me a piece of her mind.

But a poisonous thought lodges inside my mind like a splinter, working its way deeper with every repetition.

What if she wanted me to stay?

What if she fucking wanted me to stay?

I call Troy before I can stop myself.

“Yeah?”

“How pissed?”

“Scale of one to ten? Fifteen.” Troy deadpans. “She told me you could go fuck yourself. Told me I could go fuck myself, too, for what it’s worth.”

Despite everything, I smile. That’s my good girl.

But I extinguish the flicker of pride like crushing a slug under my heel.

She’s not mine. Never was, never will be.

“That it?” I clear my throat, hating how desperate I sound.

“No.” Troy pauses, and I can practically hear him deciding how much to tell me. “Called you a coward.”

I scoff. Christ, how I wish it wasn’t true.

I am a fucking coward.

Myles didn’t need me at the casino today. Half the shit we discussed, that I did, could have been done online. The rest could have waited.

But when he summoned me back to the Devil’s Luck, I jumped at the excuse. Told myself it was business. That duty called.

Bullshit.

I left because staying hurt too much. Because watching Zoey look at me like I’d destroyed her world—which I had—was more than I could handle. Because every second in that villa with her was another second of wanting things I could never have.

So I ran away like a fucking coward.

And now she’s spending her last night thinking I abandoned her without a second thought.

“I’m coming back,” I tell Troy.

“Smith—”

“I’m twenty minutes out.”

“Everything’s already been arranged for tomorrow. By morning she’ll be?—“

“I know. I’m coming anyway.” I end the call and gun the engine, tires squealing as I pull back onto the road.

Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to figure out what the hell I’m going to say to her.

I realize I’m fingering the marks on my cheek and jerk my hand away.

How the hell am I supposed to explain that leaving wasn’t about not caring enough, but about caring too much?

How do I tell her that every minute we were apart felt like walking on coals? That I spent the entire day thinking about the way she looked at me after I kissed her, like she was seeing past the monster to someone worth saving?

I can’t. Not any of it.

Because admitting to even a single one of those traitorous thoughts would mean admitting that I’m in love with her.

But I can give her one more night.

A few more hours to make sure she knows she mattered.

The villa’s lights appear through the trees, warm and welcoming against the darkness.

Almost there. Almost back to her.

The Bentley smoothly scales a low rise in the road. Seconds later, headlamps flash in my rearview mirror.

I’m dragged back to the present.

What the fuck am I doing, running back to Zoey like a lovesick teenager? The man who put a bullet in his traitorous Angel without blinking wouldn’t recognize who I’m becoming.

But maybe I don’t want to be that man anymore, someone who sees people as nothing more than assets or liabilities.

Maybe, for the first time in my fucking life, I want to command someone’s trust …not their fear.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. No bandages anymore. My knuckles have scabbed over. Zoey’s bite mark on my palm is still inflamed, but after a tetanus shot and some antiseptic cream, I don’t feel the need to wear a bandage anymore.

This way, I can see the mark she left on me. Physical proof that she’s gotten under my skin.

In more ways than one.

Is that why I’m risking everything just to see her again one last time, because she dug in deeper than I thought?

I try to shake the feeling, but paranoia makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Could be nothing. Just another late-night traveler heading in the same direction.

But in my line of work, coincidences are usually anything but.

I slow down as I approach the villa’s turnoff, watching the mirror carefully. The car speeds past without slowing, taillights disappearing around the next bend like they were never there at all.

I sit at the turnoff for ten minutes, engine idling, second-guessing myself.

Maybe twelve hours of guilt and self-loathing have finally driven me over the edge.

Or maybe I’m right to be suspicious, and someone just got a very good look at exactly where I’m keeping Zoey hidden.

Either way, I need to get inside and make sure she’s safe.

I turn through the gates, gravel crunching under my tires as I pull up to the villa’s entrance.

Something’s wrong.

The villa looks exactly the same as when I left this morning, but every instinct I’ve honed over years of violence is screaming danger.

I drove back here like a man on fire. Pushed the Bentley past every speed limit, took corners that should have sent me into the guardrail, all because I couldn’t stand being away from her for another second.

Should have been more careful.

Should have taken the long way, checked for tails, made sure I wasn’t bringing hell with me. The only thing worse than abandoning Zoey is leading my enemies straight to her door.

I’m the threat people run from.

Now I’m trying to be the shield that keeps her safe.

This need to protect rather than possess should be foreign territory to me.

Instead, it feels like coming home.

Now, sitting in this too-quiet driveway, I’m fervently hoping my desperation hasn’t just cost me everything.

Cost us everything .