Page 68 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

Weird, but, I’m not even angry anymore.

Of course I felt pure fury hot enough caramelize crème br?lée when Smith offered me up like a fucking party favor to a cartel gangbanger, but now that rage has simmered into something closer to dark annoyance.

Less, ‘Eat shit and die, motherfucker,’ and more, ‘Oh, so we’re doing this now? Cool, cool, cool.’

Luis’s fingers dig into my arm as he drags me up the stairs. Because of course he’s the one that grabbed me.

“Keep moving,” he hisses when I stumble.

I want to tell him that technically falling up the stairs is still moving, albeit slower and clumsier, but my brain’s too busy playing Traitor Smith, The Greatest Hit s.

I’m jamming out to classics like,

…Fights like a virgin…

…Trained and ready…

And my all-time favorite, multi-platinum single,

… Her screams only make me harder…

God, I’m an idiot.

Only an Olympic gold-medal-winning moron could think someone like Smith might actually give a shit about me. Could even consider the possibility of maybe falling in love with him.

I bet the Universe is laughing its cosmic ass off right now.

“Been waiting for this.” Luis’s free hand grabs my ass.

I jerk away instinctively and stumble onto the landing.

“ Calienta huevos ? 1 , ” he growls as he wrenches me to my feet. His fist slams into my stomach, driving out all the air.

Fuck, that hurts.

I could have fended him off, but with my hands ties behind my back I’m useless. I swear I saw something on social media where you can kind of tuck your wrists under your butt and get your hands in front of you that way. Maybe I should fake another stumble and try it.

Soon as I’ve got my breath back.

Soon as my stomach doesn’t feel like it’s digesting a bag of rusty nails anymore.

I glance back to get my bearings, trying to figure out if my flimsy plan has even a one percent chance of working.

Five armed men versus one zip-tied woman. If this were Vegas, I wouldn’t bet on me. Then again, I’ve survived worse odds.

I mean, I’ve survived him, haven’t I?

Smith trudges up the stairs with Elonzo’s gun at his back, as concerned as someone who’s late for an open house. Not like a man who just traded a woman’s dignity to save his own worthless skin.

I lock eyes with my favorite traitor.

He who looks so fucking sexy, even while being held captive. With his dark, tousled hair, clenched jaw, arm muscles bunching as he struggles in Miguel’s grip. His glasses are slightly askew, and all I want to do is straighten them.

When I look forward again, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. A human-shaped shadow by the small alcove on the other side of the landing. My heart leaps in relief, because I swear to God, that shadow was almost exactly Troy-shaped.

But then my brain catches up and hands me a reality check to cash. Not Troy or some other knight in shining armor, but a potted palm tree, its fronds shifting in the breeze of a nearby open window.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Now I’m hallucinating rescue scenarios.

Elonzo calls out something in Spanish, and Luis angles me toward the nearest open doorway. I can see the bottom corner of a bed through the gap. A guest suite like the one I was staying in the past few days.

So this is what Hell looks like.

“You gonna scream for me, puta ?” Luis whispers, lips brushing my ear in a way that makes my skin try to crawl off my body. “I love tying them up and making them scream.”

My laugh sounds unhinged even to my own ears. “Of course you tie them up. Has anyone ever fucked you willingly?”

The backhand comes fast, splitting my lip. Blood fills my mouth, metallic and warm. A loud buzz fills my ears, head lolling on my neck. It’s a fucking struggle not to lose myself to the sweet, heady darkness trying to suck me in.

Luis tugs me upright, chuckling. My eyes roll in their sockets as I try to focus on something real instead of the messed up kaleidoscope spinning around behind my eyelids.

A blurry Miguel hurries ahead. He shoves the door open all the way and ducks his head inside.

“Clear.” His eyes dart between me and the bedroom like he’s mentally measuring the distance.

Elonzo’s gaze lingers on him a little too long. He gestures toward the hallway with his gun. “Keep watch.”

Miguel’s face falls. “The fuck? I want in on this, too.”

Something shifts in the air as a lazy smile touches Elonzo’s mouth.

Luis’s grip on my arm tightens as he senses the change. Even the other goons seem to hold their breath.

And Smith? His normally blank canvas of a face shows the barest hint of satisfaction. Like he’s watching the dominoes he so carefully arranged fall.

Elonzo turns his voice into a mocking, high-pitched squeak. “I want in! I want in !” He turns to Luis, chuckling. “Look at this maricón ? 2 . Getting pissy about table scraps.”

“These guys get a piece?—”

“These guys don’t demand.” Elonzo steps closer. “They grovel at my feet, and if I do decide to give them some table scraps, they kiss my fucking hand for the honor.”

Even I can read the room better than Miguel, and I probably have a TBI.

“Come on, Patrón , I’ve earned—“ he whines.

“Earned what? The right to stick your dick in anything you want?” Elonzo’s smile is all teeth. “That’s your problem, Miguel. Always eyeing shit that isn’t yours.”

Miguel has the audacity to look offended, even daring to glance over at Luis for backup. But Luis abandons his ex-BFF’s sinking ship, staring down the hallway like the same potted-plant I spotted is giving him the heebie-jeebies too.

Hopeless, Miguel turns back to Elonzo. “I never ?—”

“Never stole scraps off my table?” Elonzo’s voice drops dangerously low. “Not even a little taste, cabrón ?”

I steal another glance at Smith. His dark eyes dart between Miguel and Elonzo like he’s watching the world’s most lethal tennis match. The calculation in his gaze is subtle, but it’s there.

Wait. Is he... is he trying to create chaos?

No. Stop it.

He sold you out. He’s not planning some heroic rescue, he’s just enjoying the drama.

“I never touched your sister,” Miguel says, but too quickly. Way too quickly. His fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Elonzo with wide-eyed apprehension.

“Who said you did?” Elonzo’s smile is all teeth and zero fun.

“I didn’t fuck her,” Miguel insists. He’s looking a little sweaty. “I’d never disrespect you like that, Patrón .”

“Now I get why Michelle said you had to be so careful,” Smith says suddenly, casual as fuck. “Having to motelear ? 3 like a couple of teenagers. What was the name of that motel just off the highway?”

Miguel’s face drains of color. “He’s lying. Patrón , I swear, I never touched her!”

The silence that follows is so thick I could choke on it.

Elonzo stares at Miguel for a long moment, then laughs. “ No pasa nada ? 4 ,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “My sister was a fucking puta rat. Like I give a shit who she spread her legs for.”

Miguel’s shoulders sag with relief, but there’s tension around his eyes, like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Elonzo gestures to the bedroom. “You’ll get a piece of this chimba .”? 5

Luis shoves me forward after Miguel as the man inches reluctantly toward the door like it’s a guillotine.

At the last moment, Miguel swings around to face Elonzo. “It only happened once,” he blurts out. “I was drunk. She came on to me?—”

“I said I don’t care,” Elonzo replies behind us, voice eerily calm.

There’s a flash of movement beside me, but I don’t even have time to flinch before the gunshot goes off.

Miguel drops to his knees, screeching like a barn owl. A wet, red stain spreads rapidly across his crotch, coating his hands as he tries to stem the blood spurting from his groin.

Jesus.

Elonzo just shot him in the dick.

“But you all know how I feel about liars,” Elonzo says, smoke still curling from his gun barrel before he drops his arm to his side.

A second gunshot cracks through the air, making me swing around in shock.

The man holding Smith falls against the opposite wall, a neat hole between his eyes. His body crumples to the floor like someone cut his strings, leaving a bright smear of blood and brains in its wake.

“The fuck?” Elonzo dodges to the side, firing wildly down the hallway, face scrunched up with anger. Luis joins him a second later, aiming at the helpless pot plant whose only crime in life was growing into a vaguely humanoid shape.

Everyone, myself included, seems confused as fuck…except Smith.

Smith fucking Hutchinson doesn’t hesitate.

While we’re all still trying to process what the fuck’s going on, he calmly steps away from his captor, his arms jerking behind his back in a sudden, sharp movement.

Pain distorts his features, and he dips forward like he’s going to fall on his face.

For a second I think he’s been shot, but then he straightens and brings his hands out in front of him, his plastic handcuff dangling from only one wrist.

Eyes locked on mine, he grabs his thumb and twists .

There’s a beat of silence between Elonzo and Luis’s wild gunshots, just enough to hear Smith shoving his dislocated thumb back into place.

That soundtrack’s going to feature prominently in my future nightmares.

A single shot rings out from down the hallway, catching Elonzo in the shoulder. He claps a hand over the wound and staggers into the bedroom, cursing in Spanish as even more blood soaks through his white vest.

The door slams shut, and in the silence that follows, I hear the lock turn.

Luis wraps his arm around my throat and turns to rattle the door handle with the same hand holding his gun.

“ ?Pinche cabrón! ”? 6 he huffs out.

I struggle furiously, but with my hands bound, there’s nothing I can do.

Luis points his gun down the hall again. “Come out!” he yells, using me as a human shield as he backs down the hallway. His grip is so tight, he’s cutting off my air. My vision swims with little black dots, like someone throwing confetti at a funeral.