Page 75 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

TWO WEEKS LATER

Why am I so fucking nervous? This is what I wanted, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

I drag my fingers through my hair. It’s been a while since I’ve bothered to style it, and I can’t quite get used to how silky and good it feels. Wish I had a better outfit to go with the hair, but since I have no idea what I’m in for, I just wearing jeans and a tank top.

I swivel on my heels when I hear muffled voices echoing down the corridor, but the sound fades before whoever made it appears. I’m down the hall from Smith’s suite in the Devil’s Luck, standing outside one of the hotel rooms.

When I realize I’m fidgeting with my hair again, I shove my hands behind my back and stand to attention like a soldier waiting on orders. Maybe that’s exactly what I am. Except, soldiers have better training than me. Patience is probably one of them.

Waiting 101: Staying Sane While Standing Still.

I’ve been waiting for ten minutes, nothing to keep me company but my imagination. I can’t hear anything inside, even when I press my ear to the door.

I’ve seen Smith every day since I woke up from surgery, but he only stays for a short while before leaving. Usually around the time I tell him I’m still waiting for him to ‘show me.’

Since I’ve been repeating those words nonstop in my mind, they’ve lost all meaning. It’s only now that I’m outside this door that apprehension is kicking in again. The eerie calm before the storm.

Smith came to see me earlier than usual. Right after the doctor told me I was off bed rest, in fact.

Coincidence? I think not.

He asked how I was feeling. I told him I was ready to start skydiving again, and he just gave me this look like he was mentally fitting me for a parachute.

Then told me to meet him one room down before dinner, and left.

To say it’s been a long fucking day is the understatement of the fucking century.

“The fuck am I doing?” I scoff quietly to myself as I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t know what’s waiting behind this door. A PowerPoint presentation of his life in the mob? Archive footage of all the murders he’s committed? Maybe I’m meeting his mother.

I’m hoping it’s sex, of course, but that seems unlikely. Smith has never been shy, or mysterious, about sex.

I flinch when the door opens and Smith steps out.

He’s wearing gray sweats and a black long-sleeved shirt, sleeves pushed up to mid-arm, hair lightly tousled like something’s been on his mind. Light glints off his glasses as he rakes his eyes over me, taking in my sleek hair and nondescript clothes.

His face set in a hard, solemn mask, but even that can’t hide the tension in his jaw. Not a single muscle in his face changes during his inspection, so I don’t know if I passed or failed that arbitrary test.

“You can end this now,” he says. “Turn around, go back to my room, and I’ll arrange transport for you in the morning. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

“I hear Cancun is nice this time of year,” I say unsteadily.

“Last chance, Zoey.”

I shake my head, squaring my shoulders and staring up at him with a clenched jaw.

“Then I need to know you’ll consent to whatever is about to happen.”

“…before I even know what’s going to happen?” I tilt my head at him, scrunching up my face. “Big ask.”

Smith glances away, rolling his lips together, then looks back at me. There’s an uneasiness in his eyes that I don’t like the look of at all, even less how unsteady his voice is when he says, “Fine. You can use a safe word.”

“As in, I say it and you have you stop, no matter what?” I mean, I’ve seen movies. I know what a safe word is. But I have to make sure Smith’s on the same page as me. In the same book. In the same goddamn library.

“No matter what.”

I shrug one shoulder, glancing away. “Beetlejuice.”

“Beetle—?” Smith cuts off, visibly taking a big breath. “Fine.”

He dips his head, holding out an arm to wordlessly usher me inside.

I obey just as silently, my heart practically beating out of my chest. Did he just…

I swear my head’s spinning. I’ve never seen Smith so unbalanced before. Does the fact that he’s giving me some sliver of control really mess him up so badly?

The second I spot what’s beyond the threshold, all thought dissolves and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Oh, God.

It’s worse than anything I could’ve imagined.

I mean, the room itself is fine. Looks almost exactly the same as Smith’s suite down the hall, but different prints on the wall. Furniture rearranged a bit. Ambient lighting.

Oh, and, uh, most importantly…

This room looks like a future crime scene.

Clear plastic sheeting covers the king-sized bed, the dim light from the bedside lamps gleaming on the shiny, translucent surface. He’s dragged a full-length mirror to the foot of the bed and angled it so whoever’s on there can see their reflection.

…while they’re being murdered.

My eyes skip to the nightstand, where a sleek metal first aid kit sits open on the nightstand, its contents meticulously arranged.

Gauze, antiseptic, something metallic that catches the light in a disturbingly clinical way.

Smith comes up behind me and stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

That earthy, intoxicating aroma of his envelops me, but there’s a hint of something darker, muskier beneath it.

Could be the whisky he was drinking, could be that he worked up a sweat perfecting his murder room.

“Um…What the actual fuck?” I squeak.

He closes the door behind us with a soft click, then comes to stand in front of me, blocking my view. Something flickers in his eyes, uncertainty maybe, but it’s gone a second later.

“Is there a problem?” His voice is low and calm, but there’s a slight rasp to it that wasn’t there before.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly clogged. “It’s missing something. Candles and champagne, maybe.” I sweep out a hand. “Rose petals on the floor, that kind of thing.”

His mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but it’s the closest thing to it. It transforms his face, softening the hard angles for a moment before he’s back to his impenetrable mask.

“Strip.” His deep, silky voice takes me back to the night we met.

The night I ran.

The night he chased.

The night he caught me…and everything that’s happened since.

Not even a fortune teller could have predicted this is where I’d end up.

This hotel, this bed, this man.

My hands tremble slightly as I pull my tank top over my head. I’m not wearing anything underneath. Didn’t see the point. The cool air pebbles my nipples, and again I have to resist the urge to cover myself.

Not from the chill in the air, but Smith’s gaze as he scours it over my body like he’s consuming me.

Fuck modesty. He’s already seen every inch of my body.

His chest rises and falls with each slow breath, shoulders stiff, jaw clenching even tighter. He pulls his own shirt off in one fluid motion, and smooths a hand down his hair, somehow tousling it even more.

My mouth goes dry.

Fuck me, I forgot how utterly gorgeous he was.

All that lean muscle? Marks I’m now confident are the scars of healed bullet and knife wounds. The faint trail of dark hair disappearing behind his sweatpants.

“On the bed,” he commands.

“The murder bed, you mean?”

“Zoey.” The warning tone in his voice sends a tingle between my legs.

I inch closer to the bed, plastic crinkling beneath my weight as I perch nervously on the edge.

The material chills the backs of my naked thighs, making me shiver, but it doesn’t cling to me like I thought it would.

It’s too thick, too rigid. An industrial grade sheeting of some kind, the perfect accessory for professional killers and hobbyists alike.

“Bet you can’t find this at Home Depot,” I murmur, running my hand over the plastic beside my hip. “Do you guys order this stuff online, or?—”

Smith’s hand tangles in my hair, yanks my head back, forcing me to look up at him. The sudden pain makes me gasp and causes an aching heat to pool in my core.

“Enough,” he growls.

His dilated pupils turn his eyes black. I can see the pulse hammering in his throat.

“Lie back.”

I do, but apparently not correctly, because his hands are suddenly on me, roughly dragging me to the center of the bed where he positions me exactly how he wants me. Limbs straight, slightly spread…

…like a corpse on an autopsy table.

Sweet Jesus.

The plastic is cold and slick against my bare skin, and I can’t help but squirm.

His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise. The thought that I’ll see those marks tomorrow sends another pulse between my legs.

I expect him to grab restraints next, to tie me spreadeagled like he’s threatened to do before. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, looking down at me like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Ropes? Blindfold?” I ask, my voice sounding so small and pitiful in this large room.

Smith shakes his head slowly. “Unnecessary.” The words hang between us, ominous.

I reach for the waistband of his sweats, but he catches my wrist in a grip that’s just shy of painful.

“We’re not fucking tonight.” His voice is strained, like he doesn’t like the words anymore than I do. But it’s obvious through the sweatpants that he’s not hard, and he hasn’t touched me except to position me, so…

I glance at the first aid kit nearby. “Then what?—”

“You said you wanted to stay in my world, but you have no idea where I live.”

I want to make light of this situation, if only for my own sanity, but it feels like snapping the tension would only end in me plunging to my death. So I stay quiet, keep my eyes on him, and wait for the non-fucking to begin.

“There’s no light here,” he murmurs. “No air.”

He releases my wrists, and grazes a knuckle down my cheek, along my jaw.

“Just the darkness, and the…” he stops, frowning hard like he can’t think of the word. Then his face clears, and his eyes unfocus.

“And the pain.”