Page 76 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

He turns to the nightstand, opening a small leather case I hadn’t noticed before. The way he handles it—reverent, hesitant—makes my stomach tighten.

When he turns back to me, he’s holding a knife, terrifying in its plainness.

No fancy handle, no logos.

Just a piece of sharpened metal with a single purpose.

His expression is neutral, but the slight tremor in his hand is anything but indifferent.

My breath hitches. “Smith...”

“Did you forget your safeword?” he murmurs, his eyes latched to the blade like it’s hypnotized him.

I push up onto my elbows before I can rein myself in.

Every instinct screams at me to run. To get as far away from this man and that blade as possible. But there’s something in his eyes that roots me to the spot.

For the first time since we’ve met, he’s sharing something real. Something raw. Something it’s obvious he’s shown no one else before.

His darkest desire, laid bare.

And for some twisted, fucked up reason, I want to experience this. Because I need to know every part of Smith.

The good, the bad…and the deeply disturbed.

He’s right. How can I beg to stay in his world if I have no idea what that even means?

“No. I’m ready,” I whisper.

I’m not sure if it’s relief or excitement that flashes in his eyes, but it softens his expression, lets his jaw finally relax. He comes to kneel on the bed beside me, the plastic quietly crinkling under his weight.

I can’t help but drop my eyes. He’s still not hard, and I don’t understand what that means. This doesn’t turn him on, but the thrill he’s feeling is so palpable I can almost taste it.

“This is going to hurt,” he says, tracing the flat side of the blade over my collarbone, not cutting yet, just letting me feel the cool metal against my feverish skin.

“But if you let the pain in, if you surrender to it, it’ll feel so fucking good.”

He drags the flat of the blade up my fluttering stomach, then changes the angle just enough that the edge of the blade scrapes over my skin like a straight razor. I’m all too aware of how little effort it will take for him to draw blood.

For him to kill.

To say I’m feeling vulnerable is an understatement. My skin has never felt this flimsy before. Like a paper bag filled with blood and organs, where one quick swipe or stab could send everything spilling out onto this plastic sheet.

Smith is silent as he guides the knife over my body, the only sound his slow, steady breathing and the scrape of metal against skin.

My heart is hammering so hard I can see a strand of hair near my face vibrating with every beat. Each breath feels shallow as I try to drag it into a too-tight chest caged in by icy ribs.

This is fucking insane.

He’s fucking insane.

Scratch that. I’m fucking insane.

I mean, how the hell else could I be enjoying this?

Right alongside the tension of fear, my body is tingling with arousal. With anticipation—of pleasure, of pain, of whatever this man wants to dole out.

When he runs the tip of the knife around my nipple, and then over it, I let out a shuddering gasp. My eyes flutter closed, heightening the sensation of touch as he repeats the same slow torture on my other nipple.

Then down, down. Over my fluttering stomach. Scraping over my pubic mound.

I start panting when he touches my clit, slowly—ever so fucking slowly—spreading my legs wider.

It must signal something to him. Or perhaps he’s reached the end of this particular line of torture. The knife disappears, and with it the red-hot afterglow of its sharp tip against my most sensitive skin.

“You’re doing so well, Zoey,” he murmurs.

The moment I open my eyes, he brings the knife to his mouth and licks the tip.

My pussy clenches so hard, I whimper.

Smith shifts deeper onto the bed, pushing my leg up and coming to sit in front of it, drawing my foot into his lap.

Fuck, when did he get such a massive hard on?

I pull my foot away, but he drags it back. We spend a hot second playing tug of war, until he shoves my foot down where he wants it—right on his dick.

I swear I can feel it pulsing against my arch.

He scoots closer, my shin pressed against his chest, and wraps an arm around my bent leg, keeping me steady.

His eyes meet mine, and for once, there’s no mask there.

Just raw, unfiltered Smith.

Dark eyes, parted lips, a faint frown. There’s a tremble on his mouth, a sudden flash of guilt in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks hoarsely.

“I’m stronger than you think.”

His eyes drop to my lips as I speak. He shakes his head, slow, like he’s in a trance. “I?—”

I lay my hand over his arm, not surprised when I don’t even feel the slightest tremor in his muscle.

“You can’t break me, Smith. Not even if you tried.”

I should be terrified, but the way he holds me, rock solid and unapologetic, makes me feel safe. Comforted, even. Maybe that’s why I relax into his grip, why I can tear my gaze from his face to his hand when he finally tears his eyes away from mine.

Why I can watch, silent and still, as he defiles me in the sickest, darkest way possible.

The first cut is shallow.

I barely feel the cold metal he drags across my upper thigh. But then the blood wells up in a ragged ruby line, and with it a fiercely stinging heat.

Smith’s eyes darken as he watches it, his breathing becoming just as ragged. His breath just as hot against my skin.

God help me, I arch into it, wanting more. More of that sinister pain, more of the feverish attention of his eyes on my skin.

My mind goes back to that bottom drawer of his. The one filled with countless chips, hundreds of thousands of dollars. He tossed them in there like they were nothing.

Because they are nothing to him.

This…this is what he wants. What he craves.

What he treasures more than anything.

I’m giving this man something no one else can. I’m sating a twisted desire he’s kept hidden for who knows how long. Something that’s brought him shame, and suffering.

I’m feeding his darkness …and loving every second of it.

He glances up at me, looking high and drunk at the same time, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth.

“Are you—okay?” he mumbles. His voice catches on the last, like he’s wondering if he’s okay enough to even be asking the question.

My voice is thick, but I don’t stammer.

“Yes.” I lay my hand over his, releasing a shuddering breath. “ Fuck , yes.”