Page 10 of House of Cards

Troy rocks back on his heels, hands clasped in front of him as the elevator glides to a stop. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The doors ping as they open on a plushly carpeted hallway. We’re both silent as we stride out of the elevator, Troy wearing an annoyingly blank face, me faintly scowling. The noise hits us before we’ve even cracked open the access-controlled door to the main casino floor.

It’s Saturday night, and as usual, the Devil’s Luck is overflowing.

Rows of slot machines blast synthetic melodies, their explosive colors transforming the casino into a circus. The air is electric tonight, charged with the collective hopes and fears of hundreds of gamblers.

I scan the crowd, easily spotting the subtle tells that separate the casual players from the desperate ones. The way they fist their chips. How their eyes dart around the room. The tension in their shoulders.

Most people don’t realize how transparent they are.

Ice clinks in crystal tumblers served by waitresses in sleek black dresses. The baize is rough beneath my fingertips as I trail my hand across an empty blackjack table.

“Why the hell am I the only one looking for new Angels, anyway?” I mutter, tugging at the sleeve of my dress shirt so the cuffs jut out a quarter inch. “Surely Myles or Rich can find time in their busy schedules?”

“Because their recruitment attempts nearly ended in an FBI raid.” Troy flicks his gaze to me. “Or am I remembering that wrong?”

I chuckle. Not pleasantly. “Mind like a steel trap.”

Myles and Rich lack finesse. They view what we do at The Den as a simple transaction. I appreciate the artistry involved. The careful escalation of intensity. The delicate balance between fear and desire.

There’s a reason that the Angels I train fetch the highest prices. I’ve spent years perfecting my technique, honing my instincts for who will bend…and who will break.

Troy and I head up the sweeping stairs to the mezzanine level overlooking the roulette and craps tables. Here, intimate nests of poker and blackjack tables are scattered over the thick carpeting. Noise from below washes over the railings, but arrives muted at the baize tables.

We weave our way over the floor, my eyes darting from players to dealers to pit bosses. The casino staff all have friendly smiles on their faces, the pit bosses more somber and focused. A strict dress code exists on the upper level, but some suits lack the tailoring and price of others. Doesn’t matter to me. As long as they don’t think they can come in here in shorts and t-shirts, I’m?—

I pause to observe a woman at the bar. There’s a natural grace to how she holds herself, a latent awareness of being watched. She catches my eye for a moment before looking away, a flush rising to her cheeks.

No.

Too self-aware. Too calculated in her movements.

The best Angels aren’t artists. They’re the canvas Doms paint on. Yielding—submitting—to the stroke of our canes, belts, and whips.

I resume my scan of the room, a familiar tension building at the base of my spine.

I’ve always loved the hunt.

“Again? Jesus!” A man’s eager voice reaches me from a nearby table. On instinct, I turn to see who’s won.

It’s not the guy who shouted—he’s gaping at the woman seated beside him at the blackjack table. She’s wearing a strapless green satin dress, her long brown hair styled in sleek waves.

The dress hugs her figure, but it’s not tight enough to explain her stiff, controlled posture. The tightness of her jaw. How one heel jitters ever so slightly.

So nervous, when everything else about her looks rehearsed to a tee.

What are you hiding?

She accepts the chips the dealer places beside her winnings and, as if feeling my eyes on her, casts a furtive glance in my direction. I glimpse matte red lips, winged eyeliner, and pearl earrings as her expression freezes. Those plump lips part, eyes widening before she tears her gaze away from mine.

Then she spins back to the game and places another bet.

I slide my thumb under one suspender, toying with the give and take of the dark leather strap as I watch her play. Judging from the pile of chips already in front of her, she’s in the middle of a winning streak.

“Again! You hiding cards up your sleeves or what?”

Is that excitable man her date, or just an onlooker?

---