Page 54 of House of Cards

Zoey doesn’t look at me, just turns and shuffles over to the bed. I’d been forcing her to walk at a fast pace, but seeing her move so carefully now, so deliberately, I realize every step must have been agony.

She slides her knees onto the bed and gingerly lowers herself down onto her stomach, silent, turning her head to face the wall.

My voice is harder than it should be. “The ointment, Zoey.”

She doesn’t move.

Christ. Is this foreign ache in my chest guilt, or pity?

Neither are fucking welcome.

I take out my phone, glance at the time. Sigh as I slide a finger behind my glasses to rub my temple. Myles insists on us having lunch together whenever he’s in town, and that leaves me with only a few hours of spare time.

This bed looks harder than I remember, and the room stuffy and claustrophobic, despite the air conditioner.

Not a boarding room, but a prison cell.

“Get up,” I grate.

But Zoey just lies there like a fucking corpse. It’s possible she’s already passed out, but I don’t give a fuck.

I can’t leave her here.

I grab her arm, wrenching her off the bed.

She hisses in pain, but doesn’t fight me. I want to shake her, if only so she’ll glare at me in rage, but I restrain myself. She’s not herself right now. She’s in a place most never will never go. Unprepared, the first time can feel like psychological torture.

I rip open her nightstand drawer, stuff the tube of ointment in my pocket, and throw open the door like it did me a personal injustice.

Anita scrambles to her feet as we cross back through living area, not bothering to cover herself as we pass.

She’s been around long enough not to care. Long enough to know not to ask questions. Long enough to know that, even if she did, she’s not entitled to answers.

Eddie’s brow furrows when I reappear with Zoey at my side. “Boss?”

“Not done with her yet,” I mutter, stalking away before Eddie can catch more than a glimpse of my face.

I head down the hall and into the elevator, swiping my keycard to access the top level of the Devil’s Den.

We don’t run a hotel here like we do at the casino, but we’ve frequently needed guest rooms and it hardly put a dent in our profits to build a few suites above the nightclub.

Discrete red lights on the key panels beside each door indicate if they’re occupied or not. I stop beside the first unoccupied room and swipe my keycard again, knowing it’s going to show up on an access control log somewhere. That someone is going to see that I accessed this room at quarter to ten in the morning.

Then there are the cameras.

They’re fucking everywhere.

The Devil’s Den suite feels oppressive with its charcoal carpets, deep red curtains, and heavy ornate furniture centered around a four-poster bed, but it’s a hell of a let better than the beige jail cell Zoey would have spent the night in.

“What now?” she mumbles, sounding drunk. “New client?”

“Got to get you cleaned up, kitten.” My voice is gruff, and when I look down, she’s gazing up at me with bleary eyes, but she still finds the strength to argue.

“But…tired.” Her lips barely move.

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

She sighs, but doesn’t protest further when I take her into the bathroom. I turn on the shower, peel off her robe, and maneuver her under the spray. She hisses when it touches her tender skin.

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