Page 1 of Roulette Rodeo
PROLOGUE: VELVET PRISON
~RED~
The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the dressing room, followed by a wet gasp as the omega was slapped away from Manager Marnay's lap.
She hit the burgundy carpet with a soft thud, scrambling to her knees with tears streaming down her face.
"Incompetent," Victor Marnay spat, his silver hair catching the harsh fluorescent lights as he tucked himself back into his designer slacks. The wolf-head cane leaning against his chair seemed to leer at the trembling omega. "Can't even properly service a simple request. Get her out of my sight."
"Please, Mr. Marnay, I can do better—" The omega's plea cut short as two beta enforcers grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the back exit. The one that led to the auction blocks, not the stage.
I kept my eyes forward, spine straight, hands clasped behind my back like the other eleven omegas lined up for inspection. We'd learned long ago that watching only made it worse. The girl's sobs faded down the hallway, swallowed by the casino's endless appetite for broken things.
Marnay stood, adjusting his red velvet suit jacket with practiced precision. His sigh carried the weight of mild inconvenience, as if losing an omega to the auction houses was no different than spilling coffee on his imported shoes.
"Well then," he said, moving to the start of our line. "Let's see who's worthy of gracing my establishment tonight."
He stopped at each omega, examining us like prize cattle.
A tilt of the chin here, a check of fingernails there.
When he reached me, his nostrils flared, and a slow smile spread across his face—the kind that made my skin crawl beneath the crimson corset they'd squeezed me into.
"Rowenna." He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as if savoring a fine vintage. "You smell particularly... intoxicating tonight."
My scent had always been my curse here. Where other omegas carried lighter fragrances—vanilla, lavender, honeysuckle—mine was richer, more complex.Spiced honeythat reminded alphas of mulled wine on cold nights,wild cherrywood smokefrom autumn bonfires, and underneath it all,dark berriescrushed against warm skin.
It was the kind of scent that made alphas' heads turn and their wallets open.
"Have you been taking your suppressants?" His fingers ghosted near my neck, not quite touching—he never touched the merchandise directly unless making a point.
"Yes, Mr. Marnay. Eight AM and eight PM, every twelve hours as prescribed." My voice stayed steady, professional. Three years of practice had taught me the exact tone he wanted—submissive but not weak, clear but not bold.
"Good girl." He stepped back, addressing the room. "You see, ladies, this is why Red here gets the VIP tables, the private rooms, the better costumes. Her scent alone brings in more revenue than three of you combined. She's our holy grail, our golden goose."
His gray eyes swept over the line.
"Remember that when you're tempted to complain about favoritism. Some of you are here because you're pretty. Red is here because she's profitable."
A chorus of "Yes, Mr. Marnay" rippled through the line.
Some voices held resentment, others resignation. I'd stopped caring about their opinions two years ago.
We were all prisoners here, even if some cells had better views.
"Tanya, you're on the main floor tonight. Blackjack and baccarat tables." He continued down the line, assigning positions like a general deploying troops. "Amber, Nicole, you're in the cocktail rotation. Red—" He paused, that calculating look returning. "High roller suite. The Sinclair pack requested you specifically. They're dropping serious money at the tables, so make them happy. But not too happy. They haven't paid for that privilege."
Yet. The unspoken word hung in the air like smoke.
I nodded, already running through my mental checklist.
The Sinclair pack were regulars—three alphas who thought throwing money around entitled them to more than drinks and conversation.They'd never crossed the line Marnay drew, but they pressed against it, testing boundaries like all alphas did when they caught my scent.
As Marnay dismissed us to finish preparing, I moved to my designated vanity—the one in the corner with the good lighting and the mirror that wasn't cracked. Another "privilege" that separated me from the others.
I caught my reflection as I sat:deep auburn hair they made me keep long and styled in vintage waves, garnet brown eyes with flecks of gold that looked more tired every day, and the roulette wheel tattoo on my left wrist that marked me as property of The Crimson Roulette.
Three years.
