Page 102 of Roulette Rodeo
“Please, as if I’d let you bridal-carry me after what just happened. I have appearances to maintain.”
He gives me a sly look.
"You want a piggyback, then?"
“Don’t tempt me,” I say. "I might actually take you up on it if I collapse mid-stride."
He grins, but we both know he would do it in a heartbeat. The kitchen is empty, the morning light making everything look extra golden and soft. Shiloh sets to work with the single-mindedness of someone who’s done missions on less sleep than this, pulling eggs, bread, and a comically large pack of bacon from the fridge.
I climb up onto the counter, toes swinging, and watch him. It makes me feel like this truly is my new home, and that I’m not necessarily a stranger having breakfast in their pack house for the first time.
“You always cook breakfast for your conquests?”
He doesn’t even pause.
“Never had a conquest before.”
The words hit me in a weird place—warm and cold at once.I want to tease, but I also want to ask a hundred questions. Instead, I just watch him, the way he moves, the economy of motion. He’s efficient, but not fussy. It’s kind of hot, honestly.
"Can I help?" I ask, mostly so I don’t have to sit there feeling like a pampered housecat.
Shiloh gives me a look, as if weighing the odds.
"You can make the coffee. And don’t touch the stove."
I salute.
"Sir, yes sir."
He rolls his eyes, but I can see the small smile tugging at his lips.
I find the French press and the beans and get to work, doing my best not to make a mess. I only know how to work this cause Mother always enjoyed authentic coffee from different parts of the world. I’m sure she couldn’t wait for the day I was old enough to take me exploring around the world, she dreamed to travel around instead of buying ground coffee beans from online with the few dollars she had once a year as a “Christmas” gift.
The smell of frying bacon fills the air, and my stomach howls again, but this time it’s less embarrassing. Now it’s just hunger, pure and simple.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm, Shiloh and I, moving around the kitchen in a quiet choreography that feels older than either of us. The only soundtrack is the crackling of bacon grease and the percolating sigh of the coffee press. Outside, the wind ticks at the window seams, and every now and then a horse huffs somewhere in the barn. The world continues, indifferent to the seismic shift in my personal universe—last night, this morning, this man who is now leaning over a cast iron pan with a focus usually reserved for detonators and sniper scopes.
There’s something oddly intimate about sharing a kitchen with someone like this—bare feet on cold tile, the click of ceramic mugs, the way he sets out plates like he knows I’ll need two because I eat like a starved wolf.
I watch him, the way his forearms flex when he flips an omelet, the way he wipes his hands on the towel tucked into his waistband, and it hits me that I’ve never had this before. Not the sex, not the safety, and definitely not the slow burn of just… being. No one has ever made me breakfast without expecting something in return, except, maybe, my mother.
And she’s been gone so long, I’d forgotten what it felt like.
Shiloh glances over at me, catches me watching, and instead of the usual Alpha posturing or lewd eyebrow waggle, he just gives a one-sided shrug, as if to say Yeah, I like you, and I don’t care who knows. The moment, oddly enough, reminds me of Briar. I can only imagine how proud she would be to know I truly got he opportunity of a lifetime. To experience sex with a man who treasured me, even if this was simply a one-night thing.
I finish prepping the coffee and pour two mugs.
When I hand Shiloh his, our fingers brush, and neither of us pulls away. We just stand there, eye to eye, the morning sun making his green irises burn like an untouched forest. There’s a gravity to the moment that nearly drags me under, but instead, I hold his gaze and sip my coffee, daring him to look away first.
He doesn’t.
And for once, I don’t feel like a pawn or a paycheck or a genetic lottery ticket waiting to be cashed. I feel like a real person, someone who gets to wake up in the aftermath and still belong to herself. This has to be how having your own autonomy feels like —having the power to give something away, and knowing it wasn’t stolen.
Just Red, who chose Shiloh, who chose to give him this piece of myself that no amount of money could buy.
Tonight, I’m just a woman who kept her promise, made her choice, and found something like peace in the arms of a soldier who doesn’t even realize he’s holding all the shattered pieces of me together.
MORNING CONFESSIONS
