Page 111 of Roulette Rodeo
Two-thirty in the afternoon.
I bolt upright so fast the room spins, my body moving on three years of muscle memory that says oversleeping means punishment, means Marnay's cane across the backs of my thighs, means no food for twenty-four hours as a reminder that omegas who can't keep schedule don't deserve sustenance.
But then reality settles over me like the quilt I've thrown off—soft, warm, completely different from anything I've known.
There's no schedule here…
No lineup at dawn for inspection. No roster of which alphas need entertaining at which table. No consequences for sleeping past sunrise except maybe missing breakfast.
The thought is so foreign it makes my chest tight.
I can sleep in. I'm allowed to sleep in.
The freedom of it should feel liberating, but instead it just feels... wrong.
Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet. Maybe I'm more Type A than I thought—one of those people who needs structure and organization just to keep the anxiety at bay. Three years of rigid scheduling has apparently rewired my brain to expect punishment for deviation, and now that there's no punishment coming, I don't know what to do with myself.
My body aches in new places, sweet reminders of the morning's activities. The soreness between my legs has evolved from sharp to pleasant, a constant low throb that makes me remember Shiloh's hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was something precious even while taking me apart.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, toes meeting cool hardwood, and that's when I notice them.
A dress is laid out on the chair by the window, and even from here I can see it's nothing like the performance wear I'm used to. It's simple—a floral print with red flowers scattered across cream fabric. But when I stand and walk closer, I realize the flowers aren't the only decoration. Tiny dice are hidden among the petals, rolled to different numbers, a subtle nod to my past that somehow doesn't feel like a chain.
A sticky note is attached to the hanger, the handwriting neat but not Shiloh's harsh military scrawl:
"Enjoy a nice warm shower and wear this. Breakfast will be ready no matter what time you wake, so relax and get comfy."
The thoughtfulness of it makes my throat tight.
Someone—most likely Shiloh—thought about what I might need when I woke. Planned for it. Cared enough to leave instructions that are suggestions rather than orders.
Next to the dress, folded neatly, is a pair of fuzzy socks that make me laugh out loud.
They're cowboy-themed.
Tiny cowboys on horses lasso hearts across a backdrop of desert sunsets. Little spurs jingle from threads at the ankles. They're ridiculous, adorable, and so perfectly absurd for this situation that I can't help but giggle.
Here I am, living on acres of land in the middle of nowhere with four alphas who've apparently decided to embrace some sort of cowboy aesthetic. Of all the things they could have been—mob bosses, military contractors, tech moguls—they chose cowboys? Was it less suspicious? Some sort of inside joke?
Or just what happens when dangerous men need a cover story in the middle of nowhere?
Briar would have a field day with this.
"Cowboys, Cherry Bomb? Really? What's next, you gonna learn to ride horses and call them 'partner'?"
The thought of Briar hits like cold water, sobering my amusement instantly.
Where is she now? Still at the Crimson Roulette, still performing for men who see her as meat, still protecting other girls the way she protected me? Is she even alive? Marnay doesn't tolerate defiance forever, and Briar's return after her supposed escape had to have consequences I didn't stay to witness.
Once I'm settled here—really settled and secure—I need to ask if there's a way to check on her.
Just to know she's breathing…surviving in there the way she taught me to survive.
God, I wish I could save her.
Wish I had the power or money or influence to walk back into that velvet prison and pull her out the way she'd pulled me through my worst moments. But right now I can barely save myself, barely establish what this new life even means.
The world has changed in three years. Or maybe it hasn't—I never really got to enjoy it before the Crimson Rouletteswallowed me whole. Before that was just survival of a different kind, dodging my father's drunken rages and the parade of women he brought home to fill the void my mother left.
