Page 14 of Roulette Rodeo
But I came to remember that I was more than just flesh to be sold.
I started with stretches, feeling every place where the suppressants had made me stiff. My joints popped like bubble wrap as I worked through the routine Malrik had taught me. Then running—twenty minutes on the treadmill until sweat soaked through my sports bra and my legs remembered how to move without cramping.
Finally, the bag.
I wrapped my hands carefully, the ritual of it calming my nerves. Cross over, between the fingers, around the wrist. Protection for bones that were never meant to be weapons.
The first punch was tentative, testing. My form was shit after months without practice, but muscle memory kicked in quickly. Jab, cross, hook. Keep your guard up. Don't drop your shoulder. Power comes from the hips, not the arms.
I could hear Malrik’s voice in my head:
"You're not trying to knock them out, Red. You're trying to create distance. One good hit to buy you three seconds to run."
Jab, jab, cross.
The bag swayed, and I moved with it, finding my rhythm. Sweat stung my eyes, salt on my lips mixing with the copper taste of exertion. My muscles burned, but it was good pain.
Clean pain. Pain I chose.
Hook, uppercut, knee.
The combo Malrik had drilled into me until I could do it in my sleep. He'd called it the "omega special"—designed to target someone bending down to grab you. Knee to the face, uppercut to the throat, hook to the temple if you could reach it.
I lost myself in the rhythm, in the impact of fist against leather, in the burn of muscles remembering their purpose. Time became meaningless—there was only the bag, the sweat, the ache in my knuckles that meant I was still fighting.
When I finally stopped, grabbing the bag to keep from collapsing, my entire body was drenched. My vision blurred, swimming in and out of focus like I was looking through water.
Fuck…
I frowned, blinking hard. This wasn't normal exertion. This was odd for me. My head felt too light, like it might float away from my body. The suppressants, the lack of proper medication, the fever from this morning—my body was sending warning signals I couldn't afford to ignore.
Maybe I should see a doctor.
A real omega specialist, not the hack Marnay kept on retainer to keep us functional enough to work.
The thought made my stomach clench with a fear deeper than anything The Crimson Roulette had instilled. Doctors meant tests. Tests meant results. Results meant facing the possibility that I was already becoming my mother—weak, sick, dying from the inside out while clinging to false hope.
She'd been twenty-eight when the illness started. I was twenty-four. Four years. Did I have four years before my body betrayed me the same way? Four years to escape, to live, to see something beyond these velvet prison walls?
I'd been in Vegas three years and had seen nothing but the inside of the casino, this gym, and the room I shared with ghosts. I'd dreamed of exploring with a pack someday—alphas who'd be as excited as me to see the strip at dawn, to drive out to thedesert and watch stars, to eat at restaurants where the menu wasn't predetermined by someone else's appetite.
Alphas who'd see me as more than entertainment. Who'd want to know my thoughts, my dreams, my fears.
Who'd hold me through heat because they wanted to, not because they'd paid for the privilege.
A pipe dream, probably…
But it was my dream, and I clung to it like my mother had clung to her belief in my father's love.
I decided I'd pushed enough for today. My body was shaking, whether from exertion or the underlying things I didn’t want to acknowledge, I couldn't tell. I grabbed my bag, not bothering to shower—I could do that back at the dormitory where the water was at least hot.
I was almost at the exit when I heard them.
"Fuck, what is that smell?" An alpha's voice, rough with arousal, from the other side of the wall.
"Jesus Christ, it's incredible." Another alpha, younger sounding. "Like... like cherry cheesecake and sex and?—"
"We need to find her." A third voice, authoritative. "Now."
