Page 147 of Roulette Rodeo
This particular book came from the book club I've been attending—once a week at the town's combination coffee shop and bookstore, creatively named "Grounds for Literature." Tonight will be my fourth session, and I'm dreading it a little.
The first two weeks, Poppy came with me.
She admitted she's not necessarily a reader—"Words on a page make me sleepy unless they're gossip about real people"—but she enjoyed the chaos of putting the other omegas in their place when they got too catty.
Her presence made the evenings bearable, even fun.
Last week, I went alone.
It was...different.
The other omegas are nothing like Poppy or me.
They're what I've started thinking of as "traditionally raised"—soft-spoken until they're not, sweet-smiled while delivering barbs, the kind who've never had to fight for anything because it's always been provided. They looked at me like I was some exotic creature when I mentioned actually enjoying the fight scenes in the thriller we'd read.
"Violence is so unnecessarily masculine," one had said, her nose wrinkling delicately.
"Have you ever been in a situation where violence was necessary?" I'd asked, genuinely curious.
The silence that followed told me everything.
They go to book club because it's what omegas do. It's acceptable, safe, a sanctioned activity that keeps them occupied without challenging anything. They pick romance novels with guaranteed happy endings and clutch their pearls when someone suggests reading something with actual conflict.
My phone buzzes, interrupting my brooding. Shiloh's name lights up the screen, and I answer immediately.
"Hey, everything okay?"
"Red." His voice is strained, and I can hear commotion in the background. "We might not be able to get back in time to drive you to book club."
"What's wrong?" I sit up straighter, book forgotten.
"Medical emergency. Some omega in psychosis tried to..." He trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. "Corwin's dealing with it, but it's bad. Really bad. We're all here for support and safety reasons."
My heart clenches thinking about some poor omega driven to that point.
"It's fine, I can skip?—"
"No," he interrupts firmly. "You've been looking forward to it all week. Is Rafe around?"
I glance toward the door. "Uh..."
As if summoned by his name, the door opens and Rafe walks in, looking immaculate as always in charcoal gray slacks and a black button-down that probably costs more than most people's rent. His ice-gray eyes find mine immediately, one eyebrow arching in silent question at finding me curled up like a college student during finals week.
"He just arrived," I tell Shiloh, watching Rafe's expression shift to suspicion.
"Perfect. Pass the phone to him."
I unfold myself from the window seat, shuffling over to Rafe in my ridiculous puppy slippers. The contrast between us—him looking like he stepped out of a business magazine, me looking like I raided a teenager's sleepover supplies—should be embarrassing. But there's something in his expression, a flicker of... something... that makes me think he doesn't entirely hate it.
I offer him the phone. "Shiloh wants to talk to you."
He takes it with obvious reluctance, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange. "What?"
I can't hear Shiloh's side of the conversation, but watching Rafe's face is entertaining enough. His frown deepens with each passing second.
"Why do I have to do it?" He pauses, listening. "I have work to—" Another pause, longer this time. His eyes flick to me, then away. "That's manipulative and you know it."
Whatever Shiloh says next makes Rafe's jaw clench so hard I'm worried he might crack a tooth.
