Page 150 of Roulette Rodeo
Corwin: Try to get back before the rain gets worse. Weather report shows it getting bad tonight.
Red: How's the omega?
There's a pause before Corwin responds.
Corwin: Stable now. She'll be okay. Eventually.
The weight in those words sits heavy in my chest.
Another omega pushed to the breaking point, another casualty of a system that treats us like possessions rather than people. I wonder what her story is, what drove her to that point, whether she has anyone who actually cares about her recovery beyond the inconvenience it causes.
She wonders if it’s triggering for any of them — maybe specifically for Rafe — which may be why they want to keep him busy. I’m sure the news will spread sooner or later, because that’s how it went in small towns like Jackridge, but tonight, he’d simply be focused on his newfound duty to take her to book club.
I grab my purse—another new acquisition that still feels foreign, like playing dress-up—and the book I need to return to the club's lending library. The bookmark photo strip catches my eye, and I smile remembering how Poppy and I had squeezed into that tiny booth, making increasingly ridiculous faces until we were both crying with laughter.
That's what I want.
Not the drama of the book, not Celeste's tragic inability to choose. I want laughter and ridiculous photos and small moments that add up to something real.
When I make it back downstairs, Rafe's waiting by the door, having exchanged his dress shoes for more practical boots. He's added a leather jacket that probably costs more than most cars, and he looks...
Well, he looks unfairly good, the bastard.
"Ready?" His tone is neutral, careful. Yet his eyes are admiring me slowly, almost appreciatively.
"Ready," I confirm, then glance at the window where rain is now coming down in sheets. "Though maybe we should have an ark rather than a car."
His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close.
"The Range Rover can handle it."
Am I surprised he drives a Range Rover? Not in the slightest. Probably black, definitely pristine, the kind of vehicle that says 'I have money but I'm not tacky about it.'
I'm right on all counts.
The interior smells like leather and that expensive car smell that's somehow both artificial and appealing.
I settle into the passenger seat, trying not to think about how this is the first time I've been alone with Rafe since our “collision” in the hallway three weeks ago.
He starts the car, and classical music fills the space—something with piano and strings that should feel pretentious but somehow doesn't.
"You can change it if you want," he offers, not looking at me as he navigates down the dark driveway.
"It's nice," I say honestly. "Peaceful."
We drive in silence for a few minutes, the rain drumming on the roof, the wipers keeping steady time. It should be awkward, probably is awkward, but there's something almost comfortable about it too. Like we're both trying to figure out how to exist in the same space without defaulting to antagonism.
"What's tonight's book?" he finally asks as we turn onto the main road toward town.
"Hearts Divided. Romance about an omega who can't choose between two alphas."
He makes a sound that might be disgust.
"Let me guess—she strings them both along for three hundred pages then somehow gets both in the end?"
"Worse. She fakes her death rather than choose."
His hands tighten on the steering wheel.
