Page 170 of Roulette Rodeo
I can picture exactly how it will go: He'll start with the legal system, call in every favor, every dirt-covered hand he keeps in his pocket. Cops, state troopers, maybe even a judge or two will come snooping around the ranch, poking into our business under the pretense of zoning violations or "endangered species audits." If that doesn't work, he'll escalate. Property sabotage, poisoned watering holes, maybe a pack of hired muscle loosed in the night just to "send a message."
And that's only the opening volley.
He doesn't just have resources;he has patience.
Makes you think you've won, let your guard down just enough, and then, at your lowest, he yanks the ground out from under you. He's done it to so many Omegas before. Briar warned me. The others whispered it in the lounges, between makeup retouches and costume changes.
You don't cross Marnay.
Not unless you want your world on fire.
And now the only people who ever made me feel safe are the ones squarely in his sights.
When I speak, my voice is so flat and brittle it shocks me.
"Rafe might have just painted a target on all our backs. Because Marnay?" I swallow, the old terror mixing with something newer—darker—because now it's not just about me. "Marnay never backs down."
UNEXPECTED REUNIONS
~SHILOH~
The tremor in Red's hand is subtle, but I've been trained to notice the things people try to hide.
The way her fingers shake just slightly as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. The micro-expressions flickering across her face—fear, doubt, the kind of bone-deep anxiety that comes from knowing exactly what your enemy is capable of.
Marnay has done his job well, instilling enough fear into these omegas to make them believe he's the absolute elite, the creator and destroyer of their lives. Like some twisted god of a neon-lit underworld who holds all the cards and makes all the rules.
It grinds my gears, makes me want to drive to Nevada right now and show him exactly what kind of violence Special Forces training can produce. But that won't help Red right now.
What she needs isn't more violence, threats, or alpha posturing.
She needs reassurance. Safety. The knowledge that she's not alone in this anymore.
I reach for her slowly, telegraphing my movements so I don't startle her. My hands cradle her cheeks gently, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as I tilt her face up to mine.
"Look at me," I murmur. "Right in my eyes for a moment."
She does, and what I see there makes my chest tight with rage and protectiveness in equal measure. The fear is rooted deep; weeks of growing confidence and comfort stripped away by one appearance from her former captor. It's like we've gone backward by ten steps, all our progress erased by the sight of that bastard's Bentley in our driveway.
"Fuck this," I growl, and then I'm kissing her.
Not gentle or careful, but with all the possession and promise I can put into the connection of our mouths. I hate the expression she's wearing, hate that Marnay can still do this to her after everything we've built together thus far. My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she opens for me immediately, a small whimper escaping that could be fear or need or both.
When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.
I keep our foreheads pressed together, my hands still framing her face.
"We have every intention of protecting you," I whisper against her lips. "Marnay can try all he wants, but we really aren't the ones he should be threatening."
Because the truth is, we've been playing nice.
Settling into this quiet life in Jackknife Ridge, pretending we're reformed, domesticated. But underneath that veneer of normalcy, we're still the pack that controlled half of Chicago's underworld. Still, the men who survived three tours in Afghanistan, who won underground fighting championships, who performed surgery in war zones, who eliminated problems with surgical precision.
We just haven't had a reason to be those men in a while.
But for Red? To keep her safe?
We'll become those monsters again in a heartbeat.
