Page 171 of Roulette Rodeo
"Give us a chance to prove that," I murmur, searching her eyes. "Trust us to handle this. To handle him."
She nods slowly, and I can see her trying to rebuild her walls, trying to find that strength that kept her untouched for three years in hell.
I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing in her scent of cherries and honey and home.
"We need to solidify this pack stuff," I tell the others once I pull back. "Play the game that's clearly being played."
Because I have a strong feeling I know where this is stemming from.
The new omega laws have thrown everything into chaos, and men like Marnay are scrambling to maintain their empires. Having an omega would legitimize his operation, keep the government from shutting him down. But more than that, having Red specifically—the omega who sold for a hundred million, who captured the attention of every alpha in that auction room—would be the ultimate prize.
The sound of an engine breaks through my thoughts, and we all turn toward the drive.
Another vehicle is approaching, this one a newer model truck, cherry red with chrome details that catch the afternoon sun.
"Formation," I mutter, and we move without thinking.
The pack forms a protective line in front of Red—Rafe and me in front, Talon and Corwin flanking. It's instinctive, the way we move together after years of practice. But the truck doesn't approach with a threat.
“We sure are getting plenty of uninvited guests today,” Corwin mutters.
It pulls up casually, music playing loud enough that we can hear the bass from here.
Then the passenger window rolls down, and a familiar platinum-and-teal head pops out.
"RED!" Poppy squeals with her typical dramatic flair. "Your bestie's here to kidnap you!"
Red's whole body language changes; confusion replaces fear as she blinks at the truck.
"Poppy? What?—"
The driver's door opens, and that's when everything shifts again.
The man who steps out is tall—really tall, maybe six-four or six-five—with the kind of lean muscle that comes from actual use rather than gym sculpting. Mixed heritage shows in his features: warm brown skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes that are an unusual amber color. His hair is cut short on the sides with longer curls on top, currently bleached platinum blonde with purple tips that somehow works with his aesthetic.
But it's his scent that hits me like a physical force.
Sweet like taffy, cotton candy, caramel apples—every carnival treat combined into something that screams omega so loudly it's almost overwhelming. And underneath it? Gun oil. Sweat. The lingering traces of violence that don't match the sweetness at all.
Red's eyes go impossibly wide, her hand flying to her mouth.
The man grins, spreading his arms wide in welcome.
"Long time no chat, cherry bomb. Didn't think you'd be all the way here, alive and well."
"MALRIK!" Red shrieks, and then she's running.
Actually running, leaving the safety of our protective formation to launch herself at this stranger. He catches her easily, lifting her off her feet in a spin that has her laughing in a way I've rarely heard—pure, unbridled joy at seeing someone she thought was lost.
Every alpha instinct in my body is screaming.
Another omega—a male omega, which is already rare as hell—is holding our omega. Hugging her. Making her laugh. The possessive growl that builds in my chest is entirely involuntary.
"Malrik!" Red is saying, her hands framing his face like she needs to make sure he's real. "You're alive! They said…well, everyone said you were dead!"
He sets her down but keeps his hands on her shoulders, that easy grin still in place.
"Why wouldn't I be? Though I did go MIA in Nevada for a bit. Had some business to handle."
