Page 186 of Roulette Rodeo
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"Both."
We reach the beer garden where Luca is holding court at the bar, his designer clothes and perfect hair making him stand out among the casual fair-goers. He sees us coming and that practiced smile spreads across his face.
"Well, well. Come to collect on that tab after all?"
"Damn right," I say, still riding the high of victory. "Drinks for everyone!"
The crowd cheers, and Luca's eye twitches slightly. Good. Let him pay for my celebration.
As drinks are distributed and toasts are made to "the omega who conquered the bull," I catch Rafe watching me.
He's trying to look stern, but there's something else in his expression. Something warm and grateful and maybe even proud.
I raise my beer to him in a silent toast, and he shakes his head but raises his own in return.
Tomorrow, there will be consequences. Lectures about safety and communication, and not keeping secrets. But tonight?
Tonight I won something more valuable than any prize.
I showed them—all of them—that I'm not something fragile to be protected. I'm their equal, their partner, their omega who can ride a mechanical bull in sequins and body glitter and win them a quarter-million-dollar renovation.
And if I caused a minor scandal in the process?
Well, that's just a bonus.
Now to figure out where I’m putting my massive bull-cowboy plushie.
MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS
~RED~
The heat pulls me from sleep like invisible hands, my skin feeling too tight, too sensitive against the sheets. I kick them off with a frustrated groan, the cool air providing minimal relief against whatever fire seems to be burning under my skin.
Three-fifteen AM glares at me from the bedside clock in angry red numbers.
I sit up, pushing sweat-dampened hair from my face, and pad to the window. The ranch spreads out under moonlight, peaceful and silver-washed, completely at odds with the restlessness thrumming through my veins. Maybe water will help. Cold water. Lots of it.
The house creaks familiarly as I make my way downstairs, avoiding the third step that always groans and the floorboard near the kitchen that sounds like a dying cat when stepped on. Three months of midnight snack runs have taught me the house's secret language.
The kitchen tile is blessedly cool under my bare feet. I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water cold enough to make the glass fog, and drain it in desperate gulps. The second glass goesdown just as fast, but the heat under my skin persists, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
I sniff the air, catching the lingering scents of my pack. Shiloh's cedar and rain, strongest near the living room where he probably fell asleep watching security footage again. Talon's amber and smoke from the garage entrance—he must have worked late on that restoration project. Corwin's medicinal pine mixed with old books from his study.
But no ice and winter storms. No Rafe.
Soft clicking on the tile announces Duke's arrival before his wet nose presses against my calf. He sits at my feet, tail sweeping the floor, looking up at me with those intelligent brown eyes that always seem to understand more than a dog should.
"Hey, buddy," I whisper, crouching to scratch behind his ears. "Can't sleep either?"
He tilts his head, then stands and trots to the back door, scratching at it with deliberate intent.
"Where's Rafe?" I ask, though talking to a dog at three in the morning probably says something about my mental state.
Duke's tail wags harder as he scratches the door again, more insistent this time. He looks back at me, then at the door, then back at me. The message is clear: follow me.
I glance around the dark kitchen, weighing my options. Stay inside where it's safe but stifling, or follow Duke into the night for what's probably a completely innocent reason at three in the morning?
