Page 189 of Roulette Rodeo
"It's probably from that bull-riding," he mutters as we step into the night air. "All that adrenaline and exertion in ridiculous clothes?—"
I laugh, squeezing his hand.
"Admit it—I looked divine."
"Dangerously so," he whispers, so quiet I almost miss it.
The admission sends a different kind of heat through me, one that has nothing to do with possible fever and everything to do with the way his thumb is now rubbing circles on my wrist.
We walk back toward the house in comfortable silence, Duke materializing from the shadows to trot circles around us, clearly pleased with his matchmaking efforts.
The moon is lower now, morning creeping closer, and everything feels suspended in that magical time between night and day when anything seems possible.
Even a pack alpha learning to let go of his ghosts while holding onto something real and warm and alive.
Duke trots ahead, then circles back, then runs ahead again, tail wagging like he's orchestrated the best possible outcome. Which, I realize as Rafe squeezes my hand one more time before we reach the back door, maybe he has.
The heat under my skin pulses once more, stronger this time, and some distant part of my brain whispers a warning I'm not ready to hear.
But for now, in this moment, with Rafe's hand in mine and Duke trolling around us, I decide to enjoy this peaceful moment of bliss.
WHERE THERE'S SMOKE
~RED~
The final kick connects with the practice pad with a satisfying crack that echoes through the gym. I hold the position for a beat—leg extended at shoulder height, perfect form despite the burn in my muscles—before lowering it with controlled grace. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking through my sports bra, but the exhaustion feels good. Clean. Earned.
"And that," I announce to the room full of wide-eyed omegas, "is how you break someone's jaw if they won't take no for an answer."
The silence stretches for a solid minute. Twenty-three omegas of various ages stare at me like I've just performed actual magic instead of a basic defensive kick combination. Their expressions range from shock to awe to something that might be hope.
Then someone starts clapping—Mrs. Patterson, surprisingly, the seventy-year-old omega who runs the post office. The applause spreads like wildfire until the whole room erupts, some of the younger omegas actually whooping with excitement.
"Are you really going to teach us that?" Ashley, one of the newer omegas in town, asks breathlessly. She's maybe twenty-two, mated to a beta who works at the hardware store, and has the kind of nervous energy that speaks of too many years being told to be quiet and small.
I grin, grabbing my water bottle and taking a long drink before answering. "If there's enough omega interest? Absolutely. Every omega deserves to know how to defend themselves."
The squeal that follows is probably heard three blocks away. Even some of the older omegas look delighted, whispering among themselves about signing up for next week. Mrs. Patterson actually does a little shimmy that makes several people laugh.
"That was absolutely amazing!"
Poppy's voice cuts through the chatter as she strides across the gym floor, her vintage-inspired workout gear somehow making her look like a 1950s pinup even while sweating. Her platinum and teal hair is pulled up in a high ponytail that bounces with each step.
Behind her, unexpectedly, are the three omegas from book club—Jennifer, Brittany-or-Bethany, and Madison-or-Addison. I tense automatically, expecting confrontation, but their expressions are... different. Uncertain. Almost shy.
"That was actually impressive," Jennifer says quietly, and the admission seems to cost her something. "Really impressive."
The other two nod in agreement, and Brittany-Bethany adds, "We don't actually know how to defend ourselves. At all."
They exchange glances, some silent conversation happening before Madison-Addison continues, "We all come from... difficult backgrounds. Abusive ones, actually. Our alphas now are good to us, but before..."
She trails off, but I understand. The perfect omega facade isn't just performance—it's armor. Protection. If you're perfect enough, maybe you won't get hit. If you're quiet enough, maybe you'll be overlooked.
"We were jealous," Jennifer admits, the words tumbling out like confession. "You're so different from what we expected. When the Lucky Ace pack got you, we thought you'd be another Sophia."
My eyebrows raise at that, but she continues quickly.
"She bullied us. Constantly. Said no omega in this town could meet her standards, that's why the pack was so into her—because she was better than all of us provincial nobodies." Jennifer's voice turns bitter. "So when you showed up, we assumed you'd be the same. Another perfect omega here to make us feel inferior."
