Page 4 of Roulette Rodeo
Two packs faced each other across the blackjack table, the tension between them crackling like electricity before a storm.
On the left, the Reeves pack—old Vegas money, the kind that owned politicians and judges.Three alphas in Italian suitsthat probably cost more than most people's cars, their scents a mixture of leather, gunpowder, and that particular brand of arrogance that came from never hearing the word 'no.'
On the right, the Castellano pack—new money, tech fortune, desperate to prove they belonged at this table.Four alphas, younger, hungrier, their Armani trying too hard to match the Reeves' effortless elegance.
Their combined scents—metal, ozone, and synthetic musk—made my nose burn.
"Ah, there she is." Marcus Reeves, the pack's lead alpha, didn't look up from his cards. "Red, darling, we're running dry over here."
I moved to the bar, my hands steady despite the weight of fourteen alpha eyes tracking my movement. The dress did its job—I could feel their attention like fingers trailing over silk. My scent, even suppressed, wove through the smoke and spirits, adding its own note to the symphony of excess.
"Macallan 25 for the Reeves pack," I murmured, knowing their preferences by heart. "And Hennessy Paradis for the Castellanos."
"You know us so well, sweetheart." This from Tommy Castellano, the youngest of his pack at maybe twenty-five, with slicked-back hair and a smile that promised nothing good. He'd been watching me since I entered, his pupils dilated from more than just the cocaine. "Tell me, do you know what else I like?"
I poured their drinks with practiced precision, my expression pleasantly neutral—the mask I'd perfected over three years.
"I imagine your tastes are quite specific, Mr. Castellano."
"Oh, they are." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his bulk. "I like things that smell like spiced honey. Wild berries. Maybe with a hint of something... woody?"
My hand didn't shake as I set down his glass, though every instinct screamed at me to step back.
He was scent-tracking me, picking apart the notes of my suppressed omega signature like a sommelier with a rare vintage.
"Tommy's got a point," Marcus Reeves finally looked up, his gray eyes—so similar to Marnay's—taking in my new outfit with obvious appreciation. "Our hostess does smell particularly... appetizing tonight. Like mulled wine and cherries jubilee had a baby with Christmas morning."
The other alphas laughed, the sound sharp and predatory. I maintained my position by the bar, hands clasped in front of me, the picture of professional composure while inside, my mind raced through exit strategies that didn't exist.
"Place your bets, gentlemen," the dealer—a beta named Carson who'd learned not to make eye contact with any of us—shuffled the cards with mechanical precision.
"Actually," Tommy said, his grin widening, "let's make this interesting. Forget money—we've all got plenty of that."
Marcus raised an eyebrow.
"What did you have in mind?"
Tommy's eyes never left mine.
"Winner gets an hour with the lovely Red. Private party. The alley out back has that nice little alcove, very discreet."
The words hit me like ice water in my veins.The alley.I knew exactly which one he meant—the loading dock area where the cameras mysteriously never worked, where omegas who pushed too hard or not hard enough learned exactly how far Marnay's protection extended.
Which was to say:it didn't.
"That's not—" I started, but Marcus cut me off with a wave of his hand.
"Interesting proposition. But Marnay?—"
"Will be fine with it," Tommy interrupted, pulling out his phone. "I've dropped enough money here tonight to buy a small country. He'll make an exception."
"Then we're agreed?" Marcus looked around the table. "Winner takes all?"
The other alphas nodded, their excitement palpable, scents spiking with arousal and competition.
Someone—one of the younger Reeves, I thought—actually licked his lips.
I stood frozen by the bar, my mind spinning.
