Page 40 of Roulette Rodeo
The sound echoes through the casino—the slide of tongues, the catch of breath, the tiny whimper I can't quite swallow when he nips at my bottom lip.
I pull back only when oxygen becomes necessary, both of us panting. My lipstick is probably everywhere—his mouth is stained red like he's been drinking wine, only alluring further this illusion of cherries and this haunting theme of red dominance.
My scent floods the space, no longer contained by suppressants or clothes or propriety. Cherry and smoke and honey and need, so thick you could taste it. Every alpha in the vicinity is probably hard.
Every omega is probably either jealous or aroused or both.
I don't care about any of them.
I slide off his lap in one smooth motion, making sure to keep my thighs pressed together. No one else gets to see what's his. The possessive thought should disturb me—I'm not his, not yet, maybe not ever—but it doesn't.
I take the hat back, spinning it on my finger like this is all a game. Like I didn't just throw a match into a puddle of gasoline or as though my whole world didn't just shift on its axis.
Hopefully in my favor in this world that doesn’t like to see a thriving Omega survive.
My bow is theatrical, deep enough to be mocking, controlled enough to be respectful.
"Play your cards right, gentlemen."
I let my eyes drift to his packmates for the first time, cataloging them quickly.
Steel gray eyes that see too much, positioned to watch all exits. That one's dangerous in a different way—the strategist, the one who makes sure they win before the game even starts.
Bright blue that burn with barely contained violence, muscles coiled like he's ready to fight the entire casino. The enforcer —the one who breaks things that need breaking.
Warm amber that hold depths I don't have time to explore, watching me with curiosity rather than hunger —The wild card, the one I can't quite read.
But my eyes return to forest green, to the alpha who still has my lipstick on his mouth and my slick on his pants.
"The lost are always found," I whisper, just loud enough for them to hear. "So I'll be waiting."
I turn and walk away, each step measured despite the trembling in my legs.
The spotlight follows me, faithful as a dog, illuminating my path until I disappear behind the curtain.
The silence stretched taut across the casino floor until I set foot on the stage.
Then, as though an invisible dam had shattered, the room exploded into a hurricane of sound.
Chips rattled against felt, card tables rattled with startled clatter, and a storm of crisp bills fluttered through the air like frightened moths. A dozen alphas bellowed their bids, each roar echoing against glittering chandeliers. Through it all, Marnay’s frantic voice crackled over the speakers, high and strained: “Gentlemen, please?—”
I didn’t spare him a backward glance. I stepped off the scarlet-lit platform into the shadowed wings, where Briar waited. The edge of her smile was sharper than any blade, and the dim backstage light danced along the curve of her lips. Her eyes gleamed with savage delight. “Well,” she purred, taking in the uproar I’d unleashed, “that was certainly something.”
From beyond the curtains, I heard Marnay’s voice wobble desperately.
“The bidding will commence in an orderly?—”
“Five million.”
The word sliced through the chaos like a surgeon’s incision. Deep, measured, with a subtle European lilt—ice-gray eyes’ voice, I was sure of it. The room tensed.
“Ten million,” came the reply—Tommy Castellano, voice rough with greed and panic.
“Fifty.”
Forest-green eyes.
His tone bored, dismissive, as though this was a trivial inconvenience.
