Page 46 of Roulette Rodeo
Years in this place have taught me there are some answers that only breed more questions, the kind that keep you up nights and make you want to scrub your skin off with steel wool. But the way Marnay’s eyes linger on the vial, then flick back up to my face with that same miserable calculation he’s always had, tells me everything I need to know.
This is the kind of pharmaceutical intervention reserved for the truly valuable livestock—pricier than street-grade suppressants, and probably designed to undo years of what the house has been feeding me and the others.
“This will correct the lingering effects of the drugs you’ve been taking,” he says, his voice as dry as the desert outside. “All Omegas who’ve gained freedom are encouraged to take it.” He lets that hang for a full two floors before adding, “Obviously, your choice to take it or not. The consequences are yours to bear.”
Consequences.
Like my body might not work right, or my mind could come unglued, or maybe the Lucky Ace pack expects their new acquisition to be ‘clean’ of house chemicals and my value will plummet if I show up still marinating in Marnay’s proprietary blend.
I almost laugh,no, wait, I do laugh, sharp and barked, which scares even me a little because it proves I’m almost at this imaginary finish line to be showing expression of any kind in front of Marnay without fear of being axed and made into a future example of how far defiance gets you in his possession.
“Is this like the Blue Rose incident?” I ask, half-joking, half-desperate. “Or am I going to wake up in the desert wearing nothing but a smile and a toe tag?”
Marnay’s smile is thinner than a razor blade.
“If I wanted you dead, Red, I wouldn’t waste the money.” He inclines his head toward the vial. “Consider it a parting gift. From one entrepreneur to another.”
Entrepreneur. That’s what he’s calling me now for somehow outsmarting him in his own sick game…
It’s a gamble—the first real one I’ve been allowed in years.
I pop the seal and sniff.
There’s a smell that brings me back to a distant memory, half-buried: a summer storm over an orchard, a breath of ozone and cherry pits and something sharp but not unpleasant, like the sting of a fresh tattoo.
No going back now…regrets are for the past.
I tip it back before I can think better of it, the glass clinking my teeth on the way down.
The taste is hell.
Metallic and bitter, with a burn like swallowing live electricity. For a moment I think I might throw up, but it settles into my stomach like a swallowed stone. Almost instantly, the world gets louder; my own heartbeat is a thunder drum, and the scents in the elevator have sharpened and multiplied. I can smell Marnay’s cologne, yes, but also the sleeve of his shirt—a faint undertone of old sweat and fear. I can smell myself, the echo of the boxing bag still clinging to my skin, the hot rush of pheromones awakening under my ribs.
My knees buckle.
Marnay catches my elbow, not gently but efficiently, and steadies me as the elevator jerks to a stop. He’s staring at me with a new calculation, as if wondering whether I’ll make it to the next room or just go feral on the carpet.
For a second, I want to.
But I don’t.
I take a breath, let it out slow, and feel the effects of the potion—or whatever it is—ripple through me like a second skin. I feel awake, I feel raw, I feel stripped down to nerve endings and pure intent. If I’m a product, I’m newly minted and ready for the auction block.
The elevator dings the moment it comes to a halt, and the doors slide open, revealing a hallway that is even more opulent than the casino floor.
The suite sprawls before me, all dark wood and leather and masculine luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Vegas skyline, neon bleeding across the night like open wounds. There's a full bar, a conference table that could seat twenty, and several seating areas that probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime.
Or would have made, before tonight.
And there…in a heartbeat…my eyes land on them.
They're waiting in the main seating area, and my breath catches hard enough to hurt.
Four alphas, arranged with precision despite the casual sprawl of their bodies. Power radiates from them like heat from a forge, filling the room until the air feels too thick to breathe properly.
Forest green eyes find mine first, as if my mere presence calls to the depths of his soul, and the recognition is instant. Violent. Complete.
It's really him.
