Page 5 of Roulette Rodeo
Virgin.
The word echoed in my head like a bell tolling.
Twenty-four years old and still untouched, not by choice but by careful design.
My virginity was the only thing I had left that was truly mine, the one piece of myself I'd managed to protect in this velvet hell.
It wasn't about purity or any outdated notion like that.
It was about control.
In a world where my body was constantly appraised, objectified, and commodified, my untouched status was my secret rebellion. Maybe it was connected to my unusual scent—omegas who remained unmated and untouched past their first heat were rare, and their scents were rumored to be more complex, more intoxicating.
The suppressants had prevented my heats, kept me from that vulnerable state where an omega's body betrayed them completely. But they couldn't suppress everything. My scent still leaked through, different from the other girls who'd been claimed, used, discarded and recycled through the system.
"Deal," Carson's voice cracked slightly as he distributed the cards.
I watch the progression of the game the way you watch a train barreling toward an abandoned car on the tracks—morbidly fascinated, unable to look away, already tallying the number of casualties. Tommy Castellano, the youngest alpha at the table, plays his hand like he’s trying to physically scare the cards into submission. He leans hard on every turn, rolling his broad shoulders, tossing his chips with theatrical flicks, and grinning even when he’s obviously losing. He’s snorting lines between hands now, the sharp snap of his credit card against the mirror a metronome for his erratic betting. He’s so frenzied he can barely keep his pupils trained on the cards, but for all his bravado, he’s not nearly as clever as he thinks.
Tommy’s tellsare glaringly obvious, almost cartoonish: he taps his watch when he’s bluffing, drums the table with two fingers when he’s nervous, and his face—despite the coke, or maybe because of it—contorts in these tiny spasms every time he gets a decent hand. His pack tries to rein him in, but their leader, Dante, just watches with this resigned amusement, like he knows Tommy is a loaded gun aimed at his own foot but he’s invested too much to intervene now.
Across from them,Marcus Reeves is all stillness and precision, a surgeon cutting through the chaos. Marcus doesn’t twitch, doesn’t break eye contact, barely blinks. He lets Tommy’s noise fill the room and then quietly, inexorably, shifts the odds in his own favor. He folds early when the deck is bad, slow-plays the good hands, and never lets himself get rattled, even when Tommy tries to bait him with insults or sideways threats. If Tommy is a rabid dog, Marcus is the wolf, watching, waiting, closing in for the kill.
Every now and then,Marcus’s gaze flicks up to me, assessing, calculating how I fit into the night’s equation. His interest isn’tsexual—it’s predatory, but in a way that says he’s thinking about the long game, not the immediate gratification. I hate that it feels almost like respect, as much as an Alpha like him can muster for an Omega who isn’t on her back.
The restof the table orbits around this escalating tension, the lesser alphas stoking the fire with side bets and snide commentary, the Castellanos growing more desperate as their stack diminishes. The Reeves pack sits back, confident, drinking slow, not a drop spilled or a word wasted. I refill glasses, clear ashtrays, keep my steps to the perimeter of the insanity, but every time I bend to collect a glass the table’s attention pins me in place. I’m being wagered over like a cut of steak, and nobody—not the dealer, not the other service staff, not even the cameras in the corners—will intervene if the winner decides to collect their prize immediately.
I tryto keep my expression neutral, but it gets harder as Tommy’s bets get riskier and the Castellanos start arguing in rapid-fire Italian. They’re sweating, literally, the scent of anxiety bleeding through their colognes until the air tastes like panic and testosterone. The Reeves pack’s pheromones are a different beast—steadfast, unwavering, a wall of brute confidence that makes me want to either rebel or surrender, nothing in between.
The game builds in intensity,every hand swinging the stakes higher. Tommy’s hands start to shake when he deals himself a face card; Marcus just smirks, lets him burn out. The chips pile up, and so does the sense of inevitability, the room itself shrinking around the two men as they circle closer to whatever ugly climax they think will resolve this night.
I tellmyself I’m fine, that I’ve survived worse—nights with clients who treat Omegas like rental cars, parties where the only rule is “don’t leave bruises where they show.” But this is different. This time, I’m the trophy, and the man who wins doesn’t want a night of fun. He wants to prove a point.
The smoke grew thicker as more cigars were lit, the air becoming a toxic soup of alpha dominance and artificial stimulants. Someone had opened a bottle of absinthe, the green fairy adding her own hallucinogenic kiss to the proceedings.
One of the Castellanos was cutting more lines on the mirror, the sharp chemical smell making my eyes water.
"Twenty-one," Tommy slapped his cards down triumphantly. "Beat that, old man."
Marcus smiled, the expression cold as winter moonlight.
"Twenty-one as well. But I believe the house rules state that in a tie, we compare side bets."
He revealed his side cards—a perfect set that put him just over Tommy's total.
The Reeves pack erupted in celebration, back-slapping and howling like they'd won the World Series instead of the right to assault an omega in an alley.
"Fuck!" Tommy slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses jump. "Fine. But I want to watch."
"That can be arranged," Marcus stood, straightening his jacket. "Shall we, Red?"
I opened my mouth—to protest, to scream, to beg—but before the words could form, the suite door opened.
And there was a new target on everyone’s eye.
She walked in like she owned the place, and for a moment, every alpha in the room forgot I existed.
The woman wore a suit-inspired outfit that was anything but professional—a black tuxedo jacket cut to barely cover her breasts, pushed up by a corset that defied physics. The bottomhalf was pure fantasy: fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and a tiny skirt that might have been a belt in another life. A lace mask covered the upper half of her face, but those red lips, painted the exact shade of fresh blood, curved in a smile I'd know anywhere.
