Page 52 of Roulette Rodeo
"Rafe, what the fuc—" Talon starts.
I'm already turning, finding the second camera hidden behind a fake plant. The third is in the smoke detector. The fourth is painted to match the ceiling. Each one explodes under my methodical precision, raining debris across Marnay's expensive furniture.
The silence is heavy when I’m done scanning out, knowing no more mechanical eyes are on us, watching our every move like lab rats.
"We need to go," I say when the last camera is nothing but smoking wreckage. "Now."
Shiloh doesn't need to be told twice.
He scoops Red up like she weighs nothing, her body limp in his arms. Her head lolls against his shoulder, and the sight of it—vulnerable, trusting even in unconsciousness—makes something in my chest twist painfully.
Stupid Alpha bullshit.
These emotions are just biological in nature. I don’t give a damn if she succumbs to the concoction this fucker mastered to fool us.
We move like the unit we used to be. Corwin takes point, checking corners and clearing our path. Talon covers our six, ready for any surprise Marnay might have planned. Shiloh carries our cargo, and I'm left to process what we've just done.
The private elevator is still accessible—Marnay's arrogance working in our favor. He probably assumed we'd be too distracted by our dying omega to leave quickly. The ride down feels eternal, Red's labored breathing the only sound besides the mechanical hum.
"Is she—" Shiloh starts.
"Pulse is stronger," Corwin reports, checking again. "The medication's working, but she needs proper medical attention."
"We've got the van," Talon says, already on his phone. "Duke's in the alley, engine running."
Duke. Our driver, one of the few people we trust absolutely. Former Marine, steady hands, and most importantly, he doesn't ask questions.
The casino floor passes in a blur. A few security guards start to approach, but something in our formation—or just the unconscious omega in Shiloh's arms—makes them reconsider. We're out the side door before anyone can form a proper response.
The van's waiting exactly where it should be, black and anonymous in the alley shadows. Duke doesn't even blink at the unconscious woman, just nods and guns it the moment we're inside.
And then I'm trapped.
Trapped in a speeding van with my three brothers and an omega who smells like everything I've spent two years trying to forget exists.
She's laid out on the bench seat, still terrifyingly pale. The dress they'd put her in—much simpler, pale in comparison to the dazzling performance outfit—rides up her thighs, revealing legs that had wrapped around Shiloh in that storage closet, or at least from his brief explanation of the “connection'“.
The thought makes me grind my teeth.
There shouldn’t be anything to be jealous of yet I am.
We’ve fucked plenty of Omegas in the past. Why the idea of him being with this one pisses me off?
"How long until we're airborne?" I ask Duke, needing to focus on logistics instead of the way her chest rises and falls with each shallow breath.
"Twenty minutes to the airfield. Jet's fueled and ready."
Twenty minutes. I can survive twenty minutes.
Except I can't stop staring at her.
Even unconscious, playing with the beautiful edge of death, she's beautiful in a way that makes me upset. Not delicate beauty like Sophia's had been—this is something fiercer. Sophia was nurtured right. In a bubble of protection where the world’s cruelty didn’t taint her. Yet, this Omega…Red…the fierceness that leaked off her was a kind of beauty that comes from survival, fighting, and refusing to break even when the world tries to shatter you.
And why does that even attract me?
Her scent fills the van despite the air conditioning or the open windows Duke cracked without being asked. It wraps around us like smoke, insidious and inescapable. My cock stirs despite my best efforts to think of anything else—tax codes, territorial disputes, the memory of Sophia's funeral—but nothing works.
This omega's scent is rewriting my DNA with each breath.
