Page 63 of Roulette Rodeo
The water is cold, blessedly cold, and I realize how parched I am only when the first sip hits my throat.
I drink carefully, aware that too much too fast after whatever happened?—
What did happen?
The memories are fragmented. The performance. The VIP section. Shiloh in his cowboy hat looking at me like I was salvation and damnation combined. The hundred milliondollars that couldn't be real except it was. Marnay's office. The vial of?—
Fuck. He drugged me.
The water bottle nearly slips from my fingers as the reality crashes over me.
That bastard had drugged me, had tried to—what? Kill me? Make sure the Lucky Ace pack's investment went bad?
My hands shake as I look at the sticky note, needing something to focus on besides the knowledge that I'd almost died. Again. That Vegas had tried one more time to chew me up and spit me out.
The handwriting is careful, precise, nothing like the usual doctor's scrawl or the harsh block letters of guards and enforcers.
"Rest. You're safe now."
Safe.
When was the last time I'd been safe? Really safe, not just temporarily out of immediate danger?
The handwriting is beautiful, controlled but with little flourishes that speak of someone who learned penmanship when it mattered.
Shiloh, probably. It has to be him.
The sticky note connection alone—our weird little thread from a storage closet to here, wherever here is.
I let myself sink back into the pillows, my body already demanding sleep despite having just woken.
But for once, the exhaustion doesn't feel like defeat. It feels like healing.
Safe.
The word echoes in my mind as my eyes drift closed again.
Safe from Marnay.
Safe from the Crimson Roulette.
Safe from contracts and performances and men who saw me as meat with a price tag.
Maybe not safe from the Lucky Ace pack—jury's still out on whether I've traded one cage for another.
But Shiloh's eyes hadn't looked at me like property.
Neither had the others, even with Rafe with his cold disappointment.
They'd looked at me like I was something else. That I had value more than my body and the idea of a pleasurable performance. Worthy of a hundred million dollars and a midnight escape from Vegas.
My mother's voice echoes from the dream:Always fight for what you want.
I'd fought.
Fought for three years in that velvet prison.
Endured the challenges to keep my virginity, my savings, my sanity. Did everything on that stage tonight—was it tonight? How long have I been out?—showing those alphas that I wasn't just another omega to be consumed.
