Page 64 of Roulette Rodeo
And somehow, impossibly, I'd won.
Or at least survived to fight another day.
The medical equipment beeps steadily, a mechanical lullaby that pulls me back toward sleep. But it's different from the unconsciousness of being drugged. This is natural, healing, the kind of rest that comes from a body that finally feels safe enough to let go.
My last coherent thought before sleep takes me is a prayer of sorts, whispered to my mother's ghost or whoever might be listening:
May my freedom remain… finally free from Marnay's clutches…let this be the true beginning of my strive to remain free.
WAKING TO WILDERNESS
~RED~
The world comes back to me in layers this time, not the harsh drag from unconsciousness but a gentle rise like floating up through warm water.
No beeping machines.
No antiseptic smell.
No white walls that could belong to any medical facility anywhere.
Instead, I smell wood—real wood, cedar and pine with hints of an aroma mix of furniture polish, but more organic. There's lavender too, subtle, maybe from dried flowers rather than artificial scent. And underneath it all, something is cooking somewhere, the kind of smell that speaks of kitchens where people actually cooked real meals of love rather than artificial trays just to reheat.
My eyes open to find wooden beams across the ceiling, actual tree beams with the grain still visible, knots and all. Not the fake wood paneling of cheap motels or the over-processed perfection of high-end hotels. This is real, solid, the kind of construction that's meant to last generations when maintained with dedication rather than fiscal quarters.
I'm in a different room.
The medical equipment is gone—no IV stand, monitors, or evidence I was ever connected to anything that beeped or measured my tethered consciousness. The bed I'm in is massive, a four-poster made from the same dark wood as the ceiling beams, with a quilt that looks handmade. Not factory-perfect but better for it, each square slightly different, telling a story in fabric I don't know how to read.
Slowly, carefully—because my body still feels like it belongs to someone else—I sit up.
The room unfolds around me like a secret.
It's not large, but it doesn't need to be. Every inch has been considered, crafted, and loved into being. A dresser that matches the bed sits against one wall, its surface holding a ceramic bowl and pitcher like something from another century. There's a rocking chair in the corner with a blanket draped over its back, positioned to catch the morning light from the window. Built-in bookshelves frame the window, filled with actual books—not decorative spines but worn paperbacks and leather-bound volumes that have clearly been read.
The window itself draws me.
Curtains—real fabric, not the plastic-pretending-to-be-fabric of the Crimson Roulette—flutter in a breeze from where the window is cracked open. Just enough to let in air that doesn't taste recycled, processed, and controlled.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and that's when I notice what I'm wearing.
Silk pajamas.
Deep red silk that slides against my skin like water, like sin, like something I have no business wearing. The shorts barely reach mid-thigh, and the top is held closed by tiny pearl buttons that catch the light. The craftsmanship is exquisite—French seams, hand-stitched hems, the kind of details that whisper rather than shout about their value.
This is not sleepwear for someone like me.
These pajamas cost more than I made in a month at the casino.Perhaps two months.The kind of thing Marnay would have put us in for special clients, except these don't feel like performance wear. They're comfortable, soft in a way that makes me want to burrow back into bed and never leave.
Are they borrowed? They must be.
Surely belongs to another omega here, someone who belongs to one of the other alphas. Someone who has a closet full of silk pajamas and doesn't think twice about lending them to strays their pack brings home.
The thought makes something ugly twist in my chest.
Jealousy? Insecurity?
The realization that I have no idea what I've walked—been bought—into?
