Page 65 of Roulette Rodeo
All of the above, probably.
I stand, testing my legs. They hold, though there's still a slight tremor, an uncertainty like my muscles have forgotten their job. But I can walk, and that's what matters.
At least for now…
The bathroom is through a door I hadn't noticed, blending seamlessly into the wood paneling. It's small but perfect—a clawfoot tub, a pedestal sink with brass fixtures that have developed the kind of patina that can't be faked. The mirror above the sink is slightly warped with age, making my reflection look like a Renaissance painting, all soft edges and golden light.
I look...different.
Not just the expensive pajamas or the fact that my hair has been washed and braided—someone did that while I was unconscious, and I try not to think too hard about who or why. But my face has color again, lively color, not the painted-on health of makeup. My eyes are clear, the gold flecks catching the light in a way they haven't in years.
I look like I've slept. Deep REM sleep, not just passed out from exhaustion or drugs or the bone-deep weariness of surviving another day in hell.
I look alive.
The realization hits harder than it should. Three years of looking in mirrors and seeing a ghost of myself, a hollow version playing a part. And now, in this strange bathroom in this stranger house, I look like the person I might have been if my father hadn't gambled me away.
If my Mom wasn’t a victim of neglect and left to perish because her Alpha never truly loved her…
I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth with a toothbrush that's still in its packaging—someone thought of everything—and try to organize my thoughts.
Facts:The Lucky Ace Pack bought me for a hundred million dollars. Marnay tried to kill me with some sort of poison. They saved me, brought me here—wherever here is. I've been unconscious for an unknown amount of time. And now I'm alone in what appears to be a very expensive, very isolated cabin.
Questions:Everything else…
Where are the alphas? What do they want from me? How long before the other shoe drops and I find out what hundred-million-dollar expectations look like? And the one that keeps circling back that I’m trying not to linger on:
Do I even want to leave?
That last one is the most troubling.
Because the truth is, I should be planning escape routes. Calculating distances to civilization, memorizing the layout of the house, figuring out what I can steal to finance a run to...where? I have my eight thousand dollars, plus the two hundred thousand Marnay inexplicably gave me, which I actually have no clue was brought or not, but if it’s around here,it’s enough to disappear, start over, and become someone who was never property.
But I don't want to run.
Not yet.
Could it be the silk pajamas, the handmade quilt, or the way this place smells inviting even though I've never been here before? The memory of Shiloh catching me before I hit the ground, of three alphas kneeling around me like I mattered, trickles in my mind, only further emphasizing how important my life felt in that moment.
Or is it truly because I’m curious?
About them…this place…or what kind of men spend a hundred million dollars on a stranger and then put her in silk pajamas and tuck her into a bed that smells like cedar and safety.
I need to explore.
I mean, that’s the only logical thing to do before you determine your fate in the hands of your “new owners”.
The house beyond my room is a revelation.
It's not a cabin—that was too simple a word. This is something between a lodge and a work of art, all exposed beams and river rock fireplaces and windows that frame the wilderness like paintings. The logs that make up the walls are massive, old-growth timber that must have been harvested decades ago when such things were still possible.
But it's not rustic in that self-conscious way of rich people playing at roughing it.
This is lived-in luxury, where every piece of furniture has been chosen for both beauty and function. Leather couches that have developed that perfect patina of use. Wool blankets thrown casually over chair backs. Books everywhere—on shelves, on tables, stacked on the floor next to reading chairs.
Reading…people who actually appreciate words woven together to tell beautiful stories lived and imagined.
The idea of being around Alphas who potentially appreciate literature in any form makes her a tad excited. She’s always yearned to be a bookworm, but books cost money, and libraries are no longer accessible as one would wish.
