Page 7 of Roulette Rodeo
Briar was back.
The woman who'd been our north star, our proof that escape was possible, was back in the cage.
No fucking way…this can’t…really be true.
"Older pussy better be as tight as that young omega," one of the Reeves pack called out crudely. "But then again, I do love an omega with experience. Makes my mommy kink more realistic."
Briar's laugh was pure performance art.
"Oh honey, I'll make you forget all about young meat. Experience means I know exactly what makes an alpha... surrender."
The door closed behind me with a soft click, cutting off the sounds of zippers and anticipation.
In the hallway, the tears I'd been holding finally fell, hot and silent down my cheeks.
My hands shook as I pressed them against the wall, trying to ground myself.
Briar was back.
The woman who'd taught me to palm chips, to read tells, to survive the first brutal months. The one who'd called me Cherry Bomb and promised that someday, somehow, we'd both be free. She'd been gone for two years—we'd all believed she'd made it out, found her happily ever after with a pack that saw her as more than entertainment.
But here she was, offering herself up to save me from a horror she knew too well. Using her body as a shield because she knew what losing my virginity like that would do to me—not just physically, but spiritually.
Why…?
Why would she come back to hell…to protect me?
Did this mean there might not be an "out" after all?
I wiped my face with trembling fingers, tasting the salt of my tears mixing with the burgundy lipstick. Three and a half minutes to compose myself, to paint the mask back on, to walk to that roulette table and smile like my world hadn't just imploded.
The compact in my corset felt heavier now, the symbolism around my eight thousand dollars saved in my little savings nestseeming more pathetic than ever. If Briar couldn't make it out, what chance did I have?
She was smarter than me, stronger than me, and she'd had a two-year head start.
But I couldn't think about that now.
The show must go on, as Marnay always said.
The house always wins.
I straightened my spine, fixed my lipstick in the hallway mirror, and walked toward the main floor. Each step felt like moving through quicksand, but I moved anyway. Because that's what we did here—we survived one minute, one hour, one day at a time, even when survival felt like its own kind of death.
The main floor hit me with its usual sensory assault—neon lights, electronic beeping, the desperate energy of people trying to beat odds that were never in their favor.
I took my position at table seven, the high-stakes roulette where oil executives and arms dealers played with numbers that could feed small countries.
"Place your bets," the croupier called out, and I smiled that empty smile, my scent weaving through the air like a siren song while upstairs, my best friend paid the price for my continued innocence.
Three years and two months in this velvet prison.
And tonight, I'd learned that the house didn't just always win—it never really let you leave the table at all.
FEVERED PAST AND HAUNTING GHOSTS
~RED~
The fever came in waves, each one dragging me deeper into memories I'd spent years trying to bury.
