Page 8 of Roulette Rodeo
The scents hit first—stale whiskey and cheap perfume, cigar smoke that had yellowed the ceiling of our ranch house, and underneath it all, the ghost of sage and lavender that meantmother. But that scent was fading, had been fading for months since she'd died, replaced by the cloying sweetness of beta women who thought they could take her place.
I was eight again, standing in the shadows of the staircase, my small fingers wrapped around the wooden spindles like prison bars. The living room below swam in cigarette haze, and through it, I could see him—Nico Vale, my father, holding court like a king of nothing.
"Sold it this morning," he announced, tipping back another tumbler of bourbon. The ice clinked against his teeth. "That bitch thought her family ranch would be worth something when she kicked it. Thought she was leaving me set for life."
The women draped across our furniture—mother'sfurniture—laughed like hyenas.
They were all beta, every last one, their scents artificial and sharp like department store perfume trying to mask somethingrotten. One of them, a blonde with breasts that threatened to spill from her halter top, ran her acrylic nails down my father's chest.
"Poor little Nico," she cooed, her voice syrupy fake. "Stuck with a weak omega wife who couldn't even give you a son."
My hands tightened on the spindles until my knuckles went white.
Mother hadn't been weak. She'd been strong enough to love him, strong enough to believe his promises, strong enough to fight the illness that had eaten her from the inside out while he'd been at the casino, betting away her medical fund.
"Omegas," my father spat the word like it tasted bad. "Fragile little things. Can't handle a real man's world. Mine couldn't even handle childbirth more than once—gave me a useless daughter, and then her body just gave up. Probably for the best. Would've been embarrassing, having an omega son."
The blonde laughed, pressing closer.
"Don't worry, baby. We'll give you all the sons you want. Strong beta boys who won't disappoint you."
Another woman, a redhead who'd been eyeing mother's china cabinet, added, "At least you got something for the ranch. How much?"
"Enough to stake me at the high-roller tables for a month," he said, pride thick in his voice. "Gonna turn that dead woman's inheritance into real money."
I wanted to scream.
That ranch had been in mother's family for four generations. She'd grown up there, learned to ride there, met my father there when he'd been a traveling salesman with a silver tongue and promises of devotion. She'd died believing he'd keep it for me, her last words a whispered plea to make sure I had somewhere safe to grow up.
My father's eyes suddenly lifted, meeting mine through the haze.
For a moment, something flickered there—guilt, maybe, or recognition of what he'd become. But then he smiled, that same charming smile that had fooled my mother, and raised his glass in a mock toast.
"Shouldn't you be in bed, little Red?"
I didn't answer.
I just stared at him, letting him see everything I couldn't say.
The hatred. The disgust. The promise that I would never, ever be like my mother—trusting the wrong person, believing pretty words, dying for a love that had never really existed.
The blonde noticed me then, her lips curling in distaste.
"She's got that look. That omega look. You can already smell it on her, even this young."
It was true. Even at eight, my scent was starting to develop—unusual for an omega, who typically didn't present until puberty. But there it was, faint but distinct: wild cherries and honey, smoke and spice.
Nothing like my father's flat, metallic scent.
"She'll be someone else's problem soon enough," my father said, turning away from me. "Omegas always are."
I turned and walked up the stairs, each step measured and careful, my small hands clenched into fists at my sides.
Behind me, I heard the sounds that meant the "entertainment" was about to begin—zippers, giggles, the creak of mother's favorite chair under foreign bodies.
In my room, I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to stop the burning in my skull.
The world felt too hot, too bright, too much. The fever that had been building all day finally crashed over me like a wave, and I collapsed onto my small bed, the quilt mother had made still smelling faintly of her.
