Page 85 of Roulette Rodeo
Strong enough to make us better.
Strong enough to make me feel things I buried with Sophia.
"She's temporary," I whisper to the empty office, to the storm, to myself. "She has to be."
Because if she's not—if she's permanent, if she's real, if she's ours—then I have to admit that I've been wrong. That…we deserve a second chance. That maybe an omega doesn't have to die for alphas like us to love her.
And that possibility terrifies me more than any enemy we've ever faced.
So I repeat my mantra, my lie, my desperate hope that she'll prove me right by being wrong for us:
"It's only a test. She's only a toy. She'll show her true colors, and they'll be forced to acknowledge I was right."
Again and again, the words cycle through my mind like a broken prayer.
Because surely…if I repeat them enough, I'll believe it too.
DANGEROUS QUESTIONS
~SHILOH~
“Why don’t you join me then?”
Her voice cuts through the humid air like a blade.
No coy lilt, no softening sugar—just a straight shot challenge. Her eyes hold mine over the mountain of suds like a sniper sights through glass. Garnet and gold, sharp as brass casings in sunlight. She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. The whole room shrinks until there’s only her, the bathwater, and me caught square in her sights.
For half a breath, my brain scrambles—protocols, warnings, memories of mistakes that ended in funerals. She’s fragile, she’s new, she’s been through hell. A six-foot-four wall of old violence shouldn’t breach that. But the words die in my throat because her eyes don’t say “stop.” They say, try me.
The combat part of my mind recognizes inevitability when it sees it. This isn’t a slip. It’s a bullet leaving the chamber.
And I’m already hard enough to pound nails.
She notices—hell, she probably smelled it first. There’s a dare at the edge of her mouth when I step closer, the old wood under my bare feet creaking like a loaded gun. Vanilla-scented steamcurls around her, mixing with the spiced cherry sweetness of her own signature until the air tastes like a sin I’m about to commit.
My hands brace the clawfoot rim. Heat rolls off the water, off her, until my forearms prickle. Bubbles don’t hide much—the slick outlines of her thighs, the soft arch of her foot, the tremor in her breathing.
She’s surely majestic naked…
“You’re sure?” My voice comes out lower than intended, roughened by want.
She blinks slowly,deliberately,like chambering a round.
“I’m sure, soldier.”
Fuck…
The word hits somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
Every rational bone in my body says to call this off or at least play it safer than I’ve ever played anything in my life. I run through the whole mental checklist like it’s a hostage negotiation—remind the civilian not to escalate, keep emotional distance, never, ever get attached.
But Red’s the kind of problem you can’t just solve.
The second those words come out of her mouth, the universe shifts, and all of those neat little protocols and fallback plans get blown apart like so much dust in a crosswind.
I glare at the wall behind her, at the warped wood, the old whiskey jug on the shelf, the splintered towel rack—searching for some anchor, some reason to pull back.
Instead, I just find more of her.
