Page 93 of Roulette Rodeo
"Hallucinations from the drugs?"
"Probably. But it felt real. Real enough that when I could finally walk again, I took the emergency cash I'd been saving—eight hundred dollars that was supposed to be for escape—and went to this underground tattoo artist who didn't ask questions about why an omega from the Crimson Roulette wanted permanent ink."
His fingers resume their tracing, following the outline of the Queen of Hearts that dominates the center of my back.
"Why the Queen of Hearts?"
"Because that's what we were. Queens in a deck that was always stacked against us. Hearts because we were supposed to be all emotion, all feeling, everything soft and yielding." I shift slightly, feeling the pull of the tattoo even now. "But my queen is different. See how her crown is made of thorns and roses? How her eyes are closed?"
"Is she dead or sleeping?"
"I never decided. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe she's just waiting for the right moment to open them and burn the whole casino down."
He traces the cards that border the queen—spades turned into black dahlias, clubs transformed into crimson poppies, diamonds blooming as white roses.
"The flowers?"
"Each one represents a girl who disappeared. Diana loved black dahlias—she had this book about the murder, was obsessed with it. Cynthia grew poppies in a tiny pot she hid under her bed, said they reminded her of home. And Giselle..." I swallow hard. "She got a white rose from some client once. Kept it until it died, then kept the dried petals in a jewelry box she'd stolen."
"And the dice?"
"Twenty-one. All of them add up to twenty-one. Blackjack. The game that destroyed my life when my father bet me as collateral." My voice goes bitter. "But also the game I learned to count, to read, to beat. Because fuck the house odds."
His finger traces one of the dice, decorated with falling rose petals that might be blood drops.
"The petals that are falling?—"
"Could be dying…or bleeding. It could be transforming into something else. I left it ambiguous because that's what we all were—dying and living and becoming something else all at the same time."
"What did Marnay say when he saw it?"
I tense at the memory. "I'd forgotten to cover it during a shift change. He walked in while I was half-dressed, and just... stared. For the longest time. I thought he was going to have me held down while he removed it himself. Some of the girls said he'd done that before—took a cheese grater to a beta who'd gotten a butterfly tattoo without permission."
"But he didn't."
"No. He tilted his head, studied it like he was appraising art for auction. Then he said, 'This increases your value. The mystery, the rebellion, the artistic quality. You've made yourself more unique, Red. More mine.'"
Shiloh's hand flattens against my back, covering part of the tattoo.
"You weren't his."
"I was though. That was the fucked up part. The tattoo I got to prove I still owned myself just made me more valuable property to him. He even had professional photos taken of it, added them to my 'portfolio' for special clients who liked their omegas with an edge."
"What happened to the artist?"
I close my eyes. "Dead. Three days after he did mine. They found him in his shop, overdosed on something he'd never touched in his life. The message was clear—I could mark myself because I was special, valuable. But anyone who helped another omega do the same would pay."
"Jesus."
"A month later, another omega tried to get a small butterfly on her shoulder. Marnay had her held down while he removed it strip by strip with that cheese grater. Made us all watch. Then sold her to some Saudi princes for their 'collection.' She lasted two weeks before they got bored with damaged goods."
The room is quiet except for our breathing. His hand is warm against my back, covering the queen like he's protecting her—protecting me—retroactively from harm that's already happened.
"It's beautiful," he finally says. "Tragic and beautiful and fucking brave."
"Or stupid. Could have gotten me killed." It really was a thrilling move that could have cost me my life, but that’s what they call risks.
"Most brave things could get you killed. That's what makes them brave instead of just easy."
