Page 103 of Roulette Rodeo
~RED~
The first thing I notice is warmth.
Not the artificial, recycled heat of the Crimson Roulette's climate-controlled rooms, but real warmth—the kind that comes from another body, from shared space and tangled limbs. The second thing I notice is the ache between my legs, a sweet soreness that brings everything flooding back in vivid detail.
I'm not a virgin anymore.
The thought should feel bigger, more momentous, but instead it just feels...right. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of trying to force it into the wrong spot.
Sunlight creeps through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed, across the muscled arm draped over my waist. The soft, rhythmic snoring against my neck tells me Shiloh is still deep asleep, his breath warm against my skin in a way that makes me want to burrow deeper into his embrace.
I open my eyes slowly, confusion washing over me for a heartbeat. The room is unfamiliar—wooden beams, a handmade quilt, the scent of cedar, and something uniquely masculine. This isn't my cramped quarters at the casino with their industrial gray walls and ever-present smell of desperation.
Right. I'm not there anymore.
The memories cascade through my mind like shuffling cards: the auction, the hundred million dollars, being drugged, waking up in this haven hidden in the mountains. Watching Shiloh chop wood with Duke at his side, the storm that drenched us both, the shared bath that led to whispered confessions, and finally—finally—the night I gave away what I'd protected so fiercely.
Not gave away.
Chose to share.
There's a difference, and it matters.
I shift slightly, testing the soreness. It's there, a dull throb that speaks of change, of boundaries crossed and new territories explored. But underneath the physical discomfort is something else—a sense of wholeness I hadn't expected. Like I'd been walking around with a piece missing, not because I needed a man to complete me, but because I'd been denied the choice for so long that making it finally felt like reclaiming part of my soul.
Carefully, trying not to wake him, I turn in Shiloh's arms until I'm facing him.
In sleep, all the sharp edges soften. The perpetual vigilance that marks his waking hours has melted away, leaving something younger, more vulnerable. His sandy brown hair is mussed, sticking up at odd angles that would probably mortify him if he knew. There's a small scar through his left eyebrow I hadn't noticed before, white against his sun-bronzed skin.
I study him like he's a map I'm trying to memorize. The strong jaw shadowed with stubble, the way his lashes—unfairly long for a man—rest against his cheeks. The compass rose tattoo over his heart rises and falls with each breath, and I resist the urge to trace it with my finger.
This is the start,I realize.
Now that the physical barrier has been crossed, now that we've shared this fundamental intimacy, I can actually startlearning about him. About all of them, really. Not as the omega they bought or performer putting on a show, but as Red. Just Red, who wants to know what makes them laugh, what haunts their dreams, what brought them to this isolated paradise.
The thought is thrilling and terrifying.
What if they don't like who I really am when the performance ends? What if without my virginity as some prized possession, I lose whatever value I had?
I need to pee.
The mundane necessity breaks through my spiraling thoughts, and I carefully extract myself from Shiloh's embrace. He mumbles something unintelligible, arm tightening briefly before relaxing again. I slip out of bed, grabbing his discarded henley from the floor and pulling it on. It smells like him—gunpowder and cedar, that underlying scent of cherries and bourbon that makes my body respond even now.
The bathroom tiles are cold under my bare feet, sending shivers up my legs. I handle my business, then wash my hands, taking my time with the soap. The face in the mirror stops me cold.
I look... peaceful.
It's such an alien expression on my face that I lean closer, studying my reflection like it might be a stranger. The perpetual tension around my eyes has softened. My mouth, usually held in either a performative smile or defensive smirk, is relaxed. Even my hair, wild from sleep and sex, seems softer somehow.
Is this what contentment looks like?
Three years of seeing myself in mirrors—applying makeup for performances, checking for bruises, practicing expressions that would earn bigger tips—and I've never looked like this. Like someone who belongs to herself.
The darker thoughts creep back in as I stand there. What happens now? Will I be discarded, having served my purpose?Maybe without my innocence as a selling point, I've lost whatever made me special. The others haven't even really met me yet—what if Rafe's cold dismissal spreads to them all once the novelty wears off?
I must stand there longer than I realize, lost in my worried thoughts, because suddenly warm arms wrap around my waist from behind. Shiloh mumbles something against my shoulder, the words completely incomprehensible.
"??? ??? ??? ?? ????."
