Page 116 of Roulette Rodeo
"He's being modest," Shiloh adds. "He's the only doctor in a fifty-mile radius. Delivers babies, sets bones, treats everything from diabetes to gunshot wounds."
"Allegedly gunshot wounds," Corwin corrects carefully. "I've never seen a gunshot wound. That would be illegal to not report."
The way they all smirk tells me he's definitely seen gunshot wounds.
"My turn?" Shiloh asks, and when Talon nods, he sighs like this is physically painful. "Shiloh Cross Granger, thirty-two. Marine and Special Operations, classified shit I can't talk about, discharged two years ago after—" He stops, rephrases. "After I was done. Now I handle security for our operations, train our people, make sure no one we don't want finding us finds us."
"He's our ghost," Talon explains. "Makes problems disappear, makes sure we stay disappeared, occasionally disappears people who become problems."
"Allegedly," Shiloh echoes Corwin's earlier tone.
They all look at me expectantly, and I realize it's my turn.
"Um, Rowenna Vale, but everyone calls me Red. Twenty-four, former... entertainment specialist?" I cringe at my own description. "Spent three years at the Crimson Roulette doing whatever kept me alive and untouched. Before that..." I trail off, not sure how much to share about life with my father. "Before that was just surviving a different kind of hell."
It feels odd now that we’ve explained what we used to do until now, because I feel mine is rather pale in comparison.
"What about Rafe?" I ask, trying to deflect from my own sparse biography. "Since he's not here to introduce himself?"
The three men exchange looks that speak of long history and complicated dynamics.
"Rafe Moretti," Talon finally says. "Thirty-three, our pack alpha whether he likes it or not. Used to run the family business in Chicago?—"
"Mob," Corwin interjects helpfully.
"—until shit went sideways. Now he's our CEO, handles the legitimate businesses, the investments, keeps us rich and legally untouchable. He's the reason we could drop a hundred million on you without blinking."
"He's also the reason we had to leave Chicago," Shiloh adds quietly. "But that's his story to tell."
I nod, filing that information away for later processing.
"Well, you all probably know everything about me already. From before rescuing me, I mean."
Shiloh's lips quirk.
"Your lingerie kickboxing routine wasn't exactly in the intelligence briefing."
I laugh, remembering that performance that feels like a lifetime ago despite being less than a week.
"I do love kickboxing, but I don't have any official training. There was this male omega at the gym near the casino—Malrik, went by Mal. He taught me basics, helped me learn to defend myself." My smile fades. "He stopped coming to the gym about six months ago. Never found out what happened to him."
They all nod with understanding that speaks of experience with people who just disappear.
"What do you like to do?" Corwin asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood. "Besides boxing and apparently stealing dogs?"
Duke, hearing himself referenced, lifts his head from where he's been napping by the fireplace, tail thumping once before he goes back to sleep.
"That's the thing," I admit, pulling my knees up to my chest. "I have no clue actually. I was thinking about it when I wokeup, and I realized I don't really know what I'm good at. What I like. Three years of just surviving doesn't leave much room for hobbies."
I take a breath, steeling myself for the next part. "I need to get a job though. Figure out what I can contribute?—"
All three alphas turn to stare at me like I've just suggested selling my organs on the black market.
"What?" I ask, defensive under their collective shock.
"Why would you want a job?" Talon asks slowly, like he's explaining something to a child.
"Omegas don't need to work," Corwin adds, equally baffled.
