Page 13 of Roulette Rodeo
"His branded queen," I said bitterly, pulling my hair into a tight ponytail. "So what's your workout plan?"
Briar was already stripping, and I had to force myself not to stare at her body.
Not at the curves I remembered, but at the damage I could already glimpse.
"Treadmill, weights. You?"
"Boxing. I haven't kept up with my training, and I don't want to get rusty." I grabbed my hand wraps from my bag, the fabric worn soft from use. "Speed's the only advantage I've got. An alpha twice my size could destroy me in seconds, but if I'm fast enough, maybe I can get one good hit in before they do."
The truth was more complicated than that. I'd had a trainer once, someone who'd understood that omega self-defense wasn't about winning—it was about creating enough chaos to escape.
Malrik. That had been his name, though he'd gone by Mal at the gym. A male omega, rarer than diamonds in Vegas, though somehow fitting for Sin City. He'd shown up at the omega-only gym about eighteen months ago, all lean muscle and fluid grace, navy blue hair that looked black until the light hit it just right.
He'd noticed me fumbling with the heavy bag, throwing wild punches that would've broken my wrists in a real fight.
"You're telegraphing," he'd said, not unkindly. "Every punch, you're announcing it three seconds before you throw it."
That had started it.
Informal lessons whenever we were both there. He'd taught me to read body language, to use my size as an advantage, to go for soft targets—eyes, throat, groin. Dirty fighting, he'd called it with a grin that never quite reached his eyes.
He knew about The Crimson Roulette. Never asked directly, but he knew. The way he'd carefully avoid touching me until I initiated contact. He'd teach me escape moves rather than confrontation. Sometimes, he’d look at my wrists, at the roulette wheel tattoo there, with such understanding it made my chest ache.
Then high season hit—summer in Vegas, when the tourists flooded in and Marnay worked us sixteen-hour shifts. By the time I made it back to the gym, Malrik was gone. The owner said he'd just stopped coming one day.
No explanation, no goodbye.
I'd told myself he'd gotten out, found freedom somewhere.
But in Vegas, when omegas disappeared, there were usually only two explanations, and freedom wasn't the likely one.
It hurt to think he couldn’t get away…
"Go ahead and get started," Briar said, pulling me from my memories. "I know you like to take your time with training. No rush today—we can hit the mall after, do something normal for once."
"Thanks." I managed a smile, genuine despite everything. The idea of walking through a mall like a real person, window shopping without guards, pretending for just a few hours that we were free—it was a gift I hadn't expected.
I moved toward the door, then made the mistake of looking back.
Briar had her back to me, pulling off her shirt, and I saw everything.
Bruises in every stage of healing painted her skin like a sick watercolor—fresh purple-black layered over green-yellow, over brown-grey. Scars, some old and white, others still pink and angry. Bite marks that hadn't been there two years ago, deep enough to have required stitches that she'd clearly never gotten. Cigarette burns in a pattern that looked deliberate, artistic even, like someone had used her skin as an ashtray while making a point.
And from last night—fresh welts, handprints, the distinctive bruising that came from being held down by multiple people at once.
I wanted to say something.To apologize, to scream, to cry.But what right did I have?
Every mark on her body was there because of me. Because she'd sacrificed herself to protect my innocence. The reality that she'd come back to this hell for reasons I still didn't understand, and then thrown herself to the wolves to keep them from tearing me apart.
She caught my reflection in the mirror, our eyes meeting for just a moment.
The look she gave me was fierce, protective, and absolutely forbidden me from commenting.
So I left without a word, my throat tight with unsaid things.
The omega-only section of the gym was my sanctuary. The owner, a beta woman named Stella who'd lost her own sister to trafficking, enforced the separation with military precision. Alphas stayed on their side, omegas on ours, and the two-foot-thick reinforced wall between us was both soundproof andscent-proof. It had to be—omega pheromones during workouts could drive alphas into rut, and nobody wanted that lawsuit.
The familiar smell of chalk and rubber greeted me as I entered the boxing area. Three heavy bags hung from reinforced chains, a speed bag in the corner, and a small ring that rarely got used. Most omegas didn't come here to fight. They came to run, to lift light weights, to maintain the bodies that were their only currency.
