Page 179 of Roulette Rodeo
As I head inside to figure out what exactly one wears to make a town remember you have a "sinful side," I can't help but think that maybe being collateral isn't so bad—not when you get to choose who holds the debt.
And these alphas? They're worth every penny of that hundred million.
HOLDING ON FOR HER
~CORWIN~
The mechanical bull bucks violently beneath me, trying its damnedest to send me flying into the inflatable barriers surrounding the ring.
My thighs burn from the strain of gripping its sides, my left hand white-knuckled on the rope handle while my right stays high in the air for balance—proper bull-riding form, even if this is just a machine operated by a sadistic carnie who's cranked the difficulty to maximum.
The crowd's roar is deafening, a wall of sound that should be disorienting. But I've learned to compartmentalize noise—years of performing emergency surgery with bombs going off in the distance, of staying steady while chaos erupts around me. So I do what I always do when I need absolute focus.
I find her voice and make it the only thing that matters.
"COME ON, CORWIN!" Red's scream cuts through everything else, clear and bright as a bell. "YOU'VE GOT THIS!"
Thirty seconds down. According to the giant timer displayed above the ring, I need to hit two minutes to beat the current record and claim the prize. The prize that, forty-five minutes ago, I had zero interest in.
Until Red saw it.
The way her face lit up when she spotted that enormous bull plushie—easily four feet tall, chocolate brown with white spots, wearing a tiny cowboy hat and a bandana—was like watching the sun come out. She'd grabbed my arm, practically bouncing on her toes as she pointed.
"Corwin! Look at that thing! It's massive!"
"It's ridiculous," I'd said, though I was already smiling at her enthusiasm.
"It's PERFECT," she'd corrected, those garnet eyes sparkling with want. "I need it for my nest. Can you imagine? It's like... it's like having a pet bull but without the mess!"
And that was it.
The moment she said she needed it for her nest—that sacred omega space she's been slowly, carefully building over the past week—I knew I'd be getting on this mechanical death trap.
The bull spins hard to the left, then immediately reverses, trying to use momentum against me. My abs scream in protest as I counter the motion, years of core training finally paying off in the most absurd way possible.
"Fifty seconds!" the announcer bellows. "Ladies and gentlemen, we might have a real contender here!"
The crowd goes wild, but I block them out, focusing on Red's voice as she cheers. She squeals when I manage a particularly difficult save, and fuck—fuck, that sound goes straight to my cock. My mind unhelpfully supplies images of other scenarios where she might make that sound, situations involving significantly less clothing and absolutely no audience.
The mental image of Red beneath me, making those same excited noises but for very different reasons, sends blood rushing south at the worst possible moment. Great. Now I'm hard as a rock while riding a mechanical bull in front of half the town. The tight jeans that seemed like appropriate fair attire arenow instrument of torture, but maybe the discomfort will help me focus.
Or not, because Red chooses that moment to shout, "That's my Alpha! Show them how it's done!"
Her Alpha.
The possessive thrill those words send through me nearly costs me my grip as the bull executes a violent buck-and-spin combination. I recover, barely, sweat dripping down my back despite the cool evening air.
One minute twenty seconds.
My forearms are on fire, my thighs shaking from the strain, but I hold on. Not for the prize—well, not just for the prize—but for the look on Red's face when I win it for her. For the way she'll light up, maybe throw her arms around me, maybe kiss me the way she kissed Shiloh that first night.
We've been so careful with her. So fucking careful. After that first time between her and Shiloh, we all pulled back, giving her space, letting her set the pace. She's been through enough without four alphas pawing at her constantly. But God, the want is there. Burning under every interaction, every casual touch, every moment she curls up against one of us on the couch.
It's not that we don't desire her—fuck, I wake up hard just from her scent lingering in the hallways. It's that we're terrified. Terrified of pushing too hard, of making her feel obligated, of becoming just another set of alphas who see her as a commodity rather than a person.
But maybe we're being too careful.Desperat in trying not to pressure her, we're making her think we don't want her that way.
The bull spins again, faster now, the operator clearly trying to end my run before I beat the record. One minute forty seconds. Twenty more seconds and that plushie is Red's.
