Page 183 of Roulette Rodeo
"Better run while you can, sweetheart!" another adds.
I turn toward where I know my pack is pushing through the crowd, and give them my best innocent smile while adjusting my grip on the bull. The body glitter catches the lights, and I swear I hear at least three alphas groan.
The operator leans in close. "You ready for this, darling? Fair warning—I'm not going easy on you just cause you're an omega."
"I'd be insulted if you did," I reply.
He grins, gold tooth flashing. "That's what I like to hear. Hold tight!"
The bull lurches to life, starting with a slow spin that gradually picks up speed. The crowd roars, and I immediately feel the difference from when I was a kid. My center of gravity is completely different, my thighs have to work harder to maintain grip, and these shorts were definitely not designed for this activity.
But I hold on.
The bull bucks, trying to throw me forward, and I lean back to compensate. My abs scream—apparently three months of comfortable pack life hasn't been great for my core strength—but I grit my teeth and focus on the rhythm. Forward, back, spin left, spin right. It's like a violent dance, and the key is not fighting it but flowing with it.
Twenty seconds in, and the crowd is going absolutely wild.
"Look at her go!" someone shouts.
"Damn, that omega can ride!"
The double entendre isn't lost on anyone, judging by the laughter and wolf whistles.
I catch a glimpse of my pack as the bull spins—they've made it to the front of the crowd, and their expressions are a mix of fury, worry, and something that looks suspiciously like pride. Talon's grinning despite himself. Corwin's covering his face with one hand but peeking through his fingers. Shiloh looks torn between dragging me off and cheering me on.
And Rafe... Rafe's watching with an intensity that makes my stomach flip in ways that have nothing to do with the mechanical bull.
Thirty seconds. The operator increases the speed, and now we're really moving. The bull bucks hard, nearly vertical, and I have to throw my weight back to keep from flying over its head. My hair comes loose from its bun, whipping around my face and shoulders, and the crowd loses their minds.
I swing my hair dramatically on the next spin, playing up the performance aspect, and someone actually throws money into the ring.
"WORK IT, GIRL!" Poppy's scream rises above everything else. "SHOW THESE ALPHAS HOW IT'S DONE!"
Forty-five seconds. My thighs are burning, my hand cramping around the rope, but I'm still on. The operator is pulling out all the stops now—figure eights, sudden stops and starts, maximum buck height. But I grew up watching my mom ride horses, real ones, learned to read an animal's movement before I could properly write my name.
And this? This is just a machine. Predictable in its unpredictability.
One minute.
The crowd is chanting now. "GO! GO! GO! GO!"
I risk a glance at the timer—fifteen more seconds to beat Corwin's record, thirty to ensure absolute victory. My whole body is screaming, sweat making my grip slippery despite the rope, but I hold on with everything I have.
One minute fifteen.
One minute thirty.
The bell rings, loud and clear, declaring me the winner. But just like Corwin, I don't let go. Not yet. I've got something to prove—to myself, to my pack, to every person who's ever looked at an omega and seen weakness.
I hold on for another full thirty seconds, hair flying, body moving with the bull like we're one entity. When I finally release and slide off, landing on wobbly legs on the inflatable mat, the crowd absolutely explodes.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WITH A TIME OF TWO MINUTES, WE HAVE OUR WINNER!"
"YES, SEXY RIDING BITCH, WE WON!" Poppy's scream is probably heard three towns over as she launches herself at me, nearly knocking us both over. Malrik's right behind her, catching us both before we face-plant.
"What in the seductive madness was that?" Malrik asks, but he's grinning. "Where did you learn to ride like that?"
I'm laughing, high on adrenaline and victory, body glitter and sweat making me sparkle like some kind of mythical creature. "My mom signed me up for junior rodeo when I was eight. Won three years straight before we couldn't afford the entry fees anymore. Muscle memory's a hell of a thing."
