Page 188 of Roulette Rodeo
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more.
"It made me so angry. Not just at him, but at myself. At the system. At her for leaving. At God or the universe or whatever for letting it happen."
He gestures at the shrine with a shaky hand.
"I made this because..." he pauses, seeming to gather himself. "There's a hatch at the bottom. A little basement, basically. Storm shelter from when tornadoes were more common here."
He actually smiles slightly, though it's tinged with sadness.
"I'd hide down there sometimes and cry my eyes out. No one could hear me. The acoustics are perfect for having a complete breakdown without anyone knowing. It became my... I don't know, my confession booth? My therapy office? The place where I could fall apart without being the pack alpha who had to hold everyone else together."
"Those protecting spots for hurricanes," I say softly, trying to lighten the moment just a fraction. "But let's be real, Jackknife Ridge ain't getting no hurricane risks."
He actually chuckles, real humor this time.
"Not enough trees apparently. Or water. Or... anything hurricanes actually need."
We share a small smile before he looks back at the shrine.
"You know," he says quietly, "I never really knew what Sophia liked. What she was good at besides being perfect. She mentioned wanting to write once, said she loved crime novels. That's actually why there's so much fiction in the library—I bought everything I thought she might enjoy, trying to understand her through the books she claimed to love."
He shrugs, the gesture heartbreakingly young.
"But I wasn't even sure if that was real or just another thing she said because she thought it's what I wanted to hear. She'd perform everything so precisely, even building her nest. Ordered everything online, had it delivered, assembled it like she was following an instruction manual for 'How to Be a Perfect Omega.' No personal touches, no mess, no process. Just... perfection. Immediate and hollow."
The image makes me frown, thinking about my own nest-building process. The way I've spent weeks agonizing over every pillow, every blanket, moving things around seventeen times until they feel right. The chaos of fabric samples andpaint swatches and the three different essential oil diffusers I'm testing to get the scent just right.
"It's taking me weeks to build mine," I admit. "I keep changing my mind, moving things around. It's probably driving everyone crazy."
He turns to look at me fully for the first time since I sat down, and there's something soft in his expression.
"I know," he says simply. "And that's the difference. You're actually putting in effort because it matters to you. Every pillow you move three inches to the left, every blanket you swap out because the texture isn't quite right—that has meaning. You're building something real, not performing omega behavior from a manual."
The weight of what he's not saying hangs between us. That Sophia never cared enough to make it real. That her nest, like everything else, was just another performance in a life that was all show and no substance.
"Everything you add has value," he continues. "Speaks louder than words ever could about what actually matters to you. That giant bull plushie Corwin won? You spent twenty minutes figuring out exactly where to put it. Sophia would have just placed it wherever looked best in photos."
We fall into silence again, both lost in our own thoughts. The heat under my skin has settled into something more manageable, though I'm still warmer than normal. Maybe it's the hoodie, or the barn, or the emotional weight of this moment.
"You don't need to renovate the barn," I say eventually. "I realized after winning that it has value as it is. The memories, the history?—"
"No," he interrupts, firm but not harsh. "I want to remodel it."
He stands, brushing hay from his sleep pants, and offers me his hand.
"I'm over being sad about the past. There's no point, really. I want to move forward, and I think... I think Sophia would want that too, if she could want anything. She died being a centerpiece in our lives without ever really making roots. Maybe it's time to let her ghost rest and build something new that’s real. No more fakeness. "
I take his offered hand, letting him pull me to my feet. His fingers are cool against mine, and he frowns.
"Your hands are really warm."
"Yeah," I admit, "I woke up feeling too hot. That's actually why I was up—needed water and air."
He places his free hand on my forehead, the cool touch making me want to lean into him like a cat seeking attention. His frown deepens.
"You're definitely warm. Not quite fever-level, but close." He makes that scrunched-up worried face that somehow makes him look younger. "In the morning, Corwin should look at you. Make sure you're okay."
He keeps my hand in his as we head for the barn door, and I can't help but notice how right it feels—his cool to my warm, his careful control to my barely contained chaos.
