Page 38 of Roulette Rodeo
His pack laughs, the sound grating against my nerves like sandpaper. One of them makes a V with his fingers, flicking his tongue between them. Classy.
But then I see it—a flash of red that makes my lips curve into a genuine smile.
A cowboy hat, crimson as fresh blood, sitting atop some minor alpha's head. He's probably somebody's nephew, somebody's plus-one, trying to look important at a table full of real players.
The irony of the color isn't lost on me.
I alter my path slightly, and his eyes go wide as I approach. Up close, I can smell his nervousness—sweat and cheap whiskey, trying to mask inexperience with liquid courage. He's maybe twenty-five, pretty in that soft way that means he's never had to fight for anything.
I pluck the hat from his head in one smooth motion, my fingers trailing through his hair just enough to make him shudder.
"I—" he starts, but his voice cracks.
I'm already walking away, spinning the hat on one finger like I've done this a thousand times. Behind me, his pack mates are either laughing at him or staring at me, but I don't care enough to check which.
The VIP section looms ahead, three steps up to where the real money plays. Where he waits.
Each step up feels like ascending to something inevitable. The platform is shrouded in shadow, designed for privacy, for deals that can't happen in the light. But even in the darkness, I can see them clearly.
Four alphas.
Four distinct presences that make the air itself feel heavier.
And there, in the center, legs spread wide in that universal alpha posture of dominance—forest green eyes that burn through the shadows like wildlife.
He's sitting back in his chair like he owns the world, and maybe he does. The tactical gear from the gym has been replaced with something that screams money—a black suit that probably costs more than I've saved in three years, tailored to perfection over those broad shoulders. But the way he holds himself, the controlled power in every line of his body, that's all military.
All predator.
I stop directly in front of him, close enough that my knees brush his spread ones. The shadows can't hide his expressionfrom me now—hungry, possessive, and pride? Like he knew I'd come to him. Like he'd been waiting for exactly this.
I take a deep breath, exaggerated, theatrical, letting my chest rise and fall in the ruined lingerie. But the moment his scent hits me—oh God.
Cherries and gunpowder. Leather and rain. That perfect mirror of my own scent turned masculine and dangerous. I'd wondered how I'd lived without it, and now I know—I hadn't been living at all. Just existing, waiting for this moment, this alpha, this completion.
The wetness between my thighs increases, slick now coating my inner thighs. I'm not wearing panties—couldn't, not after leaving them for him—and I know the moment that realization hits every alpha in viewing distance. Their nostrils flare almost in unison, and the air gets thicker with competing pheromones.
But his scent dominates them all.
Claims the space, air, and me without even touching.
I lift the cowboy hat from my finger, taking my time, making a show of it. When I place it on his head, I have to lean forward, bringing our faces close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. The hat sits perfectly, like it was made for him, turning my forest-eyed alpha into something out of a fantasy.
"Hi, cowboy," I breathe, and my voice comes out huskier than intended.
His eyes darken to almost black, pupils blown wide. One hand twitches on the armrest, like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing me.
I smirk and make my move.
Bracing one hand on his shoulder, I swing my leg over his lap.
But I don't sit—not yet.
Instead, I hold myself above him, legs spread wide, letting the position speak for itself. The ruined lace of my lingerieparts obscenely, and I know—intentionally— that anyone close enough can see exactly what I'm offering. Pink and glistening and untouched, displayed like a prize.
The casino is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.
His control snaps.
