Page 42 of Roulette Rodeo
~RED~
"Stop overthinking," Briar says, her grip on my hand tightening. "You'll give yourself an aneurysm."
"One hundred million dollars, Briar." My voice comes out strangled. "Nobody pays that much for an omega. Nobody pays that much for anything that doesn't come with oil rights or a small country attached."
"The Lucky Ace Pack isn't nobody." She pulls me around a corner, past the dressing rooms where girls are probably losing their minds over what just happened. "They're the kind of somebodies that make other somebodies nervous."
"That's not making me feel better."
"Good. You should be nervous. Nervous keeps you sharp." She stops at a door marked PRIVATE - MANAGEMENT ONLY. "But Red? That alpha who nearly made you orgasm with his eyes? He's the one who just dropped a small nation's GDP on your contract."
My stomach does something complicated—part butterfly migration, part Olympic gymnastics routine. "How do you know that?"
Her smile is all wickedness and secrets. "Because I've been in this game longer than you, Cherry Bomb. And when an alphalooks at an omega the way he looked at you? Like you're water and he's been dying of thirst in the desert? That's an alpha who'll burn down the world to keep you."
"Or burn me down in the process."
"Maybe." She produces a key from somewhere—Briar always has keys to places she shouldn't. "But wouldn't you rather burn bright than fade away in this shithole?"
I follow Briar through the maze of backstage corridors, my legs somehow steady despite the earthquake that just ripped through my life. One hundred million dollars. The number keeps bouncing around my skull like a pinball, setting off lights and alarms with each impact.
"We need to get you changed," Briar says, pulling me into a small dressing room I've never seen before. It's cleaner than ours, with actual mirrors that aren't cracked and lights that don't flicker. "Can't have you meeting your new pack looking like you just went ten rounds with a punching bag."
"I look that bad?" I catch my reflection and wince. My makeup is smeared with sweat, the red lipstick slightly smudged from where I'd bitten my lip during the routine. The lingerie is basically destroyed—diamonds scattered, lace torn in places I hadn't even noticed.
"You look like sex and violence had a baby," Briar says, already pulling clothes from a hidden closet. "Which is probably why they just dropped GDP-level money on you, but still. First impressions with your new owners should be more...strategic."
Owners. The word sits heavy in my chest, but there's something else there too. Anticipation. Fear. And underneath it all, that persistent ache between my thighs that started in a storage closet and hasn't stopped since.
"Here." She tosses me a dress—black, simple, elegant. The kind of thing a real person would wear, not a casino decoration. "And these." Undergarments that are practical rather thanperformative. "Shoes." Low heels that I could actually run in if needed.
I strip quickly, peeling off the destroyed lingerie with hands that only shake a little. Briar pretends to organize things while I change, giving me the illusion of privacy in this place where privacy doesn't exist.
"Briar," I start, pulling the dress over my head. "What's going to happen to you?"
She pauses, just for a second, before her mask slides back into place. "Don't worry about me, Cherry Bomb. I've survived worse than this."
"But—"
"No buts." She turns to face me, and for a moment, I see the truth in her eyes. Fear, resignation, and something that might be pride. "You're getting out. That's what matters."
"Come with me." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Maybe they'd?—"
"Buy two omegas for the price of one?" She laughs, but it's bitter. "That's not how this works, baby. Besides, someone needs to keep these other girls from completely falling apart."
I want to argue, to demand she come with me, to refuse to leave without her. But we both know that's not how this game is played. I have no power here, no leverage.
I'm merchandise that just changed hands, nothing more.
"Five minutes," a voice calls from the hallway.
One of Marnay's beta enforcers, probably.
Briar moves fast, fixing my hair, wiping away the ruined makeup, applying just enough to make me look presentable rather than purchasable. Her hands are gentle but efficient, and I realize this might be the last time she touches me.
"Listen to me," she says quietly, hands on my shoulders. "Whatever happens next, you remember who you are. Not what they made you here, not what those alphas might want you tobe. You're Red fucking Vale, you survived three years in hell, and you're stronger than any of them know."
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. "I don't even know them. What if they're worse than?—"
