Page 43 of Roulette Rodeo
"They're not." She says it with such certainty that I blink. "Trust me on this. I've been around long enough to read the signs. That pack? They're not here for the usual reasons."
"How do you know?"
She smiles, that mysterious Briar smile that always meant she knew more than she was saying. "Because they didn't look at you like meat, Cherry Bomb. They looked at you like salvation."
A knock on the door makes us both jump.
"Time's up."
Briar pulls me into a fierce hug, her scent—brandy and cherries and rebellion—wrapping around me one last time.
"Go," she whispers. "Live. Be free. And if you ever get the chance, burn this fucking place to the ground."
When we pull back, I quietly whisper, “As long as you’re not in it.”
Her smirk only makes her glassy eyes water further.
“I’ll be long gone by then. Crimson Collateral, running away with my own set of rugged cowboys that I seduced with my tempting glory.”
The exaggeration only makes me laugh to stop the sobs that beg to leave me.
The door opens, revealing two of Marnay's enforcers.
They look nervous, which is new. Usually, they swagger around like they own us too. But something has shifted in the power dynamics of the Crimson Roulette.
"Mr. Marnay requires your presence in the Platinum Suite, but first he wants a private word," one says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Your... new employers are waiting, so make haste."
I follow them through hallways I know by heart, past doors that hide secrets I'll never tell, through a casino floor that's still buzzing with shock and excitement. Patrons stare as we pass, whispers following in our wake. The omega who sparked a bidding war.
The girl who brought four alphas to their feet with a boxing routine in forbidden lingerie.
It’s not long before we’re before the door that must be Marnay’s private office.
The scent hits me first—expensive cologne trying to mask cheap desperation, leather and lies and the lingering ghost of cocaine from whatever party he'd thrown last week. The man himself sits behind his massive desk, looking like someone just told him Christmas was canceled and he was being audited by the IRS simultaneously.
"Red." His voice is flat, defeated. "Come in."
I step inside, trying not to project how nervous I truly am. The office is exactly what you'd expect from a man with more money than taste—all red velvet and gold fixtures, like a brothel and a bank had an unfortunate baby.
"One hundred million dollars." Marnay stares at me like I've grown a second head. "In three years, you've made me approximately twelve million in direct revenue, another eight in auxiliary profits. Good money. Excellent returns." He laughs, but it sounds like breaking glass. "But one hundred million? What the fuck did you do?"
"I don't know." The honesty burns my throat. "I just... performed."
"Performed." He repeats the word like it tastes bad. "You boxed a punching bag in lingerie. I've seen you do that routine a dozen times in that boxed glass room in the gym surveillance. Good show to get any Alpha hot and unbothered at the idea ofan weak Omega being able to give a good fight, but not hundred-million-dollars hot."
Fuck…he’s been watching my activities?
My stomach sinks at the disgusting idea, but then again, I was his property.
Hell. He could have had cameras in the washrooms and showers for all we know.
There’s no such thing as morals in the city of sin.
"Maybe they liked my personality," I deadpan.
His eyes narrow.
"This isn't a joke, Red. The Lucky Ace Pack doesn't throw around that kind of money. They're calculating, careful. Every move they make has three reasons behind it and contingencies for each." He leans forward, his gray eyes searching mine. "So I'll ask again…what did you do?"
