Page 67 of Roulette Rodeo
Somewhere where trees grow tall and seasons actually change and hundred-million-dollar packs can build kingdoms in the wilderness.
There's a pasture to my right, and my shuffling steps take me toward it without conscious decision.
Horses.
Three of them, grazing with the lazy contentment of animals who know they're safe, loved, well-fed. One looks up as I approach the fence—a chestnut mare with a white blaze down her face—and ambles over to investigate.
"Hey, beautiful," I murmur, holding out my hand for her to sniff. She lips at my palm, disappointed by the lack of treats, but lets me stroke her neck anyway. Her coat is like silk, warm under my hand, and she smells like hay.
"I had a horse once," I tell her, the words coming without thought. "When I was little, before Mom got sick. A pony, really. Named him Treasure because I was seven and not very creative."
The mare whickers softly, and I choose to believe she's commiserating.
"Mom sold him to pay for treatment that didn't work. Dad was already gambling then, though we didn't know how bad it was. She never told him about Treasure, never told him about the money either. It was our secret, she said. Our last fight."
Tears prick my eyes, surprising me.
I haven't cried over Treasure in years, haven't let myself think about that last good thing Mom tried to do.
"She tried so hard," I whisper to the horse. "And it all fell apart anyway."
The sound of chopping wood interrupts my equine therapy session.
It's rhythmic, steady, the sound of someone who knows what they're doing and has the stamina to keep doing it. It's coming from behind the house, deeper into the trees.
I should go back inside…where it's safe—or at least safer.Should not go wandering into the forest in stolen boots and borrowed pajamas, looking for alphas who technically own me.
But my feet are already moving.
The sound leads me down a path I hadn't noticed, worn into the forest floor by years of use. The boots make it awkward, but I manage, following the sound like a fairy tale protagonist about to stumble into either wonder or danger.
Five minutes of walking, maybe more. Long enough that the house disappears behind trees, that the chopping gets louder, that my heart starts beating faster for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion.
The clearing opens suddenly, and there he is.
Shiloh.
Shirtless.
My brain short-circuits for a moment, unable to process what I'm seeing.
He's... God, he's magnificent.
Not in the polished way of gym-built bodies, all for show and no substance. This is a functional muscle, earned through work rather than workouts. His shoulders are broad enough to block the sun, tapering to a waist that makes his proportions seem impossible. His abs aren't the rigid six-pack of magazine covers but something better—strong, defined, with a trail of dark hair disappearing into low-slung jeans.
The scars tell stories I don't know how to read.
A puckered star on his left shoulder—bullet wound, my brain supplies. Claw marks across his ribs that look too uniform to be accidental. A surgical scar low on his abdomen, precise and medical. And others, so many others, creating a map of violence survived.
His tattoos are unexpected. Not the full sleeves I'd imagined, but strategic pieces.
A compass rose over his heart with coordinates I can't read from here. A date on his ribs in Roman numerals. What looks like a wolf or dog on his right bicep, highly detailed, almost photographic in its realism.
The cowboy hat sits on his head like it was made for him, casting his face in shadow even as sweat makes his skin gleam in the filtered sunlight. He's chopping wood with an economy of motion that speaks of years of practice—lift, swing, split. The axe goes through the logs like they're made of butter, his strength casual, controlled.
My thighs clench involuntarily, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. This is pornographic in its own way, this display of masculine competence. Every swing makes his muscles ripple, every breath shows the control he has over his own body.
He sets up another log, and when he swings this time, the impact sends droplets of sweat flying, catching the light likediamonds. He pauses, pulls off the hat to wipe his forehead with his forearm, and his hair is damp, darker than usual, curling slightly at the edges.
