Page 70 of Roulette Rodeo
The axe bites into wood with a satisfying crack that reverberates through my arms and into my chest.
Four hours. Or was it five.
I've lost count of how long I've been out here, turning logs into kindling, kindling into an excuse to not be in that house where she's sleeping.
Red.
Even thinking her name makes my nostrils flare, searching for traces of her scent on the passing wind. Cherry and smoke, honey and defiance, all wrapped up in a package that's currently unconscious in our guest room, wearing silk pajamas that cost more than most people's rent.
Another swing. Another crack. Another log split clean down the middle.
Distractions. Anything to keep my body moving and my mind wondering.
This is better than the alternative—sitting vigil at her bedside like some lovesick puppy, watching every rise and fall of her chest, cataloging every small sound she makes in her sleep. I'd done that for the first twelve hours after Dr. Voss cleared her. Twelve hours of torture, watching her face shift through dreamsI couldn't protect her from, her scent calling to every alpha instinct I'd thought I'd trained out of myself.
The others had finally dragged me away, insisting I needed sleep, food, a shower. They were right, but knowing that didn't make leaving her easier.
So now I'm here, in the clearing behind our house, doing the one thing that's always centered me since I was a kid.
Back when Dad would let me help with the winter wood, when Mom would call us in for dinner smelling like pot roast and apple pie while my sister Emma would steal my share of dessert.
I'd let her because her laugh was worth more than sugar.
That was all before the IEDs and insurgents. Long before Emma's cancer took her at nineteen. Before Mom couldn't look at me without seeing her dead daughter's eyes…and right after Dad started drinking himself to death because his perfect family had shattered like glass.
The memories threaten to drag me under, so I swing harder, faster, letting the physical exertion burn away everything except muscle and motion.
Jackknife Ridge spreads out around me, our hidden kingdom carved from wilderness and paid for in blood—some of it mine, most of it our enemies'.
To the outside world, this is just another dying logging town, population 847 according to the last census. Full of old-timers and their older stories, the kind of place young people flee from and tourists drive through without stopping.
They don't know about the underground bunkers, the training facilities, the carefully cultivated network of people who've found sanctuary here. Former military,mostly.Some mob, reformed or otherwise. All of them understanding the value of a place that doesn't exist on any real map, where GoogleStreet View gives up at the town limits, where cell towers are mysteriously always having "technical difficulties."
This is where we've built our empire, hidden in plain sight.
The pack is scattered across town today, each dealing with the Red situation in their own way.
Corwin's at the clinic, the one he runs under his real medical license—one of the few legitimate things about our operation. He's probably seeing patients, Mrs. Henderson's diabetes, little Joey's broken arm from falling out of the Millers' apple tree. Normal, small-town doctor stuff that helps maintain our cover. But I know him well enough to recognize the pattern—when Corwin's overwhelmed, he retreats into helping others.
It's his way of processing, of feeling useful when everything else feels out of control.
Talon's at the garage, the one that's both a real business and a front for our less legitimate automotive needs. He's probably elbow-deep in some engine, music blasting loud enough to shake the walls, turning wrenches with the same violence he used to turn bodies into broken things. The garage is his sanctuary, the way this clearing is mine. A place where he can destroy and rebuild, where his particular brand of chaos becomes creation.
He's certainly fielding calls from our various operations, maintaining the network that keeps money flowing and enemies guessing.
And Rafe...
Rafe's at the office.
The official one in town, where he plays CEO of Lucky Ace Enterprises, our legitimate holdings company that owns everything from timber rights to tech startups. He's surely going through a new round of reviewing contracts, analyzing market trends, doing all the boring shit that keeps us rich and legally untouchable.But really, he's hiding.
From Red, from us, from the possibility that we might actually get a second chance at something we fucked up so spectacularly the first time.
Leaving me here, chopping wood like it's my job, trying not to think about the omega sleeping in our guest room.
The omega who smells like everything I never knew I needed.
The sinful, defiant woman who left her panties in a storage closet like a declaration of war.
