Page 71 of Roulette Rodeo
The sweet performer who kissed me in front of all Vegas's worst alphas like she was claiming me instead of the other way around.
"Fuck," I mutter, setting up another log. "I'm completely gone for her already."
The words echo in the clearing, confession to the trees and the sky and Duke, who's currently sunbathing on a patch of grass, one eye open to watch for threats.
It's more than scent compatibility, though that's strong enough to make me half-feral. Sure, having her as a scent match is driving me wild — and making my cock grow hard whenever I get a whiff of her scent, but I know deep down that’s not what’s driving my senses mad.
It's the defiance.
The way she'd boxed in lingerie not to seduce but to fight. How she'd slapped me in that closet, then kissed me like the world was ending. The expression of yearning versus any other Omega who would have found out they sold for a hundred million dollars and surely would have begged for a new lavish life of luxury.
Or maybe even beg for mercy.
Instead, she didn’t even flinch at the implications. She enjoyed making commentary that got me forgetting the world of betrayal and chaos and only focus on how utterly delightful it was to have this taste of fresh air like the Goddess she was.
The wind shifts, and there it is—her scent, carried from the house even though she's inside, windows closed.
It’s as if the Universe itself wants to torment me any way it can.
Diabolical.
"Jesus Christ," I growl, my swing going wide enough that the axe embeds in the chopping block instead of the log. "I can smell her from here. How is that even possible?"
Duke's ear twitches, but he doesn't otherwise respond.
He's used to my talking to myself, to him, to the ghosts that never quite leave special forces operators alone.
I work the axe free, reset, swing again. The rhythm is meditative, necessary.
Without it, I'd be back in that house, probably doing something stupid like crawling into bed with her, wrapping myself around her like I could protect her from everything, including ourselves.
Because that's the real issue, isn't it?
Not whether she's our scent match—she clearly is.
Not whether we want her—we do, desperately.
But whether we can have her without destroying her…
Ruining her with our tainted darkness as we thrive in a sweet, delightful world of sunshine and rainbows…
Sophia's ghost haunts us all, but Rafe carries her like a hanging cross along his neck.
He'd loved her the most,the hardest,with that intensity that makes him brilliant at strategy and terrible at moderation. When she'd died—suicide, the coroner said, though we all knew it was more complicated than that—he'd turned that intensity inward, convinced that loving us had killed her.
Maybe it had.
We'd been different then. Younger, harder, still believing that taking what we wanted was the same as deserving it.We'd pursued Sophia like a military objective, overwhelmed her with our combined attention, our demands, our needs. She'd been soft, sweet, everything an omega should be according to conventional wisdom.
And we'd broken her.
But Red...
Red's already broken in all the right ways.
Forged in the fire of three years in hell, she's steel where Sophia was glass. She doesn't just survive; she fights for that survival. Doesn't just endure; she defies. That’s simply based on what we know of her current life at Crimson Roulette. We don’t know what molded her into the fierce woman who’s survived the unmerciful wrath of gambling and chaos. She had to have some sort of experience in the gambling world to even be at Crimson Roulette’s mercy.
And to still be untouched…
