Page 82 of Roulette Rodeo
Talon's dot blinks steadily at the garage, probably covered in motor oil and listening to music that would make most people's ears bleed. His heart rate's elevated but steady—working, not fighting.
Corwin's at the clinic, has been since seven this morning. Mrs. Henderson had an appointment, I remember. Diabetes check. Then the Morrison kid's vaccinations. Normal, small-town doctor things that help maintain our cover of being productive members of society.
Shiloh's dot shows him in the forest behind the house, Duke's tracker right beside him. Same spot he's been for the last two hours, probably turning our entire winter's wood supply into kindling because he can't figure out how to process having an omega in our space.
But wait.
There's another dot.
Smaller, newer, blinking purple instead of the green we use for pack. When the fuck did we assign?—
Oh.
The medical bracelet.
Corwin had insisted said we needed to monitor her in case of complications from the poisoning. But really, we all knew it was because none of us trusted her not to run.Why would she stay?We're strangers who bought her like property. The fact that wehaven't touched her, haven't demanded anything, probably just makes us more suspicious in her mind.
Then again, she’s been mostly unconscious. The moment she’s awake long enough to be around us for a few ticking seconds, that can change.
The purple dot is moving toward Shiloh's position, slow and unsteady like she's having trouble with the terrain.
Thunder booms overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows, and I look up from the screen to see the clouds have darkened to almost black. The first fat drops of rain splatter against the glass, precursor to the deluge that's coming.
"Shit," I mutter, pulling up the camera feeds.
We have them scattered throughout the property—security, we tell ourselves, though really it's paranoia born from too many enemies and too much to lose. The one in the clearing behind the house gives me a perfect view of what's about to be a disaster.
Shiloh's there, shirtless because of course he fucking is, axe in hand like some romance novel lumberjack. Duke's lounging in a patch of sun that's about to disappear. And approaching from the tree line?—
Jesus Christ.
She's wearing silk pajamas—red, because apparently, she's committed to the theme—that leave absolutely nothing to imagination. I’m certain one of the others probably slipped her into those, as to who, I have no fucking clue. The shorts barely cover her ass, the top held together by tiny pearl buttons that look like they're hanging on for dear life. Her hair is loose, catching what's left of the light like spun copper.
And on her feet, she's wearing Shiloh's cowboy boots, shuffling more than walking because they're comically oversized.
She looks ridiculous.
She looks perfect.
She looks like trouble I don't need on my overflowing plate.
The rain starts in earnest just as she reaches Shiloh, and I smirk, already knowing what's coming.
This is going to be exactly like?—
Wait.
She's not running for cover. She's not shrieking in dismay about her ruined outfit.
She's...laughing?
I lean forward, certain the camera must be malfunctioning. But no—she's actually laughing, head thrown back, arms spread wide like she's trying to catch every drop.
The memory hits like a sucker punch:Sophia, our first week together, caught in a similar storm. She'd been wearing a sundress, white with little flowers, her blonde hair in perfect curls that the rain destroyed in seconds. She'd cried—actually cried—about her ruined appearance, running for the house like the rain was acid.
We'd spent an hour apologizing, promising to check weather reports, buying her new clothes to replace the ones that weren't even really damaged. She'd locked herself in the bathroom, emerging eventually with perfect makeup and a smile that never quite reached her eyes.
She'd hated the unexpected. Hated anything that messed with her carefully constructed perfection.
