Page 88 of Roulette Rodeo
"Yes," she whispers, and the simple word hits me like a physical thing.
The bathroom falls quiet except for Duke's occasional snoring, making me realize he’s back, but resting outside thebathroom on the hall rug. Regardless, the silence is inviting, making him even relaxed as the minutes roll by.
"Is this normal for you?" she asks suddenly, her voice curious but careful.
I chuckle, the sound rumbling through my chest into her back.
"The closest I've come to having anyone else near me in a body of water was washing Duke up. That's it."
"Why?" She shifts slightly, not pulling away but adjusting so she can see my face better. "You don't do this with your omega?"
The question hits like ice water despite the warmth surrounding us.
I frown, knowing she's watching my expression, reading every micro-change.
"Our omega..." I shake my head slowly. "Well, we had one. That didn't end well."
Her face falls, sympathy replacing curiosity.
"I'm sorry to bring up something hurtful."
"Can you keep a secret?" The words come out before I can think better of them.
She nods, a small smile playing at her lips.
"As long as you're not telling everyone and their auntie that my legs don't work."
"I'd never tell anyone, period." The vehemence in my voice surprises us both.
"What about your packmates?"
"Well, they'll find out when they need to. It's not a rush to disclose."
She seems to accept that, settling back against me as I gather my thoughts. This isn't my story alone to tell, but she deserves some truth after everything.
"Our previous omega," I whisper, the words feeling strange after so long not speaking about her. "I wasn't really into her."
She frowns, confusion clear in her expression.
"I don't understand."
"She wasn't a scent match like..." I pause, breathe in her cherry-honey perfection. "Like the way you and I are. At least…this experience is far different. More natural in comparison.” I pause as I think about the past. “It was more of an agreement, almost."
I try to explain, because she deserves at least a basic map for the ruins she's about to walk through.
“Back then, it was all about the incentives,” I say, voice low. Bubbles cling to her chin, but she’s not hiding or ducking the hard truths. I like that about her, the way she can stare down even the ugliest parts of history. “The packs that had an omega got better jobs, more leniency with housing, even tax breaks. It wasn’t just about—” I falter, searching for a word that won’t come off like an insult, “—old-fashioned family stuff. It was business. Survival. The government practically threw us a parade just for signing the paperwork.”
Red hums, listening, the tips of her hair floating out like red kelp in the water.
“It didn’t matter much to me then. I’d just gotten out of the service, and I figured if the others wanted it, fine. Consensus is how you avoid blood on the walls. We met her at a state event, of all things. You know those mixers the city throws at the courthouse? Like speed-dating but with more legal liability and less dignity.” I snort, but it dies quickly. “She was… pleasant. Knew all the rules. Her family wanted her mated off before her first heat got too severe. Good old-fashioned bargaining. We filled out the forms, passed a couple interviews, got the government’s rubber stamp. Nobody was unhappy, exactly.”
Red looks up at me, brow furrowed, and I shrug. “I’m serious. That’s what it was. We’d eat together, watch TV, do all the things you’re supposed to do. But I never felt the bond, not the way Iwas told it would hit. The rest of the pack—maybe they caught a thread here or there, but not me. I was always… outside it.” I feel stupid saying it, but I want her to understand.
“In the city, especially the old neighborhoods, packs with omegas were instantly respected. Like you were a real pack, not just a bunch of overgrown boys playing house. You got access to better clinics and protection from some of the more aggressive alphas. In theory, anyway.” I pause, remembering all the cold bureaucracy that went with it—the forms, the tests, the public statements about “family values” that made me want to set something on fire. “It was a political move, not a love story.”
She listens, her palm splayed on my chest, thumb tracing the edge of a scar I got in Afghanistan. That’s what brings me back to the present. I don’t want to sound like my past is some apology for being a broken asshole, but I want it clear—she is not a formality. Not a transaction.
"So it was only natural to want one, but did I truly love her the way the others did?" The admission feels like glass in my throat. "Not really. I liked the presence of her, but her as a person... maybe not."
