Page 1 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

~RED~

T he sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the dressing room, followed by a wet gasp as the omega was slapped away from Manager Marnay's lap.

She hit the burgundy carpet with a soft thud, scrambling to her knees with tears streaming down her face.

"Incompetent," Victor Marnay spat, his silver hair catching the harsh fluorescent lights as he tucked himself back into his designer slacks. The wolf-head cane leaning against his chair seemed to leer at the trembling omega. "Can't even properly service a simple request. Get her out of my sight."

"Please, Mr. Marnay, I can do better—" The omega's plea cut short as two beta enforcers grabbed her arms, dragging her toward the back exit. The one that led to the auction blocks, not the stage.

I kept my eyes forward, spine straight, hands clasped behind my back like the other eleven omegas lined up for inspection. We'd learned long ago that watching only made it worse. The girl's sobs faded down the hallway, swallowed by the casino's endless appetite for broken things.

Marnay stood, adjusting his red velvet suit jacket with practiced precision. His sigh carried the weight of mild inconvenience, as if losing an omega to the auction houses was no different than spilling coffee on his imported shoes.

"Well then," he said, moving to the start of our line. "Let's see who's worthy of gracing my establishment tonight."

He stopped at each omega, examining us like prize cattle.

A tilt of the chin here, a check of fingernails there.

When he reached me, his nostrils flared, and a slow smile spread across his face—the kind that made my skin crawl beneath the crimson corset they'd squeezed me into.

"Rowenna." He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as if savoring a fine vintage. "You smell particularly... intoxicating tonight."

My scent had always been my curse here. Where other omegas carried lighter fragrances—vanilla, lavender, honeysuckle—mine was richer, more complex.

Spiced honey that reminded alphas of mulled wine on cold nights, wild cherrywood smoke from autumn bonfires, and underneath it all, dark berries crushed against warm skin.

It was the kind of scent that made alphas' heads turn and their wallets open.

"Have you been taking your suppressants?" His fingers ghosted near my neck, not quite touching— he never touched the merchandise directly unless making a point.

"Yes, Mr. Marnay. Eight AM and eight PM, every twelve hours as prescribed." My voice stayed steady, professional. Three years of practice had taught me the exact tone he wanted— submissive but not weak, clear but not bold.

"Good girl." He stepped back, addressing the room. "You see, ladies, this is why Red here gets the VIP tables, the private rooms, the better costumes. Her scent alone brings in more revenue than three of you combined. She's our holy grail, our golden goose."

His gray eyes swept over the line.

"Remember that when you're tempted to complain about favoritism. Some of you are here because you're pretty. Red is here because she's profitable."

A chorus of "Yes, Mr. Marnay" rippled through the line.

Some voices held resentment, others resignation. I'd stopped caring about their opinions two years ago.

We were all prisoners here, even if some cells had better views.

"Tanya, you're on the main floor tonight.

Blackjack and baccarat tables." He continued down the line, assigning positions like a general deploying troops.

"Amber, Nicole, you're in the cocktail rotation.

Red—" He paused, that calculating look returning.

"High roller suite. The Sinclair pack requested you specifically.

They're dropping serious money at the tables, so make them happy.

But not too happy. They haven't paid for that privilege. "

Yet. The unspoken word hung in the air like smoke.

I nodded, already running through my mental checklist.

The Sinclair pack were regulars— three alphas who thought throwing money around entitled them to more than drinks and conversation. They'd never crossed the line Marnay drew, but they pressed against it, testing boundaries like all alphas did when they caught my scent.

As Marnay dismissed us to finish preparing, I moved to my designated vanity—the one in the corner with the good lighting and the mirror that wasn't cracked. Another "privilege" that separated me from the others.

I caught my reflection as I sat: deep auburn hair they made me keep long and styled in vintage waves, garnet brown eyes with flecks of gold that looked more tired every day, and the roulette wheel tattoo on my left wrist that marked me as property of The Crimson Roulette.

Three years.

Three years since my father had sat across from Victor Marnay at a poker table, drunk on whiskey and false confidence, betting money he didn't have.

Three years since he'd offered his unmated omega daughter as collateral, so sure his hand would win.

Three years since I'd been dragged from my bed in the middle of the night, still in my pajamas, to learn that my father had gambled away my freedom on a pair of twos.

Guess you could say I have Daddy issues.

The Crimson Roulette was Vegas's dirty secret, hidden in plain sight.

On the surface, it was just another high-end casino catering to wealthy alphas with money to burn. Beneath the neon and velvet lurked something darker— a carefully orchestrated trafficking ring that dealt in unmated omegas .

We weren't sold outright; that would be too obvious, illegal even for Vegas's shadowy underbelly.

Instead, we were "employed" as hostesses, dancers, and dealers. Our contracts iron-clad, our movements monitored, our heats suppressed to keep us compliant, and our scents just muted enough to entice without sending alphas into rut.

The smart ones, the ones who played by Marnay's rules and earned their keep, might eventually buy their freedom.

The contract price was set at a million dollars—might as well have been a billion for most of us.

The pretty ones who couldn't cut it, the ones who fought too hard or not hard enough, they disappeared to private auctions where alphas with particular tastes paid premium prices for unwilling omegas.

I'd survived by being exactly what they wanted: beautiful enough to display, smart enough to engage the high rollers in conversation, broken enough to never truly fight back.

My scent was my saving grace and my chain— too valuable to sell off, too intoxicating to ever let go.

But I had something the others didn't know about.

Behind the loose vent grate in the staff bathroom, wrapped in plastic and hidden in an old compact case, was my escape fund.

Every tip I could skim, every "bonus" from grateful alphas who thought they were being generous, every dollar I could save from the meager allowance they gave us for "personal items"—it all went into that compact.

After three years, I had almost eight thousand dollars.

Not enough to run, not yet, but enough to hope.

I applied the deep red lipstick they required—' Roulette Red ,' specially made to match the casino's signature color.

The other girls chattered as they prepared, gossiping about which alphas tipped best, which ones had wandering hands, which cocktails to recommend for bigger commissions.

Normal conversations for an abnormal life.

"Did you hear about Cynthia?" Tanya whispered, gluing on false eyelashes with practiced precision. "She tried to palm a chip from the craps table. They caught her on camera."

"Where is she now?" Nicole asked, though we all knew the answer.

"Auction house. Marnay doesn't tolerate stealing." Tanya's voice dropped lower. "Heard she went for thirty grand to some pack in Texas."

Thirty thousand dollars for a life…

I touched up my lipstick, keeping my expression neutral.

Cynthia had been here six months, still had hope in her eyes, believing she could outsmart the system.

The system always won.

"Five minutes, ladies!" The floor manager's voice boomed through the dressing room.

I stood, smoothing down the crimson corset dress that hugged every curve, the one that made me look like a vintage casino chip come to life.

The outfit was another privilege—custom-fitted, higher-quality fabric, designed to showcase without revealing too much.

Marnay understood that mystery sold better than exposure.

My heels clicked against the marble floor as I made my way to the high roller suite, each step a reminder of what I'd become.

Hostess. Decoration. Bait .

The other omegas dispersed to their stations, painting smiles on their faces that never reached their eyes.

We were all actresses in Marnay's twisted play, performing for our survival every night.

The Crimson Roulette hummed with its usual energy—slot machines singing their electronic songs, dice clattering across felt tables, cards shuffling in dealers' hands.

The alphas barely noticed us unless they wanted something, and the betas treated us like part of the furniture. We existed in the spaces between, neither fully present nor allowed to disappear.

As I reached the door to the high roller suite, I touched the mini compact tucked into my corset—a reminder that this wasn't forever. Eight thousand dollars down, ninety-two thousand to go. Or maybe less, if I could find another way out.

If I could find someone, anyone, willing to help an omega whose father had literally gambled her away.

But first, I had to survive another night in my velvet prison, smiling for alphas who saw me as entertainment, pouring drinks with hands that had once held college textbooks, and pretending that the gilded cage they'd built around me was anything other than exactly what it was—a trap designed to look like luxury, with bars made of debt and locks made of shame.

I knocked on the suite door, arranging my face into the pleasant, slightly mysterious smile they'd trained me to wear. Inside, I could already smell the alphas—bourbon, leather, and testosterone-fueled entitlement.

"Come in," a voice called.

I turned the handle, stepping into another night of survival, my scent trailing behind me like a siren song I couldn't stop singing.

Spiced honey and cherrywood, dark berries and danger—the perfume of an omega who'd learned to hide her claws behind perfectly manicured nails and her rage behind roulette-red lips.

Three years down.

How many more to go?