Page 14 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

A boxing bag hung from the ceiling, but not just any bag.

This one was crimson leather, pristine and gleaming under the lights.

On a stool beside it sat hand wraps in the same cherry red as my outfit, and boxing gloves that had been bedazzled with what looked like actual diamonds.

They'd catch the light with every punch, sending sparkles across the audience like shattered stars.

I almost laughed. Almost cried. Trust Briar to know exactly what I needed.

I walked to the stool with deliberate slowness, letting the heels create a rhythm against the stage. Click-clack. Again and again. Each step made the crystals in my heels throw red light across the floor, like I was walking through fire.

The audience was silent. Completely, pin-drop silence that was nothing but music to my ringing ears.

My heart was beating with raw exhilaration, my mind swirling with intuitive creativity that was begging to be spilled onto this audience of men who were begging for a show. I sat on the stool, crossing one leg over the other in a way that made the pearl string shift between my cheeks.

Someone in the audience sucked in a breath.

Slowly, deliberately, I began wrapping my hands.

It was a ritual I'd performed hundreds of times, but never like this. In six-inch heels and lace that left nothing to imagination. No way would I have the boldness to do this with an audience of alphas watching my every mov; billions of dollars hanging in the balance.

First time for everything, right?

I wrapped each finger individually, taking my time, making it a seduction to the beat of the raw slow music playing to add to the building allure.

The fabric sliding between my fingers, around my wrists, protecting and preparing.

My eyes stayed on my hands, ignoring the audience, like they didn't exist.

Like I was alone in my gym, getting ready to beat the shit out of my demons.

The music started to hit its rhythm—not the usual strip club bass, but darker. Violins and drums, classical and primal mixing into a melody that made my blood sing.

I stood, the wraps complete, and picked up the gloves.

They were heavier than expected, the diamonds adding weight. But when I slipped them on, they fit perfectly.

Oh sweet heavens…how I feel in charge.

The confidence was surely oozing out of me, as if I was in my borned element and not performing as though my life, and freedom, depended on it.

I walked to the bag, still ignoring the audience, and took my stance.

Let it out, Red…

The first punch was tentative, testing. The diamonds caught the light, sending sparkles across the stage. The impact made my breasts bounce in the barely-there lace, made the pearls shift against sensitive skin.

The second punch was harder. Raw with a spec of power.

Then the third.

That was the trigger…

Then I stopped thinking and started fighting.

Jab, cross, hook. The combinations Marc had taught me, but transformed by the outfit, the lights, the audience.

Every punch made my body move in ways that were simultaneously athletic and erotic.

The lace shifted with each impact, revealing and concealing.

Sweat began to sheen on my skin, making the shimmer oil glow brighter.

The music only heightened the movements, growing gradually and volume while the base seemed to match my rhythm perfectly.

I circled the bag like prey versus predator, my feet as light as a ballet dancer, and yet my curves surely looked extra thick and strained with muscle as I prepared for the next set of movements that would include kicks, both high and thigh dips.

The heels should have made it impossible, but I'd been training in worse conditions for three years.

This was just another performance, except this time, I was performing as myself.

A roundhouse kick sent the bag swinging and the audience gasping. The move had hiked the lace up, showing the full curve of my ass, the pearl string a decoration more than coverage. I didn't adjust it. There was no need to even acknowledge it.

Just kept fighting.

The music built, and so did my combinations. Harder, faster, more complex. The kind of moves that showed real training, real strength, real defiance. My hair came loose from its styled waves, hanging in sweat-damp tendrils around my face. My lipstick was probably smudged, my eye makeup running.

I didn't care.

This wasn't about being pretty, or about being perfect. This was about showing these alphas that we weren't all the same, interchangeable bodies performing the same overused routines.

I was showing them that some omegas fought back.

The tattoo on my back was fully visible now, sweat making it gleam.

The Queen of Hearts surrounded by her court of flowers and dice, a permanent rebellion against everything this place tried to make me.

None of the other girls had marks—Marnay wouldn't allow it.

But he did for me. Only me. I was already different, defiant and given permission to remain breathing despite being a trapped butterfly in this grand penitentiary.

Already dangerous.

The music reached its crescendo, and I delivered a final combination that would have made Marc proud.

The bag swung wildly, the diamonds on my gloves catching the light in an explosion of red stars.

I stood there, breathing hard, sweat running down my body in rivulets that caught the light.

Then, finally, I turned to face the audience.

The regular packs were on their feet, money already flying toward the stage. Hundreds, thousands, raining down like green snow. But I wasn't looking at them.

I was looking at the VIP section, where four shadows had finally moved. Leaning forward. Interested.

I couldn't see their faces clearly in the dim light, but I could feel their attention like a physical weight. Four alphas, their combined presence making the air thick and electric.

One of them stood, and even from the stage, I could see he was tall. Broad shoulders, controlled movement, something about his posture that screamed military.

My heart stopped.

It couldn't be.

But then the lights shifted slightly, and I caught a glimpse of eyes.

Forest green.

I reached up and slowly pulled off one glove, then the other, never breaking eye contact with that shadow. The diamonds scattered light as I dropped them, the sound echoing in the silent casino.

Then I began unwrapping my hands, the same slow ritual in reverse. The fabric unwinding, revealing skin reddened from impact, knuckles that would bruise by morning. Battle damage on a body meant for pleasure.

When the last wrap fell to the stage, I stood there in my ruined lingerie and sweat-smeared makeup, looking like I'd been thoroughly fucked or thoroughly fought, or both.

The alpha in the VIP section raised something to his face. Even in the darkness, I could see the motion, see him inhale deeply.

My panties. He still had them. And he was scenting them while watching me.

The realization hit me like a punch to the solar plexus. He'd figured it out. He found me. He'd come for me with enough money to play Marnay's games and win.

But more than that—he'd brought his pack.

Three other shadows stood with him, and even from here, I could feel their energy.

Different from the usual alphas who came here.

These ones felt...dangerous. Controlled. Like they were used to winning but not through luck.

Through strategy.

I knew right then I had to do something more before things came to an end.

Defiance. Unpredictable. Mesmerizing.

Marnay's voice crackles through the intercom, that velvet-wrapped authority that usually makes my skin crawl. "And now, for our next?—"

I don't let him finish.

My body moves before my brain catches up, heels clicking against the stage floor as I strut toward the edge. The spotlight follows, confused but obedient, as I descend the stairs into the audience. Every eye in the casino tracks my movement, but I only care about four.

"Red, what are you—" Marnay's voice cuts off mid-sentence, and I can practically taste his shock through the speakers.

Good…let him choke on his words and watch me take my power back.

The click-clack of my heels echoes through the sudden silence, each step deliberate, predatory.

My destroyed lingerie clings to my sweat-slicked skin, the red lace barely containing what needs containing.

The shimmering body oil catches the light with every movement, turning me into something otherworldly, untouchable, yet desperately wanted.

I pass the Moretti pack first. Their table reeks of cologne and barely contained violence, old-school mob money that thinks it can buy anything.

The eldest Moretti—salt-and-pepper hair, dead eyes—licks his lips as I pass.

His tongue is obscene, wet, promising things that would make me vomit if I thought about them too long.

"Madonna Mia," one of them whispers, reaching out.

I don't even acknowledge the grabbing hand, letting it swipe through empty air as I continue my march. Their whistles follow me, sharp and hungry.

The Castellano table is next. Tommy's there, pupils still blown from whatever he's been snorting, practically salivating. "There's our little fighter," he slurs, loud enough for the whole casino to hear. "Come here, baby. Let daddy show you what those hands are really for."

His pack laughs, the sound grating against my nerves like sandpaper. One of them makes a V with his fingers, flicking his tongue between them. Classy.

But then I see it—a flash of red that makes my lips curve into a genuine smile.

A cowboy hat, crimson as fresh blood, sitting atop some minor alpha's head. He's probably somebody's nephew, somebody's plus-one, trying to look important at a table full of real players.

The irony of the color isn't lost on me.