Page 15 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

I alter my path slightly, and his eyes go wide as I approach. Up close, I can smell his nervousness—sweat and cheap whiskey, trying to mask inexperience with liquid courage. He's maybe twenty-five, pretty in that soft way that means he's never had to fight for anything.

I pluck the hat from his head in one smooth motion, my fingers trailing through his hair just enough to make him shudder.

"I—" he starts, but his voice cracks.

I'm already walking away, spinning the hat on one finger like I've done this a thousand times. Behind me, his pack mates are either laughing at him or staring at me, but I don't care enough to check which.

The VIP section looms ahead, three steps up to where the real money plays. Where he waits.

Each step up feels like ascending to something inevitable. The platform is shrouded in shadow, designed for privacy, for deals that can't happen in the light. But even in the darkness, I can see them clearly.

Four alphas.

Four distinct presences that make the air itself feel heavier.

And there, in the center, legs spread wide in that universal alpha posture of dominance—forest green eyes that burn through the shadows like wildlife.

He's sitting back in his chair like he owns the world, and maybe he does.

The tactical gear from the gym has been replaced with something that screams money—a black suit that probably costs more than I've saved in three years, tailored to perfection over those broad shoulders.

But the way he holds himself, the controlled power in every line of his body, that's all military.

All predator.

I stop directly in front of him, close enough that my knees brush his spread ones. The shadows can't hide his expression from me now—hungry, possessive, and pride? Like he knew I'd come to him. Like he'd been waiting for exactly this.

I take a deep breath, exaggerated, theatrical, letting my chest rise and fall in the ruined lingerie. But the moment his scent hits me— oh God.

Cherries and gunpowder. Leather and rain. That perfect mirror of my own scent turned masculine and dangerous. I'd wondered how I'd lived without it, and now I know—I hadn't been living at all. Just existing, waiting for this moment, this alpha, this completion.

The wetness between my thighs increases, slick now coating my inner thighs.

I'm not wearing panties—couldn't, not after leaving them for him—and I know the moment that realization hits every alpha in viewing distance.

Their nostrils flare almost in unison, and the air gets thicker with competing pheromones.

But his scent dominates them all.

Claims the space, air, and me without even touching.

I lift the cowboy hat from my finger, taking my time, making a show of it.

When I place it on his head, I have to lean forward, bringing our faces close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips.

The hat sits perfectly, like it was made for him, turning my forest-eyed alpha into something out of a fantasy.

"Hi, cowboy," I breathe, and my voice comes out huskier than intended.

His eyes darken to almost black, pupils blown wide. One hand twitches on the armrest, like he's physically restraining himself from grabbing me.

I smirk and make my move.

Bracing one hand on his shoulder, I swing my leg over his lap.

But I don't sit— not yet .

Instead, I hold myself above him, legs spread wide, letting the position speak for itself. The ruined lace of my lingerie parts obscenely, and I know— intentionally — that anyone close enough can see exactly what I'm offering. Pink and glistening and untouched, displayed like a prize.

The casino is so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat.

His control snaps.

Large hands clamp onto my hips with bruising force, and he yanks me down onto his lap with a growl that vibrates through his entire chest. The sound is inhuman, primal, the kind of noise that makes lesser alphas bare their throats in submission.

It rolls through the casino like thunder, and I feel several alphas actually step back.

Mine, that growl portrays to this room of Alphas who believe they can have a chance at claiming me.

I'm positioned perfectly— or imperfectly, depending on your perspective. My core pressed against the obvious bulge in his expensive slacks, the heat of him burning through the fabric. He's huge, hard, and the pressure against my sensitive flesh makes me bite back a moan.

But I'm not some simpering omega who's going to melt at the first alpha growl.

I tsked, lifting one finger to press against his lips. They're softer than they look, and I can feel his breath hot against my fingertip.

"Now, now, cowboy," I say, my voice carrying in the silence. Every word is a performance, but the tremor underneath is real. "If you want me to ride you like a rodeo, you'd best be ready to put all bets on the line to claim me."

His lips curve against my finger, and I feel more than hear his chuckle. Dark, amused, dangerous.

I pull my finger away and do something that shocks even me.

My hand goes to his throat.

Not choking— I couldn't actually hurt him if I tried.

But I push, firm and deliberate, forcing this massive alpha to lean back in his chair.

The fact that he lets me, that this mountain of muscle and tactical training moves at the pressure of my small hand, sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with fear.

Gasps echo through the casino. Someone drops a glass, the shatter loud in the silence.

An omega.

Putting her hand on an alpha's throat.

In public.

During a claim.

I might as well have spit in God's face.

But he doesn't look angry. If anything, his eyes burn hotter, prouder. Like I've just passed some test I didn't know I was taking.

I lean in, decision made, consequences be damned.

I'm going to kiss this alpha in front of Vegas's most dangerous men. I'm going to stake my own claim, virgin or not, owned or not. I'm going to?—

Our lips crash together, and thought becomes impossible.

This kiss is nothing like the storage closet. That was exploration, discovery. This is war.

I pour everything into it—three years of captivity, twenty-four years of waiting, a lifetime of wanting something I couldn't name until I tasted him.

My tongue tangles with his, messy and desperate and probably terrible technique, but I don't care.

I kiss him like I'm drowning and he's air.

Like I'm starving and he's a feast. As though I'm trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

His hands on my thighs tighten to the point of pain, fingertips digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.

Tomorrow I'll have ten perfect bruises, evidence of this moment branded into my skin.

And that brand of ownership against my flesh dares to excite me.

Wet, loud, desperate, the lock of our mouths is so savage I feel spit string between us when we break for half a second, oxygen-less and gasping, then crash together again, twice as hard.

I can taste him—bourbon and smoky, the faint electric tang of expensive aftershave and buried somewhere underneath his cologne mixed aroma, the sharp ozone of gun oil and the forest musk unique to him.

I dare say he tastes like a promise: that I'll never be alone, bored, or dare escape him if I try.

And would I want to escape this man’s possessive grasp? In this heated moment, fuck no.

I’d submit if it meant I got to ride this high of lust and bliss in front of such a grand audience that expected another submissive Omega who’d bow to their will.

His teeth find my lower lip and bite; not gentle or sweet, but hungry.

I moan, helpless and unrepentant, and he swallows the sound.

My fingers splay across the thick column of his throat, feeling the pulse race under my palm, feeling this wild, uncontainable power just waiting to be unleashed, and knowing that for this moment, I have it at my mercy.

The kiss is wet, loud, obscene.

The sound echoes through the casino—the slide of tongues, the catch of breath, the tiny whimper I can't quite swallow when he nips at my bottom lip.

I pull back only when oxygen becomes necessary, both of us panting. My lipstick is probably everywhere—his mouth is stained red like he's been drinking wine, only alluring further this illusion of cherries and this haunting theme of red dominance.

My scent floods the space, no longer contained by suppressants or clothes or propriety. Cherry and smoke and honey and need, so thick you could taste it. Every alpha in the vicinity is probably hard.

Every omega is probably either jealous or aroused or both.

I don't care about any of them.

I slide off his lap in one smooth motion, making sure to keep my thighs pressed together. No one else gets to see what's his. The possessive thought should disturb me— I'm not his, not yet, maybe not ever —but it doesn't.

I take the hat back, spinning it on my finger like this is all a game. Like I didn't just throw a match into a puddle of gasoline or as though my whole world didn't just shift on its axis.

Hopefully in my favor in this world that doesn’t like to see a thriving Omega survive.

My bow is theatrical, deep enough to be mocking, controlled enough to be respectful.

"Play your cards right, gentlemen."

I let my eyes drift to his packmates for the first time, cataloging them quickly.

Steel gray eyes that see too much, positioned to watch all exits. That one's dangerous in a different way— the strategist, the one who makes sure they win before the game even starts.

Bright blue that burn with barely contained violence, muscles coiled like he's ready to fight the entire casino. The enforcer — the one who breaks things that need breaking.

Warm amber that hold depths I don't have time to explore, watching me with curiosity rather than hunger — The wild card, the one I can't quite read.

But my eyes return to forest green, to the alpha who still has my lipstick on his mouth and my slick on his pants.

"The lost are always found," I whisper, just loud enough for them to hear. "So I'll be waiting."

I turn and walk away, each step measured despite the trembling in my legs.

The spotlight follows me, faithful as a dog, illuminating my path until I disappear behind the curtain.

The silence stretched taut across the casino floor until I set foot on the stage.

Then, as though an invisible dam had shattered, the room exploded into a hurricane of sound.

Chips rattled against felt, card tables rattled with startled clatter, and a storm of crisp bills fluttered through the air like frightened moths.

A dozen alphas bellowed their bids, each roar echoing against glittering chandeliers.

Through it all, Marnay’s frantic voice crackled over the speakers, high and strained: “Gentlemen, please?—”

I didn’t spare him a backward glance. I stepped off the scarlet-lit platform into the shadowed wings, where Briar waited.

The edge of her smile was sharper than any blade, and the dim backstage light danced along the curve of her lips.

Her eyes gleamed with savage delight. “Well,” she purred, taking in the uproar I’d unleashed, “that was certainly something.”

From beyond the curtains, I heard Marnay’s voice wobble desperately.

“The bidding will commence in an orderly?—”

“Five million.”

The word sliced through the chaos like a surgeon’s incision. Deep, measured, with a subtle European lilt—ice-gray eyes’ voice, I was sure of it. The room tensed.

“Ten million,” came the reply—Tommy Castellano, voice rough with greed and panic.

“Fifty.”

Forest-green eyes.

His tone bored, dismissive, as though this was a trivial inconvenience.

“Fifty million?” Marnay stuttered, his composure fracturing. “Sir, the bidding hasn’t officially?—”

“One hundred million.”

A new voice: dark amber, each syllable heavy with warning.

As if bidding against him would draw a blade to your throat.

“Gentlemen,” Marnay’s voice trembled, nearly a sob, “we have procedures?—”

“Your procedures are noted. The Lucky Ace Pack has entered a bid of one hundred million for the omega known as Red. Contract transfer upon receipt of funds. Non-negotiable.”

Hazel-eyed. Cool, clinical—as if he were purchasing acreage instead of a person.

The name “Lucky Ace Pack” landed in my chest like a sledgehammer. I’d heard the rumors: ex-military ghosts and former mob ghosts, sliding through legitimate businesses that masked far darker dealings. They controlled half the Pacific Northwest with their iron grip.

And they’d just dropped one hundred million dollars.

On me.

Little miss virgin Omega who did the unthinkable in a place that only allowed marionettes to survive…

“Sold…” Marnay whispered, beaten and stunned at the same time. He has to clear his throat to add in the emphasize to declare the decision in such a grand room. “The omega Red, to the Lucky Ace Pack, for one hundred million dollars!”

No fucking way…

I’ve been sold to the highest bidder.

The Lucky Ace Pack just…bought me.

I’m…free?

In the darkness of the wings, Briar’s hand closed over my trembling hand. Her fingers were ice on my skin, and her nails pressed into my palm like a promise.

“Ready to get out of here, Cherry Bomb?”

My mind flickered to the tiny storage closet where I’d hidden.

To green eyes that had softened beneath my touch, to gentle hands, to the taste of that first stolen kiss that had rewritten everything I thought desire could be.

And then the thought— four alphas, now owners , had just paid more for my life than most people saw in a lifetime.

“I’ve been ready for three years,” I said, voice quivering slightly even as my heart hammered against my ribs.

Briar squeezed my hand once, twice.

“Then let’s go meet your new owners.”

The word should have made me recoil—the reminder that I was still property, only changing hands. But instead I tasted my Alpha on my tongue again, remembered the low growl vibrating through his chest, the bruises already blooming on my thighs.

The Lucky Ace Pack.

In poker, four aces beat almost anything.

Almost.

Because I’d always been a red queen—and queens play by their own rules.

The house might always win, but tonight the house had been bought outright.

And I was about to find out exactly what happened when your new owners came calling.