Page 16 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

INVITING BLANKET OF BLISS

~RED~

" S top overthinking," Briar says, her grip on my hand tightening. "You'll give yourself an aneurysm."

"One hundred million dollars, Briar." My voice comes out strangled. "Nobody pays that much for an omega. Nobody pays that much for anything that doesn't come with oil rights or a small country attached."

"The Lucky Ace Pack isn't nobody." She pulls me around a corner, past the dressing rooms where girls are probably losing their minds over what just happened. "They're the kind of somebodies that make other somebodies nervous."

"That's not making me feel better."

"Good. You should be nervous. Nervous keeps you sharp." She stops at a door marked PRIVATE - MANAGEMENT ONLY. "But Red? That alpha who nearly made you orgasm with his eyes? He's the one who just dropped a small nation's GDP on your contract."

My stomach does something complicated—part butterfly migration, part Olympic gymnastics routine. "How do you know that?"

Her smile is all wickedness and secrets. "Because I've been in this game longer than you, Cherry Bomb. And when an alpha looks at an omega the way he looked at you? Like you're water and he's been dying of thirst in the desert? That's an alpha who'll burn down the world to keep you."

"Or burn me down in the process."

"Maybe." She produces a key from somewhere—Briar always has keys to places she shouldn't. "But wouldn't you rather burn bright than fade away in this shithole?"

I follow Briar through the maze of backstage corridors, my legs somehow steady despite the earthquake that just ripped through my life. One hundred million dollars. The number keeps bouncing around my skull like a pinball, setting off lights and alarms with each impact.

"We need to get you changed," Briar says, pulling me into a small dressing room I've never seen before. It's cleaner than ours, with actual mirrors that aren't cracked and lights that don't flicker. "Can't have you meeting your new pack looking like you just went ten rounds with a punching bag."

"I look that bad?" I catch my reflection and wince. My makeup is smeared with sweat, the red lipstick slightly smudged from where I'd bitten my lip during the routine. The lingerie is basically destroyed—diamonds scattered, lace torn in places I hadn't even noticed.

"You look like sex and violence had a baby," Briar says, already pulling clothes from a hidden closet. "Which is probably why they just dropped GDP-level money on you, but still. First impressions with your new owners should be more...strategic."

Owners. The word sits heavy in my chest, but there's something else there too. Anticipation. Fear. And underneath it all, that persistent ache between my thighs that started in a storage closet and hasn't stopped since.

"Here." She tosses me a dress—black, simple, elegant. The kind of thing a real person would wear, not a casino decoration. "And these." Undergarments that are practical rather than performative. "Shoes." Low heels that I could actually run in if needed.

I strip quickly, peeling off the destroyed lingerie with hands that only shake a little. Briar pretends to organize things while I change, giving me the illusion of privacy in this place where privacy doesn't exist.

"Briar," I start, pulling the dress over my head. "What's going to happen to you?"

She pauses, just for a second, before her mask slides back into place. "Don't worry about me, Cherry Bomb. I've survived worse than this."

"But—"

"No buts." She turns to face me, and for a moment, I see the truth in her eyes. Fear, resignation, and something that might be pride. "You're getting out. That's what matters."

"Come with me." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Maybe they'd?—"

"Buy two omegas for the price of one?" She laughs, but it's bitter. "That's not how this works, baby. Besides, someone needs to keep these other girls from completely falling apart."

I want to argue, to demand she come with me, to refuse to leave without her. But we both know that's not how this game is played. I have no power here, no leverage.

I'm merchandise that just changed hands, nothing more.

"Five minutes," a voice calls from the hallway.

One of Marnay's beta enforcers, probably.

Briar moves fast, fixing my hair, wiping away the ruined makeup, applying just enough to make me look presentable rather than purchasable. Her hands are gentle but efficient, and I realize this might be the last time she touches me.

"Listen to me," she says quietly, hands on my shoulders. "Whatever happens next, you remember who you are. Not what they made you here, not what those alphas might want you to be. You're Red fucking Vale, you survived three years in hell, and you're stronger than any of them know."

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. "I don't even know them. What if they're worse than?—"

"They're not." She says it with such certainty that I blink. "Trust me on this. I've been around long enough to read the signs. That pack? They're not here for the usual reasons."

"How do you know?"

She smiles, that mysterious Briar smile that always meant she knew more than she was saying. "Because they didn't look at you like meat, Cherry Bomb. They looked at you like salvation."

A knock on the door makes us both jump.

"Time's up."

Briar pulls me into a fierce hug, her scent—brandy and cherries and rebellion—wrapping around me one last time.

"Go," she whispers. "Live. Be free. And if you ever get the chance, burn this fucking place to the ground."

When we pull back, I quietly whisper, “As long as you’re not in it.”

Her smirk only makes her glassy eyes water further.

“I’ll be long gone by then. Crimson Collateral, running away with my own set of rugged cowboys that I seduced with my tempting glory.”

The exaggeration only makes me laugh to stop the sobs that beg to leave me.

The door opens, revealing two of Marnay's enforcers.

They look nervous, which is new. Usually, they swagger around like they own us too. But something has shifted in the power dynamics of the Crimson Roulette.

"Mr. Marnay requires your presence in the Platinum Suite, but first he wants a private word," one says, not quite meeting my eyes. "Your... new employers are waiting, so make haste."

I follow them through hallways I know by heart, past doors that hide secrets I'll never tell, through a casino floor that's still buzzing with shock and excitement. Patrons stare as we pass, whispers following in our wake. The omega who sparked a bidding war.

The girl who brought four alphas to their feet with a boxing routine in forbidden lingerie.

It’s not long before we’re before the door that must be Marnay’s private office.

The scent hits me first—expensive cologne trying to mask cheap desperation, leather and lies and the lingering ghost of cocaine from whatever party he'd thrown last week.

The man himself sits behind his massive desk, looking like someone just told him Christmas was canceled and he was being audited by the IRS simultaneously.

"Red." His voice is flat, defeated. "Come in."

I step inside, trying not to project how nervous I truly am. The office is exactly what you'd expect from a man with more money than taste—all red velvet and gold fixtures, like a brothel and a bank had an unfortunate baby.

"One hundred million dollars." Marnay stares at me like I've grown a second head.

"In three years, you've made me approximately twelve million in direct revenue, another eight in auxiliary profits.

Good money. Excellent returns." He laughs, but it sounds like breaking glass.

"But one hundred million? What the fuck did you do? "

"I don't know." The honesty burns my throat. "I just... performed."

"Performed." He repeats the word like it tastes bad.

"You boxed a punching bag in lingerie. I've seen you do that routine a dozen times in that boxed glass room in the gym surveillance.

Good show to get any Alpha hot and unbothered at the idea of an weak Omega being able to give a good fight, but not hundred-million-dollars hot. "

Fuck…he’s been watching my activities?

My stomach sinks at the disgusting idea, but then again, I was his property.

Hell. He could have had cameras in the washrooms and showers for all we know.

There’s no such thing as morals in the city of sin.

"Maybe they liked my personality," I deadpan.

His eyes narrow.

"This isn't a joke, Red. The Lucky Ace Pack doesn't throw around that kind of money. They're calculating, careful. Every move they make has three reasons behind it and contingencies for each." He leans forward, his gray eyes searching mine. "So I'll ask again…what did you do?"

I think about forest green eyes in a storage closet.

About cherry-bourbon scent and hands that held me like I was precious.

Leaving red lace panties as a calling card for an alpha who promised he'd find me.

"I existed," I finally say. "Apparently, that was enough."

Marnay's laugh is bitter.

"Existing. Right." He pulls out a tablet, fingers flying across the screen. "Well, your existence just made me the richest casino owner in Nevada. The funds are already transferring. Clean money, traced through seventeen different shell companies but clean nonetheless."

"So I'm theirs now?" The words stick in my throat.

"You've always been someone's, Red. At least these someones can afford to keep you in style." He stands, moving to his wall safe with practiced ease. "Your personal effects."

I blink.

"My what?"

"Did you think I didn't know about your little escape fund?" He spins the combination, and my heart stops. "The compact hidden in the bathroom vent. Very clever, by the way. Most girls try to hide things in their rooms."

My eight thousand dollars.

Three years of skimming, saving, hoping.

Gone…

But when he turns back, he's holding not just my battered compact but a small black bag.

The one holding all my savings…