Page 17 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

"Your new owners insisted you receive everything that belongs to you." He sets both on the desk. "The compact, obviously. Plus what I believe you're owed."

I open the compact first—my money is still there, every crumpled bill I'd saved the night before. I check the black bag next, which has the eight thousand that I’d saved in the last three years.

When he suddenly offers another bag, I’m left in confusion as I silently accept it.

I take a deep breath, wondering what could be inside, finally peering inside which contains?—

"Holy shit,” I dare curse out of breathlessness.

Cash. Stacks of it. More money than I've ever seen outside of the casino floor.

"Your tips," Marnay says, voice carefully neutral. "Every dollar that went into the house pool instead of your pocket. Three years' worth, with interest. Approximately two hundred thousand dollars."

My legs go weak, and it takes everything to not collapse completely.

"Why?" I manage to ask.

"Because the Lucky Ace Pack requested a full accounting of your earnings. Every penny tracked, every tip documented." His smile is sharp. "They wanted to ensure you received what was yours. Bad business to start a new arrangement with theft, they said."

Two hundred thousand dollars. Plus my eight thousand.

Enough to run, to hide, to start over anywhere…

If they let me.

"There's more," Marnay continues, pulling out papers. "Your contract transfer. Sign here, initial here, and you belong to them."

I take the pen with numb fingers, scanning the document.

It's different from my original contract—cleaner, simpler.

"This says I can leave."

"After a year, yes. With full payment of contract price." Marnay's smile is bitter. "Though I doubt you'll ever save one hundred million dollars."

A year. I could survive anything for a year.

And if they were monsters, if this was just another cage with prettier bars, at least I'd have an end date.

I sign my name with a steady hand: Rowenna Vale.

Not Red.

Not the persona I'd worn like armor for three years.

My real name, for better or worse.

"Congratulations," Marnay says, taking the papers. "You're now property of the Lucky Ace Pack. May God have mercy on your soul."

"God's never had much interest in Vegas," I reply, tucking my money—my money—into the bag. "Why start now?"

He actually smiles at that, a real expression instead of his usual calculated masks. "You know, Red, I almost liked you. Of all the girls who've passed through here, you were the only one who never begged."

Now he’s praising me. Where was all that when I wasn’t his monopoly card?

"Begging doesn't change the cards you're dealt."

"No," he agrees. "But sometimes it makes the dealer feel better about taking your money."

The silence is heavy with truth.

"Your new owners are waiting. Follow. We’re heading to the Platinum Suite."

Owners. The word should make me sick. Remind me that I'm still property, trapped , playing a game where the house always wins.

But all I can think about is forest green eyes and the way he'd said my name— Red —like it was a prayer and a promise.

We leave Marnay's office through a different door, one that leads to a private elevator I didn't even know existed. It’s all mirrors and gold, reflecting my image back a thousand times. Red dress, red lips, red shoes.

Red, red, red.

Like my name.

Like the panties I'd left behind.

Like the blood probably pounding through his veins when he'd decided to bet everything on an omega he'd kissed once in a storage closet.

The Platinum Suite is on the top floor, accessible only by private elevator. It's where the real deals are made, where millions change hands over brandy and handshakes. The elevator ride feels eternal and instant simultaneously.

The elevator is so silent I can hear both Marnay’s and my heartbeats—his slow and reptilian, mine a staccato Morse code of pure panic.

The walls are polished to a mirrored gloss, so it’s like being in a Klein bottle of myself, infinite reds stitched together by gold fretwork and shadow.

I’m clutching my life savings in a death grip, but it’s nothing compared to the chill of his voice as he says, “You’ll want to take this. ”

He presents a vial.

No, not a vial—a via, as if the word is Latin for ‘last chance.’

The glass is the sort you’d expect to see holding perfume in an assassin’s boudoir, slender and fluted, stoppered with something that looks a lot like bone.

The liquid inside is a horror show of color: ombre , I’m sure he’d say like he’s gifting me some true definition of shifting colors, but it’s more like an oil slick on pond water, a chemical rainbow threatening to separate at any moment.

I take it in my hand and it’s heavier than it looks, weighted with all the intent of a poison or an antidote.

I don’t ask what’s in it.

Years in this place have taught me there are some answers that only breed more questions, the kind that keep you up nights and make you want to scrub your skin off with steel wool.

But the way Marnay’s eyes linger on the vial, then flick back up to my face with that same miserable calculation he’s always had, tells me everything I need to know.

This is the kind of pharmaceutical intervention reserved for the truly valuable livestock—pricier than street-grade suppressants, and probably designed to undo years of what the house has been feeding me and the others.

“This will correct the lingering effects of the drugs you’ve been taking,” he says, his voice as dry as the desert outside.

“All Omegas who’ve gained freedom are encouraged to take it.

” He lets that hang for a full two floors before adding, “Obviously, your choice to take it or not. The consequences are yours to bear.”

Consequences.

Like my body might not work right, or my mind could come unglued, or maybe the Lucky Ace pack expects their new acquisition to be ‘clean’ of house chemicals and my value will plummet if I show up still marinating in Marnay’s proprietary blend.

I almost laugh, no, wait, I do laugh , sharp and barked, which scares even me a little because it proves I’m almost at this imaginary finish line to be showing expression of any kind in front of Marnay without fear of being axed and made into a future example of how far defiance gets you in his possession.

“Is this like the Blue Rose incident?” I ask, half-joking, half-desperate. “Or am I going to wake up in the desert wearing nothing but a smile and a toe tag?”

Marnay’s smile is thinner than a razor blade.

“If I wanted you dead, Red, I wouldn’t waste the money.” He inclines his head toward the vial. “Consider it a parting gift. From one entrepreneur to another.”

Entrepreneur. That’s what he’s calling me now for somehow outsmarting him in his own sick game…

It’s a gamble—the first real one I’ve been allowed in years.

I pop the seal and sniff.

There’s a smell that brings me back to a distant memory, half-buried: a summer storm over an orchard, a breath of ozone and cherry pits and something sharp but not unpleasant, like the sting of a fresh tattoo.

No going back now…regrets are for the past.

I tip it back before I can think better of it, the glass clinking my teeth on the way down.

The taste is hell.

Metallic and bitter, with a burn like swallowing live electricity.

For a moment I think I might throw up, but it settles into my stomach like a swallowed stone.

Almost instantly, the world gets louder; my own heartbeat is a thunder drum, and the scents in the elevator have sharpened and multiplied.

I can smell Marnay’s cologne, yes, but also the sleeve of his shirt—a faint undertone of old sweat and fear.

I can smell myself, the echo of the boxing bag still clinging to my skin, the hot rush of pheromones awakening under my ribs.

My knees buckle.

Marnay catches my elbow, not gently but efficiently, and steadies me as the elevator jerks to a stop. He’s staring at me with a new calculation, as if wondering whether I’ll make it to the next room or just go feral on the carpet.

For a second, I want to.

But I don’t.

I take a breath, let it out slow, and feel the effects of the potion— or whatever it is —ripple through me like a second skin. I feel awake, I feel raw, I feel stripped down to nerve endings and pure intent. If I’m a product, I’m newly minted and ready for the auction block.

The elevator dings the moment it comes to a halt, and the doors slide open, revealing a hallway that is even more opulent than the casino floor.

The suite sprawls before me, all dark wood and leather and masculine luxury.

Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase the Vegas skyline, neon bleeding across the night like open wounds.

There's a full bar, a conference table that could seat twenty, and several seating areas that probably cost more than I'd make in a lifetime.

Or would have made, before tonight.

And there…in a heartbeat…my eyes land on them.

They're waiting in the main seating area, and my breath catches hard enough to hurt.

Four alphas, arranged with precision despite the casual sprawl of their bodies. Power radiates from them like heat from a forge, filling the room until the air feels too thick to breathe properly.

Forest green eyes find mine first, as if my mere presence calls to the depths of his soul, and the recognition is instant. Violent. Complete.

It's really him.

The alpha from the storage closet sits in the center of their formation, legs spread wide in a posture that screams casual dominance.

He's changed clothes—dark jeans that cling to muscular thighs, a black henley that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.

His sandy brown hair is pulled back, revealing the sharp angles of a face that belongs on recruitment posters or most-wanted lists.

He doesn't smile. Doesn't speak. Just watches me with an intensity that makes my knees weak and my panties damp.