Page 19 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

HOUSE OF brOKEN CARDS

~RAFE~

T he moment her speech shifts from that perfectly crafted taunt to something slow and confused, I know we've been played.

It's subtle at first—a slight drag on her consonants, a pause between thoughts that shouldn't require consideration. But I've spent too many years reading tells at poker tables and in boardrooms to miss the signs.

This omega— this Rowenna Vale who calls herself Red —is struggling to maintain consciousness while trying to pretend everything is fine.

Her garnet eyes, which had been locked on Shiloh with an intensity that made something ugly twist in my chest, suddenly dim.

The spark that had lit them from within, that defiant fire that had made her strip down to lingerie and box on stage for a room full of alphas, flickers and dies like someone cut the power.

"What's wrong with her?" Talon asks, his usual barely-contained energy shifting into concern.

I huff, the sound sharp enough to cut glass.

"Don't tell me this douche sold us some defective omega or some shit."

The words are harsh, deliberately so. I need them to be. Because if I don't armor myself in cruelty, I might have to acknowledge the way my chest tightens watching her sway on her feet like a broken doll.

Six hours.

That's all it took for our carefully ordered world to tilt off its axis.

Six hours since Shiloh had returned from his "reconnaissance" mission reeking of cherries and trouble.

In that lotted time of him pacing like a caged animal, clutching those ridiculous red panties like they were made of gold instead of lace - and the mere scent of that fabric was driving us all wild despite us trying to ignore it.

One hundred million dollars.

We'd spent one hundred million dollars on a single omega.

Not on property, not on investments that guaranteed returns, not on expanding our territory or securing our operations.

On a woman. A virgin omega, apparently, who'd somehow burrowed under Shiloh's skin deep enough that he'd mobilized our entire network to infiltrate this gaudy excuse for a casino.

And now she looked like she was about to drop dead, proving our astronomical investment was about to swirl down the drain like everything else in this godforsaken city.

The only thing that stops me from complete revolt against this insanity is her scent.

Even from across the room, it calls to me.

Wild cherries and spiced honey, smoke and that aroma that’s uniquely feminine that makes my alpha instincts roar to life despite my best efforts to strangle them.

It's the same scent that had clung to those panties Shiloh had been carrying around like a talisman.

The ones we'd had to practically pry from his grip to understand why our most emotionless brother had suddenly gone into full mission mode over a stranger.

A storage closet , he'd said, like that explained everything.

She's mine , he'd said, like that justified his manic actions.

Ours , Corwin had corrected, because that's how packs worked, even broken ones like ours.

If one of us was going to claim something, it was ours for the taking, and this wasn’t going to be any different.

Only it was…

Now I watch our coldest, most heartless soldier—the man who'd carried wounded brothers through enemy fire without flinching, tortured information from terrorists without blinking—show every emotion on his usually stoic face.

Fear. Panic. Or would I dare say looks dangerously close to devastation.

"Drugged," Shiloh whispers, and the word is barely audible but it hits like a sledgehammer.

Wait…

Of fucking course.

It made so much fucking sense…

This is Vegas, where the house always wins and the games are rigged from the start. Where there's always a catch, always a cheat code that turns winners into suckers.

Marnay wouldn't just hand over his prize omega without ensuring we'd lose in the end.

Great.

Fucking great.

The realization crystalizes with perfect clarity: he'd forced her to drink something.

Probably in that elevator ride up, when she'd been alone with him.

A parting gift, he'd probably called it, wrapped in pretty words and veiled threats.

Red, because I wouldn’t dare think of her as Rowenna, refuse to give her that intimacy even in my own mind—starts to crumble. Her eyes roll back, showing white, and her body goes limp like someone cut her strings.

Shiloh lunges forward with a speed that would be impressive if it weren't so desperate. He catches her before she hits the ground, cradling her against his chest like she's made of spun glass. The tenderness in the gesture makes me want to punch something.

Then Talon and Corwin drop to their knees beside them, and my shock multiplies exponentially.

Why the fuck were they reacting?

I didn’t make sense. They just met her. Barely knew her. Just saw her thrust her stuff to all those Alpha fuckers on a stage I’m sure she’s performed on thousands of time to multimillionaires for whatever benefits she got aside from the obvious need to survive.

Three of the most dangerous alphas in the Pacific Northwest, men who've killed without hesitation and built an empire on calculated violence before out mini “retirement”, are kneeling on the floor of a Vegas penthouse.

They're shaking her, calling her name, their hands gentle despite their size.

"Red, come on," Talon's saying, his usual sarcasm replaced with genuine concern. "Open those pretty eyes, sweetheart."

"Her pulse is thready," Corwin reports, two fingers pressed to her throat. Always the medic, even after leaving the field. "Breathing's shallow. Whatever he gave her, it's hitting hard."

I stand frozen, watching this tableau unfold like I'm viewing it through frosted glass.

For a moment—I don't see Red lying there. I see another omega, a long time ago, the reminder of my failures.

Sophia .

She'd been blonde where Red is auburn, delicate where Red projects strength, sweet where Red must be defiant. But lying there with her eyes closed and her skin going pale, she could be Sophia's ghost come back to haunt me.

Come back to remind me what happens when alphas like us think we can have soft things.

My stomach drops through the floor, that familiar cocktail of guilt and rage and grief threatening to choke me.

"Got it," Corwin says suddenly, pulling something from his jacket.

It's a thick pen— no, an auto-injector . Military grade from the looks of it, the kind we'd carried in the field for emergencies.

"Is that an epi-pen?" Shiloh asks, not looking away from Red's face.

"Better," Corwin says, already pressing it against her thigh.

The spring-loaded needle deploys with a soft click, and he holds it steady as the medication slowly enters her system.

"Naloxone cocktail with some other enhancers. Mercury mentioned this when I was gathering intel."

"Mercury knew about this?" My voice comes out sharper than intended.

"He said it's common practice," Corwin explains, still focused on Red. "Owners sell their omegas to the highest bidder, omega takes something to ensure they don't survive the night. Original owner keeps the money, buyer loses everything, omega becomes a cautionary tale."

"That fucking bastard," Talon growls. "We haven't even left the building and he's trying to kill her off."

"We need to leave," Shiloh says, so quietly that surveillance equipment wouldn't catch it. His arms tighten around Red's unconscious form. "Now."

"She's not breathing right," Talon says, shaking her again. "Come on, Red. Don't you dare die on us. Not after that show you put on."

They're acting now, playing up the panic for whoever's watching.

Making it look like the medication isn't working, like we're losing our hundred-million-dollar investment right here on Marnay's premium carpet.

They have to be because this shit can’t be real. That they’re reacting like our lives depend on this…bitch…

And I'm still just standing here, frozen between past and present, between Sophia's ghost and Red's reality.

I'm angry.

No, angry doesn't cover it. I'm furious.

At Marnay for his games. At my pack for falling for this omega's charms. At Shiloh for dragging us into this.

At myself for not stopping this foolishness.

But most of all, I'm furious at her.

This omega who's disrupted everything with her defiance, scent and her ridiculous boxing routine.

Who's made my brothers act like lovesick puppies instead of the predators they are.

Who's lying there dying just like ? —

My eyes lift slowly, mechanically, until I find what I'm looking for. The security camera in the corner, its red light blinking steadily. Recording everything. Marnay's probably watching right now, waiting to see if his poison works, if he gets to keep our money and our humiliation as trophies.

The gun is in my hand before conscious thought catches up.

A Glock 19, reliable and familiar, the weight of it grounding me in the present.

I don't remember drawing it, but muscle memory doesn't require permission.

The first shot destroys the camera in an explosion of plastic and sparks. The sound echoes through the penthouse like thunder, making my brothers jump.

"Rafe, what the fuc—" Talon starts.

I'm already turning, finding the second camera hidden behind a fake plant. The third is in the smoke detector. The fourth is painted to match the ceiling. Each one explodes under my methodical precision, raining debris across Marnay's expensive furniture.

The silence is heavy when I’m done scanning out, knowing no more mechanical eyes are on us, watching our every move like lab rats.

"We need to go," I say when the last camera is nothing but smoking wreckage. "Now."

Shiloh doesn't need to be told twice.

He scoops Red up like she weighs nothing, her body limp in his arms. Her head lolls against his shoulder, and the sight of it— vulnerable, trusting even in unconsciousness —makes something in my chest twist painfully.

Stupid Alpha bullshit.