Page 2 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

THE HOUSE ALWAYS WINS

~RED~

T he outfit change took twenty minutes—nineteen more than I had, but Marnay's instructions had been explicit.

The high roller suite required what he called " elevated presentation ," which translated to: make them want what they can't have.

The crimson dress I'd worn for the lineup wouldn't do.

Instead, I'd been handed a new creation—black silk that poured over my body like liquid sin, held together by strategic cutouts that revealed glimpses of skin from hip to collar.

The neckline plunged dangerously low, held in place by a diamond roulette wheel brooch that caught the light with every breath.

They'd even changed my lipstick from Roulette Red to something darker, almost burgundy, like aged wine against pale skin.

"Five minutes," I whispered to my reflection, watching the gold flecks in my garnet eyes catch the vanity lights.

The girl staring back looked expensive, untouchable, exactly what Marnay wanted.

Underneath the silk and diamonds, my heart hammered against my ribs.

The walk to the high roller suite felt longer tonight.

My heels— six inches of patent leather torture —clicked against marble in a rhythm that matched my elevated pulse.

The suppressants were doing their job, keeping my scent muted to that perfect level of intrigue, but I could feel them wearing at my system.

Three years of double doses would do that.

Dr. Kepler had warned about long-term effects, but Marnay didn't care about long-term anything except profit margins.

Typical…

We’re the dolls of this grand masterpiece of his, and it’s only a matter of time where we all wear and tear. One by one, until the new favorite rolls in, ready to take our moment in the spotlight of favouritism.

In the back of my mind, I know my time is ticking here.

To fund my escape is but a mere mirage that stops me from panicking about my approaching decline. Every night, every dose, brings me one step closer…but there’s nothing I can do about this reality.

That’s probably the most painful part.

Having no control in your own story.

I knocked twice, waited for permission, then entered.

The suite scents hit me like a wall of sensation.

Cigar smoke created a blue haze that hung at eye level, mixing with the sharp burn of aged whiskey and something else—cocaine, probably, judging by the crystalline residue on the mirror someone had pushed to the side of the main table.

The ventilation system struggled against the cocktail of alpha pheromones that saturated the air, testosterone, and dominance thick enough to taste.

Two packs faced each other across the blackjack table, the tension between them crackling like electricity before a storm.

On the left, the Reeves pack— old Vegas money, the kind that owned politicians and judges. Three alphas in Italian suits that probably cost more than most people's cars, their scents a mixture of leather, gunpowder, and that particular brand of arrogance that came from never hearing the word 'no.'

On the right, the Castellano pack— new money, tech fortune, desperate to prove they belonged at this table. Four alphas, younger, hungrier, their Armani trying too hard to match the Reeves' effortless elegance.

Their combined scents— metal, ozone, and synthetic musk —made my nose burn.

"Ah, there she is." Marcus Reeves, the pack's lead alpha, didn't look up from his cards. "Red, darling, we're running dry over here."

I moved to the bar, my hands steady despite the weight of fourteen alpha eyes tracking my movement. The dress did its job—I could feel their attention like fingers trailing over silk. My scent, even suppressed, wove through the smoke and spirits, adding its own note to the symphony of excess.

"Macallan 25 for the Reeves pack," I murmured, knowing their preferences by heart. "And Hennessy Paradis for the Castellanos."

"You know us so well, sweetheart." This from Tommy Castellano, the youngest of his pack at maybe twenty-five, with slicked-back hair and a smile that promised nothing good.

He'd been watching me since I entered, his pupils dilated from more than just the cocaine.

"Tell me, do you know what else I like?"

I poured their drinks with practiced precision, my expression pleasantly neutral—the mask I'd perfected over three years.

"I imagine your tastes are quite specific, Mr. Castellano."

"Oh, they are." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his bulk. "I like things that smell like spiced honey. Wild berries. Maybe with a hint of something... woody?"

My hand didn't shake as I set down his glass, though every instinct screamed at me to step back.

He was scent-tracking me, picking apart the notes of my suppressed omega signature like a sommelier with a rare vintage.

"Tommy's got a point," Marcus Reeves finally looked up, his gray eyes—so similar to Marnay's—taking in my new outfit with obvious appreciation. "Our hostess does smell particularly... appetizing tonight. Like mulled wine and cherries jubilee had a baby with Christmas morning."

The other alphas laughed, the sound sharp and predatory. I maintained my position by the bar, hands clasped in front of me, the picture of professional composure while inside, my mind raced through exit strategies that didn't exist.

"Place your bets, gentlemen," the dealer— a beta named Carson who'd learned not to make eye contact with any of us —shuffled the cards with mechanical precision.

"Actually," Tommy said, his grin widening, "let's make this interesting. Forget money—we've all got plenty of that."

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"What did you have in mind?"

Tommy's eyes never left mine.

"Winner gets an hour with the lovely Red. Private party. The alley out back has that nice little alcove, very discreet."

The words hit me like ice water in my veins. The alley. I knew exactly which one he meant—the loading dock area where the cameras mysteriously never worked, where omegas who pushed too hard or not hard enough learned exactly how far Marnay's protection extended.

Which was to say: it didn't.

"That's not—" I started, but Marcus cut me off with a wave of his hand.

"Interesting proposition. But Marnay?—"

"Will be fine with it," Tommy interrupted, pulling out his phone. "I've dropped enough money here tonight to buy a small country. He'll make an exception."

"Then we're agreed?" Marcus looked around the table. "Winner takes all?"

The other alphas nodded, their excitement palpable, scents spiking with arousal and competition.

Someone— one of the younger Reeves, I thought —actually licked his lips.

I stood frozen by the bar, my mind spinning.

Virgin.

The word echoed in my head like a bell tolling.

Twenty-four years old and still untouched, not by choice but by careful design.

My virginity was the only thing I had left that was truly mine, the one piece of myself I'd managed to protect in this velvet hell.

It wasn't about purity or any outdated notion like that.

It was about control.

In a world where my body was constantly appraised, objectified, and commodified, my untouched status was my secret rebellion.

Maybe it was connected to my unusual scent—omegas who remained unmated and untouched past their first heat were rare, and their scents were rumored to be more complex, more intoxicating.

The suppressants had prevented my heats, kept me from that vulnerable state where an omega's body betrayed them completely. But they couldn't suppress everything. My scent still leaked through, different from the other girls who'd been claimed, used, discarded and recycled through the system.

"Deal," Carson's voice cracked slightly as he distributed the cards.

I watch the progression of the game the way you watch a train barreling toward an abandoned car on the tracks— morbidly fascinated, unable to look away, already tallying the number of casualties.

Tommy Castellano, the youngest alpha at the table, plays his hand like he’s trying to physically scare the cards into submission.

He leans hard on every turn, rolling his broad shoulders, tossing his chips with theatrical flicks, and grinning even when he’s obviously losing.

He’s snorting lines between hands now, the sharp snap of his credit card against the mirror a metronome for his erratic betting.

He’s so frenzied he can barely keep his pupils trained on the cards, but for all his bravado, he’s not nearly as clever as he thinks.

Tommy’s tells are glaringly obvious, almost cartoonish: he taps his watch when he’s bluffing, drums the table with two fingers when he’s nervous, and his face—despite the coke, or maybe because of it—contorts in these tiny spasms every time he gets a decent hand.

His pack tries to rein him in, but their leader, Dante, just watches with this resigned amusement, like he knows Tommy is a loaded gun aimed at his own foot but he’s invested too much to intervene now.

Across from them, Marcus Reeves is all stillness and precision, a surgeon cutting through the chaos.

Marcus doesn’t twitch, doesn’t break eye contact, barely blinks.

He lets Tommy’s noise fill the room and then quietly, inexorably, shifts the odds in his own favor.

He folds early when the deck is bad, slow-plays the good hands, and never lets himself get rattled, even when Tommy tries to bait him with insults or sideways threats.

If Tommy is a rabid dog, Marcus is the wolf, watching, waiting, closing in for the kill.

Every now and then, Marcus’s gaze flicks up to me, assessing, calculating how I fit into the night’s equation.

His interest isn’t sexual—it’s predatory, but in a way that says he’s thinking about the long game, not the immediate gratification.

I hate that it feels almost like respect, as much as an Alpha like him can muster for an Omega who isn’t on her back.