Page 21 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

But fear of what happens if she does survive.

If she wakes up with those garnet eyes and that defiant spirit.

If she looks at my brothers the way she looked at Shiloh in that penthouse.

If she smells like cherries and rebellion and everything I've trained myself not to want.

"You're thinking too loud," Talon says, dropping into the seat across from me.

"Someone has to think," I respond, not looking away from Red's still form. “Cause none of you are thinking with your brains, clearly.”

"You know, you could try not being a dick about this."

"About what? About Shiloh dragging us into a hundred-million-dollar impulse purchase? Or about you all losing your minds over an omega we know nothing about?"

"About the fact that she might be exactly what this pack needs," Talon says quietly.

"This pack doesn't need an omega. We tried that, remember? It ended with a funeral and a war that cost us everything and forced a rebuild."

"That wasn't our fault."

"Wasn't it?" I finally look at him, let him see the guilt I usually keep locked away. "We pushed too hard. Demanded too much. We broke her, Talon."

"Sophia made her choice."

"Because we didn't give her any other options."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with shared guilt and unspoken truths.

Sophia had been beautiful, sweet, perfect. Everything an omega should be. And we'd destroyed her with our intensity, possessiveness, and inability to be anything other than what we were—dangerous men playing at domesticity.

"This one's different," Talon finally says.

"How? Because she can throw a punch? Because she's got a smart mouth? That doesn't mean she can handle us."

"Maybe it does," Shiloh interjects from where he's standing guard over Red. "Things are different now. Different environment. We’re no longer in a world that buzzes in desperation. She could adapt...and so can we."

"Or maybe," I counter, "it means she'll fight until she breaks, just like Sophia did. Only this time, she'll take us all down with her."

"You felt it," Corwin says quietly. He's checking Red's vitals again, but his hazel eyes find mine. "In the penthouse. You felt what we all felt. She's not just any omega, Rafe."

I want to deny it.

Want to lie and say I felt nothing, that her scent is just pheromones and biology, that the way my chest tightened when she collapsed meant nothing.

But they know me too well for lies.

"It doesn't matter what I felt," I say instead. "Feelings don't change facts. And the fact is, we're not equipped for this. For her."

"Maybe we could be," Shiloh says, and there's something vulnerable in his voice that I haven't heard since before his last deployment. "We could try."

Try.

Like it's that fucking simple.

As though we can just pretend the last two years haven't happened.

Like we can forget Sophia's funeral, forget the war with the Castellano family that followed, forget the promises we made to never let another omega into our lives.

Red makes a small sound, her head turning slightly on the medical chair's headrest. Her lips part, and for a moment I think she might wake up. But she settles again, still lost to whatever chemical cocktail is working through her system.

"She's stabilizing," Corwin reports. "Should be out of danger soon."

Out of mortal danger, maybe. But she's created a whole new kind of danger just by existing in our space.

By making my brothers look at her like she's salvation instead of complication.

The pilot announces our descent, and I feel the pressure change in my ears. Jackknife Ridge sprawls below us—our kingdom, carved out of wilderness and paid for in blood.

The compound comes into view: main house, medical facility, training grounds, everything we need to be self-sufficient.

All hidden perfectly in a way no one can suspect…

Everything we need to keep her prisoner if necessary.

The thought should disturb me. Instead, it feels like strategy. Planning for contingencies.

The moment she wakes up, everything will be tested.

She'll either fit into our pack like she was always meant to be there, or she'll tear us apart from the inside.

There's no middle ground with someone like her.

The jet touches down smooth as silk, and immediately our ground crew is moving. Dr. Voss is waiting with a full medical team—we'd called ahead, explained the situation in vague terms. He doesn't ask questions, just starts barking orders as they transfer Red to a proper gurney.

"Poisoning?" he asks Corwin, who nods and hands over the injectors he used.

"Unknown compound, but similar to the nightshade derivatives. Used these to counter, but she needs full blood work, maybe dialysis if there's organ involvement."

They're wheeling her away, toward the medical building, and my brothers follow like magnetized metal. I should go too. At least pretend to care about our investment.

Instead, I stand on the tarmac, looking up at the sky that's just starting to lighten with dawn.

Six hours ago, we were different people.

Six hours ago, we had rules and boundaries and a carefully maintained balance that kept us functional if not happy.

Now we have an omega who might not survive to see noon.

An omega who's already changed everything just by existing.

I close my eyes, and for a moment I let myself remember Sophia. Really remember her, not just the guilt-twisted version that haunts my nightmares. She'd been laughing the last time I saw her alive, spinning in a sunbeam in our old kitchen, her blonde hair catching the light like spun gold.

"You worry too much, Rafe," she'd said. "Not everything has to be strategy and angles. Sometimes you just have to feel. Live in the moment and not expect the world to come crashing down due to one little error of judgement."

Three days later, she was dead.

Feeling had killed her.

Our feelings, her feelings, the overwhelming tsunami of emotion that comes with true mates finding each other before any of them are ready for it.

I open my eyes to find Shiloh standing in the medical building doorway, watching me.

"You coming?" he asks, and there's challenge in it.

"She's your omega," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "Your mess to clean up."

Something flashes across his face— hurt or disappointment — but he nods and disappears back inside.

Your omega.

Not ours. Not the pack's.

His.

Because that's the lie I need to tell myself.

That she's Shiloh's problem, not mine. That when she wakes up—if she wakes up—I can maintain distance. Can be the cold strategist who doesn't care about garnet eyes and cherry scents and the way she'd looked at Shiloh like he was her whole world compressed into a single person.

I turn away from the medical building, heading for the main house instead.

I need a drink, a shower, and several hours of sleep before I deal with this nuisance.

But even as I walk away, her scent follows me.

Clings to my clothes and skin like an imprinted memory.

Three years we'd kept our lives omega-free, after careful control and measured responses.

All undone by a virgin omega who knows how to box…fuck, it’s so damn laughable.

Our pack has become a mockery at best.

The house is quiet, empty with my brothers at the medical building. I pour myself three fingers of whiskey—the good stuff, the twenty-year-old Pappy that costs more per bottle than most people make in a month. It burns going down, but not enough to wash away the taste of cherries.

I'm on my third glass when my phone buzzes.

Corwin: She's stable. Voss thinks she'll make a full recovery.

I stare at the message for a long moment, waiting to feel relief. Or disappointment. Or anything other than this hollow sensation in my chest.

She's going to live…

Which means we're going to have to deal with what comes next. With an omega in our space, in our lives, in our carefully maintained balance.

I type back: Good. When she wakes up, she's gone.

The response is immediate.

Shiloh: Like hell she is.

Then Talon: Pack vote. You know the rules.

Pack vote. Where majority rules and I'm already outnumbered three to one.

Corwin: Just give her a chance, Rafe. You might be surprised.

A chance.

Like we gave Sophia a chance?

Like that ended well?

I pour another whiskey, this one larger, and knock it back in one burning swallow.

Outside, the sun is fully up now, painting Jackknife Ridge in shades of gold and green. It's beautiful here, isolated, safe.

The perfect place to hide from the world and our own failures.

The perfect place to keep an omega who shouldn't exist in our lives.

My phone buzzes again.

Shiloh: She's asking for you.

I freeze, glass halfway to my lips.

That's not possible.

She's unconscious, has been since the penthouse. She doesn't even know my name, doesn't know anything about me except that I'm the one who shot out the cameras and complained about defective goods.

Another text: Not asking exactly. But she keeps saying "ice." Figured that might mean you.

Ice.

Because of my eyes, probably. Or demeanor. Probably because I'm the only one maintaining any kind of rational response to this insanity.

I shouldn't go.

Should maintain distance, keep boundaries, be the voice of reason when my brothers have clearly lost their minds.

But I'm already walking toward the medical building, drawn by invisible strings I don't want to acknowledge.

She's awake when I arrive, barely . Propped up in the medical bed with IVs still attached, looking pale and fragile and nothing like the warrior who'd boxed in lingerie just hours ago.

Her eyes find mine immediately, those garnet depths with gold flecks that make my chest tight.

"Ice," she whispers, and it's not quite right but close enough.

"Rafe," I correct, staying by the door. "My name is Rafe."

She nods slowly, like the movement hurts.

"The one who doesn't want me here."

It's not a question.

"The one who thinks this is a mistake," I clarify.

She studies me for a moment, and I can see her mind working despite the drugs still in her system. See her cataloging details, analyzing angles, planning strategies. It's familiar. It's what I do.

It's terrifying to witness the feminine version projecting tactics that are similar to you…

Proves there can be compromise…

And I don’t want that.

"Probably is," she finally says. "A mistake, I mean. But here we are."

Here we are.

An omega who shouldn't exist in our lives, looking at me with eyes that see too much.

And me, standing in the doorway like a coward, trying to convince myself that she's just another problem to be solved.

The truth is harder: she's the match that might burn everything down.

And part of me—the part I've kept locked away since Sophia's funeral—wants to let her.

But I can't.

Won't.

Because I know how this story ends. I've lived it before, buried it before, mourned it before.

This omega might survive the poison, might survive the night, might even survive us.

But she won't survive what we are.

What I am.

No one does.

“Thank you,” she whispers quietly, her eyes drooping as if its taking everything for her to keep them open. She loses the battle though, as they finally close and she’s unconscious again, leaving me to feel this odd hollowness while her word of appreciation echoes in my head, again and again.

Like an answer prayer…all because she thanked…me.

I know right there and then, this can’t go on.

This can’t be allowed to thrive…

So when she wakes up fully, when the drugs clear and she realizes what she's gotten herself into, I'll be the one to tell her the truth. That this was all a mistake . That hundred million dollars or not, she needs to go.

The Lucky Ace pack doesn't need an omega.

Sophia died with that dream, was buried with my heart, taking with her any possibility of trying again.

There would be no other.