Page 24 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

WAKING TO WILDERNESS

~RED~

T he world comes back to me in layers this time, not the harsh drag from unconsciousness but a gentle rise like floating up through warm water.

No beeping machines.

No antiseptic smell.

No white walls that could belong to any medical facility anywhere.

Instead, I smell wood—real wood, cedar and pine with hints of an aroma mix of furniture polish, but more organic.

There's lavender too, subtle, maybe from dried flowers rather than artificial scent.

And underneath it all, something is cooking somewhere, the kind of smell that speaks of kitchens where people actually cooked real meals of love rather than artificial trays just to reheat.

My eyes open to find wooden beams across the ceiling, actual tree beams with the grain still visible, knots and all.

Not the fake wood paneling of cheap motels or the over-processed perfection of high-end hotels.

This is real, solid, the kind of construction that's meant to last generations when maintained with dedication rather than fiscal quarters.

I'm in a different room.

The medical equipment is gone—no IV stand, monitors, or evidence I was ever connected to anything that beeped or measured my tethered consciousness.

The bed I'm in is massive, a four-poster made from the same dark wood as the ceiling beams, with a quilt that looks handmade.

Not factory-perfect but better for it, each square slightly different, telling a story in fabric I don't know how to read.

Slowly, carefully—because my body still feels like it belongs to someone else—I sit up.

The room unfolds around me like a secret.

It's not large, but it doesn't need to be.

Every inch has been considered, crafted, and loved into being.

A dresser that matches the bed sits against one wall, its surface holding a ceramic bowl and pitcher like something from another century.

There's a rocking chair in the corner with a blanket draped over its back, positioned to catch the morning light from the window.

Built-in bookshelves frame the window, filled with actual books—not decorative spines but worn paperbacks and leather-bound volumes that have clearly been read.

The window itself draws me.

Curtains—real fabric, not the plastic-pretending-to-be-fabric of the Crimson Roulette—flutter in a breeze from where the window is cracked open. Just enough to let in air that doesn't taste recycled, processed, and controlled.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and that's when I notice what I'm wearing.

Silk pajamas.

Deep red silk that slides against my skin like water, like sin, like something I have no business wearing.

The shorts barely reach mid-thigh, and the top is held closed by tiny pearl buttons that catch the light.

The craftsmanship is exquisite—French seams, hand-stitched hems, the kind of details that whisper rather than shout about their value.

This is not sleepwear for someone like me.

These pajamas cost more than I made in a month at the casino. Perhaps two months. The kind of thing Marnay would have put us in for special clients, except these don't feel like performance wear. They're comfortable, soft in a way that makes me want to burrow back into bed and never leave.

Are they borrowed? They must be.

Surely belongs to another omega here, someone who belongs to one of the other alphas. Someone who has a closet full of silk pajamas and doesn't think twice about lending them to strays their pack brings home.

The thought makes something ugly twist in my chest.

Jealousy? Insecurity?

The realization that I have no idea what I've walked —been bought —into?

All of the above, probably.

I stand, testing my legs. They hold, though there's still a slight tremor, an uncertainty like my muscles have forgotten their job. But I can walk, and that's what matters.

At least for now…

The bathroom is through a door I hadn't noticed, blending seamlessly into the wood paneling.

It's small but perfect—a clawfoot tub, a pedestal sink with brass fixtures that have developed the kind of patina that can't be faked.

The mirror above the sink is slightly warped with age, making my reflection look like a Renaissance painting, all soft edges and golden light.

I look...different.

Not just the expensive pajamas or the fact that my hair has been washed and braided—someone did that while I was unconscious, and I try not to think too hard about who or why.

But my face has color again, lively color, not the painted-on health of makeup.

My eyes are clear, the gold flecks catching the light in a way they haven't in years.

I look like I've slept. Deep REM sleep, not just passed out from exhaustion or drugs or the bone-deep weariness of surviving another day in hell.

I look alive.

The realization hits harder than it should. Three years of looking in mirrors and seeing a ghost of myself, a hollow version playing a part. And now, in this strange bathroom in this stranger house, I look like the person I might have been if my father hadn't gambled me away.

If my Mom wasn’t a victim of neglect and left to perish because her Alpha never truly loved her…

I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth with a toothbrush that's still in its packaging—someone thought of everything—and try to organize my thoughts.

Facts: The Lucky Ace Pack bought me for a hundred million dollars. Marnay tried to kill me with some sort of poison. They saved me, brought me here—wherever here is. I've been unconscious for an unknown amount of time. And now I'm alone in what appears to be a very expensive, very isolated cabin.

Questions: Everything else…

Where are the alphas? What do they want from me? How long before the other shoe drops and I find out what hundred-million-dollar expectations look like? And the one that keeps circling back that I’m trying not to linger on:

Do I even want to leave?

That last one is the most troubling.

Because the truth is, I should be planning escape routes.

Calculating distances to civilization, memorizing the layout of the house, figuring out what I can steal to finance a run to.

..where? I have my eight thousand dollars, plus the two hundred thousand Marnay inexplicably gave me, which I actually have no clue was brought or not, but if it’s around here, it’s enough to disappear, start over, and become someone who was never property.

But I don't want to run.

Not yet.

Could it be the silk pajamas, the handmade quilt, or the way this place smells inviting even though I've never been here before?

The memory of Shiloh catching me before I hit the ground, of three alphas kneeling around me like I mattered, trickles in my mind, only further emphasizing how important my life felt in that moment.

Or is it truly because I’m curious?

About them…this place…or what kind of men spend a hundred million dollars on a stranger and then put her in silk pajamas and tuck her into a bed that smells like cedar and safety.

I need to explore.

I mean, that’s the only logical thing to do before you determine your fate in the hands of your “new owners”.

The house beyond my room is a revelation.

It's not a cabin—that was too simple a word.

This is something between a lodge and a work of art, all exposed beams and river rock fireplaces and windows that frame the wilderness like paintings.

The logs that make up the walls are massive, old-growth timber that must have been harvested decades ago when such things were still possible.

But it's not rustic in that self-conscious way of rich people playing at roughing it.

This is lived-in luxury, where every piece of furniture has been chosen for both beauty and function. Leather couches that have developed that perfect patina of use. Wool blankets thrown casually over chair backs. Books everywhere—on shelves, on tables, stacked on the floor next to reading chairs.

Reading…people who actually appreciate words woven together to tell beautiful stories lived and imagined.

The idea of being around Alphas who potentially appreciate literature in any form makes her a tad excited. She’s always yearned to be a bookworm, but books cost money, and libraries are no longer accessible as one would wish.

Not for the cozy spicy works she’d loved to enjoy like any other free Omega who got to enjoy the high of Booktok and girlie book clubs.

The kitchen makes me stop and stare.

It's enormous, centered around a range that looks like it could cook for an army.

Copper pots hang from a wrought-iron rack, and herbs grow in pots along the windowsill.

There's a knife block with handles worn smooth from use, cutting boards with the scars of a thousand meals, and a refrigerator that hums with contentment.

This is a kitchen where people cook because they want to, not because they have to.

It leaves me to wonder if I’ll get to cook? It doesn’t frighten her, the idea of being able to cook for the Alphas. I mean, it’s probably expected of her, like a bought Omega slave of sorts, but the idea of cooking for them makes her a tad excited.

Oddly enough.

A shame she doesn’t actually know how to cook, having been unable to even walk in the kitchen when her Dad was present.

She relied on the scraps she could get on the streets, food tossed or discarded.

The rare times her Father pretended her existence mattered was when he was trying to please some new slut and wanted to appear like a “family man.

My stomach reminds me that I haven't eaten in...I actually don't know how long. The last thing I remember eating was crackers before the performance, trying to settle my nerves.

But I'm not ready to help myself to food that isn't mine, in a house that most definitely isn’t mine, wearing pajamas that are most certainly not mine.