Page 26 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

STORMS AND REVELATIONS

~SHILOH~

T he axe bites into wood with a satisfying crack that reverberates through my arms and into my chest.

Four hours. Or was it five.

I've lost count of how long I've been out here, turning logs into kindling, kindling into an excuse to not be in that house where she's sleeping.

Red.

Even thinking her name makes my nostrils flare, searching for traces of her scent on the passing wind. Cherry and smoke, honey and defiance, all wrapped up in a package that's currently unconscious in our guest room, wearing silk pajamas that cost more than most people's rent.

Another swing. Another crack. Another log split clean down the middle.

Distractions. Anything to keep my body moving and my mind wondering.

This is better than the alternative—sitting vigil at her bedside like some lovesick puppy, watching every rise and fall of her chest, cataloging every small sound she makes in her sleep.

I'd done that for the first twelve hours after Dr. Voss cleared her.

Twelve hours of torture, watching her face shift through dreams I couldn't protect her from, her scent calling to every alpha instinct I'd thought I'd trained out of myself.

The others had finally dragged me away, insisting I needed sleep, food, a shower. They were right, but knowing that didn't make leaving her easier.

So now I'm here, in the clearing behind our house, doing the one thing that's always centered me since I was a kid.

Back when Dad would let me help with the winter wood, when Mom would call us in for dinner smelling like pot roast and apple pie while my sister Emma would steal my share of dessert.

I'd let her because her laugh was worth more than sugar.

That was all before the IEDs and insurgents. Long before Emma's cancer took her at nineteen. Before Mom couldn't look at me without seeing her dead daughter's eyes…and right after Dad started drinking himself to death because his perfect family had shattered like glass.

The memories threaten to drag me under, so I swing harder, faster, letting the physical exertion burn away everything except muscle and motion.

Jackknife Ridge spreads out around me, our hidden kingdom carved from wilderness and paid for in blood— some of it mine, most of it our enemies '.

To the outside world, this is just another dying logging town, population 847 according to the last census. Full of old-timers and their older stories, the kind of place young people flee from and tourists drive through without stopping.

They don't know about the underground bunkers, the training facilities, the carefully cultivated network of people who've found sanctuary here.

Former military, mostly. Some mob, reformed or otherwise.

All of them understanding the value of a place that doesn't exist on any real map, where Google Street View gives up at the town limits, where cell towers are mysteriously always having "technical difficulties. "

This is where we've built our empire, hidden in plain sight.

The pack is scattered across town today, each dealing with the Red situation in their own way.

Corwin's at the clinic, the one he runs under his real medical license—one of the few legitimate things about our operation.

He's probably seeing patients, Mrs. Henderson's diabetes, little Joey's broken arm from falling out of the Millers' apple tree.

Normal, small-town doctor stuff that helps maintain our cover.

But I know him well enough to recognize the pattern—when Corwin's overwhelmed, he retreats into helping others.

It's his way of processing, of feeling useful when everything else feels out of control.

Talon's at the garage, the one that's both a real business and a front for our less legitimate automotive needs.

He's probably elbow-deep in some engine, music blasting loud enough to shake the walls, turning wrenches with the same violence he used to turn bodies into broken things.

The garage is his sanctuary, the way this clearing is mine.

A place where he can destroy and rebuild, where his particular brand of chaos becomes creation.

He's certainly fielding calls from our various operations, maintaining the network that keeps money flowing and enemies guessing.

And Rafe...

Rafe's at the office.

The official one in town, where he plays CEO of Lucky Ace Enterprises, our legitimate holdings company that owns everything from timber rights to tech startups.

He's surely going through a new round of reviewing contracts, analyzing market trends, doing all the boring shit that keeps us rich and legally untouchable. But really, he's hiding.

From Red, from us, from the possibility that we might actually get a second chance at something we fucked up so spectacularly the first time.

Leaving me here, chopping wood like it's my job, trying not to think about the omega sleeping in our guest room.

The omega who smells like everything I never knew I needed.

The sinful, defiant woman who left her panties in a storage closet like a declaration of war.

The sweet performer who kissed me in front of all Vegas's worst alphas like she was claiming me instead of the other way around.

"Fuck," I mutter, setting up another log. "I'm completely gone for her already."

The words echo in the clearing, confession to the trees and the sky and Duke, who's currently sunbathing on a patch of grass, one eye open to watch for threats.

It's more than scent compatibility, though that's strong enough to make me half-feral. Sure, having her as a scent match is driving me wild — and making my cock grow hard whenever I get a whiff of her scent, but I know deep down that’s not what’s driving my senses mad.

It's the defiance.

The way she'd boxed in lingerie not to seduce but to fight.

How she'd slapped me in that closet, then kissed me like the world was ending.

The expression of yearning versus any other Omega who would have found out they sold for a hundred million dollars and surely would have begged for a new lavish life of luxury.

Or maybe even beg for mercy.

Instead, she didn’t even flinch at the implications. She enjoyed making commentary that got me forgetting the world of betrayal and chaos and only focus on how utterly delightful it was to have this taste of fresh air like the Goddess she was.

The wind shifts, and there it is— her scent, carried from the house even though she's inside, windows closed.

It’s as if the Universe itself wants to torment me any way it can.

Diabolical.

"Jesus Christ," I growl, my swing going wide enough that the axe embeds in the chopping block instead of the log. "I can smell her from here. How is that even possible?"

Duke's ear twitches, but he doesn't otherwise respond.

He's used to my talking to myself, to him, to the ghosts that never quite leave special forces operators alone.

I work the axe free, reset, swing again. The rhythm is meditative, necessary.

Without it, I'd be back in that house, probably doing something stupid like crawling into bed with her, wrapping myself around her like I could protect her from everything, including ourselves.

Because that's the real issue, isn't it?

Not whether she's our scent match— she clearly is .

Not whether we want her— we do, desperately.

But whether we can have her without destroying her…

Ruining her with our tainted darkness as we thrive in a sweet, delightful world of sunshine and rainbows…

Sophia's ghost haunts us all, but Rafe carries her like a hanging cross along his neck.

He'd loved her the most, the hardest, with that intensity that makes him brilliant at strategy and terrible at moderation. When she'd died—suicide, the coroner said, though we all knew it was more complicated than that—he'd turned that intensity inward, convinced that loving us had killed her.

Maybe it had.

We'd been different then. Younger, harder, still believing that taking what we wanted was the same as deserving it.

We'd pursued Sophia like a military objective, overwhelmed her with our combined attention, our demands, our needs.

She'd been soft, sweet, everything an omega should be according to conventional wisdom.

And we'd broken her.

But Red...

Red's already broken in all the right ways.

Forged in the fire of three years in hell, she's steel where Sophia was glass. She doesn't just survive; she fights for that survival. Doesn't just endure; she defies. That’s simply based on what we know of her current life at Crimson Roulette. We don’t know what molded her into the fierce woman who’s survived the unmerciful wrath of gambling and chaos.

She had to have some sort of experience in the gambling world to even be at Crimson Roulette’s mercy.

And to still be untouched…

She’s truly the holy grail of Omegas, a pack in our circumstance would dream of, because the reality was packs like us never got second chances.

Getting another golden opportunity to meet an Omega that could light up our flame and leave us in utter chaos.

That didn’t happen in Vegas. It most certainly could never unfold in Jack Ridge.

Yet, that was exactly what was unfolding, piece by piece, and fuck. I simply can’t let her be the one that got away…

Duke suddenly barks, the sharp alert that means someone's approaching. My hand goes automatically to the knife on my belt—old habits—before I catch her scent on the wind and relax.

Speak of the devil, and she appears.

She's standing at the edge of the clearing like something out of a dream. Or maybe a fever dream, because what she's wearing shouldn't be legal.

Deep red silk pajamas that cling to every curve, the shorts barely covering anything, the top held together by tiny pearl buttons that look one deep breath away from giving up. Her hair is loose, messy from sleep, catching the filtered sunlight like copper fire. And on her feet?—

I have to bite back a laugh.