Page 27 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

She's wearing my boots. The ones I'd left by the door, size twelve cowboy boots that she's having to shuffle in rather than walk, looking like a child playing dress-up except for the way those silk shorts ride up with each awkward step.

Duke's already racing toward her, and I watch, curious how she'll react. Most omegas are afraid of him—ninety pounds of German Shepherd mix with scars from his own military service visible in his coat. He's trained to kill on command, to protect what's ours with prejudice.

But Red drops to her knees the moment she sees him, her gasp one of pure delight.

"A puppy!"

The joy in her voice is so genuine, so unexpected, that I actually stop mid-swing to watch.

She's cooing at him, that high, sweet voice all omegas seem to have for animals and babies, but there's something different about hers. Something real beneath the performance.

"Hi, baby. Oh, you're beautiful, aren't you? Such a pretty puppy."

Duke approaches cautiously— he's well-trained enough to be suspicious of strangers —but she stays perfectly still, hand offered for inspection.

"It's okay. I'm nice, I promise. I smell weird, I know. Like medicine and new places and probably fear-sweat, but I'm nice. I've never gotten to pet a real dog before. Just the mean ones they used for security, and they weren't for petting."

The casual mention of her captivity makes my jaw clench, but I force myself to stay still, to watch this play out.

Duke sniffs her hand thoroughly, then huffs his approval and starts racing around her in circles, tail wagging hard enough to create a breeze.

Her giggle— fuck, that giggle —is pure sunshine.

The sound of someone who hasn't had much reason to laugh, genuinely finding joy in something simple.

"You want to play? Is that it? Oh, you're just a baby, aren't you?"

Duke takes this as permission and launches himself at her. She squeals— not in fear but delight —as he knocks her backward and starts licking her face with enthusiasm.

"Oh my God, puppy kisses! You're perfect, you know that? The most perfect puppy in the whole world."

She's baby-talking to him now, all dignity abandoned, and when he flips onto his back for belly rubs, she complies immediately.

"Are you a boy or a girl? Not that it matters. You're gorgeous either way. And so friendly! Yes, you are, yes you are!"

The scene is so pure, so unexpectedly innocent from a woman who'd performed in a sex club for three years, that my chest aches watching it.

"I'm keeping you," she declares to Duke, and I’m moving before I grasp it. "You're mine now. We'll be best friends. I'll sneak you treats and let you sleep in my bed and?—"

"Kidnapping my dog is technically illegal."

She looks up at me, and the impact of those garnet eyes has my heart skipping like I’m doing Double Dutch drills like in my teen years, hoping to impress all the older girls. Even from here, I can see the gold flecks in the depths of those stunning eyes, the way they catch light like treasure.

"And Duke's picky about who he likes," I add, trying for casual and probably failing.

She pouts—actually pouts, lower lip pushed out in a way that makes me want to bite it—then grins and leans down to whisper to Duke:

"Let me have him. He likes me better."

Duke wags his tail in agreement, the traitor , and I can't help but laugh. When was the last time I laughed? Really laughed, not the dark chuckle that comes from gallows humor, but actual, genuine laughter?

She giggles too, the sound mixing with mine in the clearing, and suddenly I'm crouching in front of her before I make the conscious decision to move.

My hand comes up slowly—never startle an omega who's been in captivity—and settles against her cheek. Her skin is soft, warm, alive under my palm.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, little cherry."

The words come out softer than intended, barely above a whisper. But I can't help it. She'd been so still for so long, her body fighting off Marnay's poison while we watched helplessly. There'd been a moment—just one, but it had lasted forever—when Dr. Voss hadn't been sure she'd make it.

The memory of that possibility, of losing her before we'd even had her, makes me look at her now like the miracle she is.

She must see something in my expression because she leans in, pressing her lips to mine in the gentlest kiss.

Barely there, more breath than contact, but it rewires my entire nervous system.

"Don't look so sad," she whispers against my mouth. "It doesn't suit you."

We stay frozen for a moment, her eyes searching mine, finding something that makes her expression soften further.

I nod, slow and careful, then lean in until my forehead rests against hers.

"Just stay like this. Just for a moment."

The words crack something open in my chest. Because this—her warmth, her scent, her impossible existence in my life—feels too good to be real. And I've learned that things that feel too good usually are.

We breathe together, shared air in shared space, while Duke settles against our sides like he's standing guard. The forest whispers around us, and for this moment, everything else fades.

But reality always intrudes.

She pulls back slightly, enough to look at me properly.

"Are you okay?" Her voice is gentle, concerned. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The question is so earnest, so genuinely caring from someone who has every reason to be selfish right now, that it catches me off guard.

I think about telling her. About Sophia, our failures, explain why Rafe looks at her like she's a death sentence walking.

About the promise we'd made to never have an omega again…to never risk that kind of destruction.

But that's not my story alone to tell.

"I'd rather learn everything about you," I say instead.

She giggles—that sunshine sound again—and tilts her head.

"Are you trying to be romantic?"

"If I were, I'd fail," I admit with brutal honesty. "I suck at that shit. You'd have better luck with Talon or Corwin. They have actual romantic charm with omegas."

"And you have...?" She trails off, eyebrow arched in challenge. "Chemistry in the form of sex?" She says it like a question, but her smirk suggests she already knows the answer.

I grin, not even trying to deny it.

"Well...yeah. I can't bullshit that."

She laughs, full and bright.

"Wow. At least you're honest." She winks, the gesture somehow both innocent and knowing. "Good thing I don't have any experience in that department to compare to."

The reminder of her virginity hits like a shot of adrenaline straight to my cock. Twenty-four years old, untouched, and looking at me like I'm something worth wanting.

The idea of being her first…fuck.

"Well," I say, voice rougher than intended, "guess we gotta court you faster so we can dip our toes into that, huh?"

She blinks, tilting her head like a confused puppy.

"Court?"

Before I can explain— court, as in date, as in prove we're worth your time before we claim you in every way possible —thunder booms overhead.

We both jump.

Duke barks at the sky like it personally offended him, racing around us in agitated circles.

Uh oh…

We'd been so focused on each other, we hadn't noticed the storm rolling in.

Dark clouds have swallowed the sun, turning the clearing into something from a gothic novel.

Red looks up, then at me, understanding dawning in those whiskey eyes.

"So how long until it pours like madness?"

I'm already standing, pulling her up with me, but the moment I see the sky, I know we're fucked.

She must see it in my expression because she starts to say, "Oh, we're fuc?—"

The rain cuts her off.

Not a gradual buildup, not a warning drizzle. The sky opens like someone turned on a fire hose, instant and complete saturation.

Red squeals, but it's not distress. She's laughing, head thrown back, letting the rain plaster her hair to her face.

"Come on!" I shout over the downpour. "Back to the house!"

But she's not moving toward shelter.

Instead, she's spinning, arms out, face turned up to the sky like she's never felt rain before.

"I can't run for shit in these boots!" she yells back, still laughing.

The silk pajamas are already soaked through, clinging to her like a second skin. The red fabric has gone dark, almost black, and completely transparent. I can see everything—the curve of her breasts, the peak of her nipples hard from cold, the indent of her navel, the shadow between her thighs.

But it's her face that stops me from dragging her inside.

Pure, unbridled joy.

She's jumping in puddles that are already forming, splashing mud on those expensive pajamas without a care. Duke's joining in, barking and leaping, both of them playing like children who've never learned that rain is supposed to be an inconvenience.

The memory hits without warning: Sophia, caught in a similar storm our first week together.

She'd cried, upset about her ruined dress, her makeup streaming down her face. We'd rushed her inside, apologizing for not checking the weather, promising to buy her new clothes, new everything.

She'd locked herself in the bathroom for an hour, emerging perfectly put together again but somehow smaller, like the rain had washed away part of her.

But Red...

Red's dancing.

Actually dancing in the rain like every cliché love story, except she's not doing it for me or anyone else. She's doing it because she wants to, because three years in a desert casino has left her starved for weather that isn't controlled and processed.

This is a moment that accentuates her freedom…

Her hair is plastered to her head, copper gone dark with water, strands clinging to her cheeks and neck. The silk shorts have ridden up, showing the curve of her ass, the long lines of her legs. Water runs down her skin in rivulets I want to trace with my tongue.

She catches Duke's paws, dancing with him like he's her partner, both of them slipping in the mud but not caring.

When she falls—because of course she does in those ridiculous boots—she doesn't get upset.

She just laughs harder, making mud angels like a child, like someone who's never been allowed to get dirty.

"This is amazing!" she shouts to the sky, to me, to no one. "I haven't felt rain in three years! Real rain!"

Duke licks her face, and she hugs him, not caring that he's muddy and soaked. They roll in the puddles together, and her laughter echoes through the clearing, bright and clear despite the storm.

I stand there, rain streaming down my own body, and watch this impossible woman turn a storm into celebration.

My chest feels too tight, too full of something I'm not ready to name. But looking at her—muddy, soaked, silk pajamas probably ruined beyond repair, happier than I've seen anyone in years—I think I understand what love at first sight means.

Not the first sight of her on stage, performing for alphas who didn't deserve to breathe her air.

Not even the first sight in that storage closet, though that had been close.

But this.

This first sight of who she really is when no one's watching, when she's not performing or surviving or fighting.

Just Red, playing in the rain with my dog, finding joy in something as simple as the weather.

She stands, slipping twice before finding her footing, and grins at me through the curtain of rain. Mud streaks her face, her clothes are destroyed, and she's never been more beautiful.

"You're just standing there!" she accuses, laughing. "Come play!"

Play.

When was the last time someone asked me to play? Not spar, not train, not strategize. Just...play.

Before I can respond, she's throwing mud at me. Her aim is terrible—it hits my chest instead of my face—but the gesture is so unexpected, so purely playful, that I find myself laughing again.

"Oh, you're going to regret that, little cherry."

"Promises, promises!" she taunts, already running—or trying to in those boots.

I let her get a head start, then give chase.

She shrieks when I catch her, spinning her around in the rain while Duke barks and jumps around us. She's laughing so hard she can barely breathe, clinging to me not out of fear but joy.

When I set her down, she immediately slips again, taking me with her this time.

We land in a puddle, her on top of me, both of us now thoroughly covered in mud.

She props herself up on my chest, looking down at me with those gold-flecked eyes, rain still pouring over us both.

"Thank you," she says, and I'm not sure what she's thanking me for.

For catching, chasing, buying, or saving her.

Maybe all of it.

Or none of it.

Maybe just for this pure, heartfelt moment, where she gets to be young, free, and silly in a way she probably hasn't been since childhood.

I reach up, pushing wet strands of hair from her face. She's so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her. Not perfect beauty—her makeup is gone, her hair is a mess, she's covered in mud—but real beauty.

The kind that comes from someone who's survived hell and still knows how to laugh.

"We should go in," I say, but make no move to get up.

"Probably," she agrees, also not moving.

We stay there, her weight comfortable on my chest, rain still falling but gentler now.

Duke comes over to investigate, licking both our faces, making her giggle again.

This is what we could have.

This is what life with Red could be—unexpected, messy, full of laughter and spontaneous rain dances. So different from the controlled perfection Sophia had tried to maintain, the rigid standards she'd held herself to until the pressure cracked her apart.

If Rafe could see this...

If he could see her like this, muddy and laughing and so vibrantly alive...

Would Rafe change his mind?