Page 3 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

The rest of the table orbits around this escalating tension, the lesser alphas stoking the fire with side bets and snide commentary, the Castellanos growing more desperate as their stack diminishes.

The Reeves pack sits back, confident, drinking slow, not a drop spilled or a word wasted.

I refill glasses, clear ashtrays, keep my steps to the perimeter of the insanity, but every time I bend to collect a glass the table’s attention pins me in place.

I’m being wagered over like a cut of steak, and nobody—not the dealer, not the other service staff, not even the cameras in the corners—will intervene if the winner decides to collect their prize immediately.

I try to keep my expression neutral, but it gets harder as Tommy’s bets get riskier and the Castellanos start arguing in rapid-fire Italian.

They’re sweating, literally, the scent of anxiety bleeding through their colognes until the air tastes like panic and testosterone.

The Reeves pack’s pheromones are a different beast—steadfast, unwavering, a wall of brute confidence that makes me want to either rebel or surrender, nothing in between.

The game builds in intensity, every hand swinging the stakes higher.

Tommy’s hands start to shake when he deals himself a face card; Marcus just smirks, lets him burn out.

The chips pile up, and so does the sense of inevitability, the room itself shrinking around the two men as they circle closer to whatever ugly climax they think will resolve this night.

I tell myself I’m fine, that I’ve survived worse—nights with clients who treat Omegas like rental cars, parties where the only rule is “don’t leave bruises where they show.

” But this is different. This time, I’m the trophy, and the man who wins doesn’t want a night of fun. He wants to prove a point.

The smoke grew thicker as more cigars were lit, the air becoming a toxic soup of alpha dominance and artificial stimulants. Someone had opened a bottle of absinthe, the green fairy adding her own hallucinogenic kiss to the proceedings.

One of the Castellanos was cutting more lines on the mirror, the sharp chemical smell making my eyes water.

"Twenty-one," Tommy slapped his cards down triumphantly. "Beat that, old man."

Marcus smiled, the expression cold as winter moonlight.

"Twenty-one as well. But I believe the house rules state that in a tie, we compare side bets."

He revealed his side cards—a perfect set that put him just over Tommy's total.

The Reeves pack erupted in celebration, back-slapping and howling like they'd won the World Series instead of the right to assault an omega in an alley.

"Fuck!" Tommy slammed his fist on the table, making the glasses jump. "Fine. But I want to watch."

"That can be arranged," Marcus stood, straightening his jacket. "Shall we, Red?"

I opened my mouth— to protest, to scream, to beg —but before the words could form, the suite door opened.

And there was a new target on everyone’s eye.

She walked in like she owned the place, and for a moment, every alpha in the room forgot I existed.

The woman wore a suit-inspired outfit that was anything but professional—a black tuxedo jacket cut to barely cover her breasts, pushed up by a corset that defied physics.

The bottom half was pure fantasy: fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and a tiny skirt that might have been a belt in another life.

A lace mask covered the upper half of her face, but those red lips, painted the exact shade of fresh blood, curved in a smile I'd know anywhere.

Her scent hit the room like a bomb— cherries soaked in brandy, dark chocolate, and something indefinably rebellious .

It was similar to mine but older, more refined, with an edge that spoke of experience these alphas could only dream of.

"Gentlemen," she purred, her voice honey over broken glass. "Mr. Marnay sends his compliments and his apologies. The young omega is needed at the roulette table—apparently, there's been an incident with the Japanese delegation."

Her eyes briefly meet mine, and it’s as if I’ve found my saving grace in the high tides of ruin.

She’s…my escape route.

"But we had a bet—" Tommy started.

"Which is why I'm here." She moved into the room with predatory grace, her hips swaying hypnotically. "Mr. Marnay has authorized a special compensation package for tonight's winners. Code Platinum Sierra."

The mood in the room shifted instantly.

One of the younger Castellanos whispered, "What's Platinum Sierra?"

Tommy's eyes went wide.

"It means anything goes. No limits, no safe words, no rules for one hour. It's the ultimate package—costs fifty grand usually, and there's a waiting list. Two years wait, to be exact."

The woman's smile widened.

"Mr. Marnay values your patronage, Mr. Reeves. He thought you might appreciate a more... experienced vintage." She touched Marcus's chest lightly, her fingers trailing down his tie. "Unless you prefer them greener?"

Marcus grabbed her wrist, not gently.

"You'll do."

She laughed, the sound like wind chimes in a hurricane.

"Red, darling, Mr. Marnay said you have exactly five minutes for a break, then you're needed at table seven. The high-stakes roulette. Don't be late—you know how he gets."

Now it finally clicked in my brain.

I knew that voice.

Even with the sultry affectation, I knew it.

Briar.

Briar Monroe, who'd disappeared two years ago.

Briar, who'd smuggled exit keys and hoped to desperate omegas.

Briar, who'd supposedly found a pack that loved her, freed her, took her away from all this.

Briar, who'd been the closest thing to a mother, sister, and friend I'd had in this forbidden place.

She caught my eye as Marcus pulled her against him, his hands already roaming. The wink she gave me was pure Briar—defiant, protective, and heartbroken all at once.

Her eyes, visible through the mask's cutouts, held a message: Run, Cherry Bomb. Run and don't look back.

"Thank you," I whispered, the words barely audible over the alphas' renewed excitement.

"Clock's ticking, sugar," she said louder, already being pulled toward the suite's private bedroom by eager hands. "Four and a half minutes now."

I moved toward the door on legs that felt like water, my mind struggling to process what I was seeing.

Briar was back.

The woman who'd been our north star, our proof that escape was possible, was back in the cage.

No fucking way…this can’t…really be true.

"Older pussy better be as tight as that young omega," one of the Reeves pack called out crudely. "But then again, I do love an omega with experience. Makes my mommy kink more realistic."

Briar's laugh was pure performance art.

"Oh honey, I'll make you forget all about young meat. Experience means I know exactly what makes an alpha... surrender."

The door closed behind me with a soft click, cutting off the sounds of zippers and anticipation.

In the hallway, the tears I'd been holding finally fell, hot and silent down my cheeks.

My hands shook as I pressed them against the wall, trying to ground myself.

Briar was back.

The woman who'd taught me to palm chips, to read tells, to survive the first brutal months.

The one who'd called me Cherry Bomb and promised that someday, somehow, we'd both be free.

She'd been gone for two years—we'd all believed she'd made it out, found her happily ever after with a pack that saw her as more than entertainment.

But here she was, offering herself up to save me from a horror she knew too well. Using her body as a shield because she knew what losing my virginity like that would do to me—not just physically, but spiritually.

Why…?

Why would she come back to hell…to protect me?

Did this mean there might not be an "out" after all?

I wiped my face with trembling fingers, tasting the salt of my tears mixing with the burgundy lipstick. Three and a half minutes to compose myself, to paint the mask back on, to walk to that roulette table and smile like my world hadn't just imploded.

The compact in my corset felt heavier now, the symbolism around my eight thousand dollars saved in my little savings nest seeming more pathetic than ever. If Briar couldn't make it out, what chance did I have?

She was smarter than me, stronger than me, and she'd had a two-year head start.

But I couldn't think about that now.

The show must go on, as Marnay always said.

The house always wins.

I straightened my spine, fixed my lipstick in the hallway mirror, and walked toward the main floor.

Each step felt like moving through quicksand, but I moved anyway.

Because that's what we did here—we survived one minute, one hour, one day at a time, even when survival felt like its own kind of death.

The main floor hit me with its usual sensory assault—neon lights, electronic beeping, the desperate energy of people trying to beat odds that were never in their favor.

I took my position at table seven, the high-stakes roulette where oil executives and arms dealers played with numbers that could feed small countries.

"Place your bets," the croupier called out, and I smiled that empty smile, my scent weaving through the air like a siren song while upstairs, my best friend paid the price for my continued innocence.

Three years and two months in this velvet prison.

And tonight, I'd learned that the house didn't just always win—it never really let you leave the table at all.