Page 30 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

The word is sharp enough that I flinch, water sloshing. But when I look up, his expression isn't angry. It's... something else…like he's in physical pain.

"You're not a puppet or a toy," he says, voice rough. "You have free will with us."

"But—"

"The only thing I'd ask is that you don't go running off into the wilderness alone. There are bears, wolves, and probably Bigfoot knowing this place. It's dangerous."

I gawk at him, trying to process this. Free will. The concept feels foreign after three years of asking permission to pee.

"What if I wanted to run away?"

The question slips out before I can stop it. His response surprises me—he smirks, actually smirks, like the idea amuses him.

"Then you'd tell me first, right? Let me in on the secret?" He winks, and my stomach does something complicated. "I wouldn't tell the others. As long as I knew you were safe."

My eyes soften, and I can feel something in my chest unraveling. This man, this alpha who bought me for a hundred million dollars, is saying he'd let me go if I wanted. Would help me, even.

"You'd really do that?"

"I'd rather you stayed," he admits, and there's vulnerability in it that makes my breath catch. "But I'm not going to cage you. That's not... that's not who we are. Who I am."

We stare at each other, something heavy and important passing between us.

The bathroom feels smaller suddenly, more intimate, like the steam has created a private world just for us.

"You should shower," I say finally, voice softer than intended. "You're going to catch a cold standing there in wet clothes."

He shrugs, the motion making his still-damp shirt cling to muscles I'm trying very hard not to think about.

"I'm a man. I don't get sick from a little rain?—"

The sneeze cuts him off mid-sentence, loud and sudden enough that we both freeze. Then I'm grinning, I can't help it, the timing too perfect.

"You were saying?"

"That doesn't count."

"It absolutely counts."

"It was dust. Duke's fur. Anything but—" Another sneeze, this one followed by a sniffle he tries to hide.

I look him up and down, taking in the muddy jeans, the shirt that's still damp despite being inside for at least an hour, the way his hair is curling at the edges from the moisture.

"You need a shower," I declare.

"I can't leave."

"Why not?"

"Your legs might stop working again." He says it so matter-of-factly, like it's obvious. "You could drown. I'm not leaving you alone in water when there's a chance you could have an episode."

My heart does something stupid in my chest. He's worried about me. Actually, genuinely worried about my safety, not my value or my performance ability or my fuck-ability, but my actual wellbeing.

When was the last time someone worried about me like that?

Mom. It was Mom.

I think about it for a moment, weighing options, consequences, the wisdom of what I'm about to suggest.

Three years of keeping men at arm's length, of never being alone with an alpha without cameras or witnesses, of protecting myself by never giving anyone the opportunity to take what I wouldn't give.

But Shiloh's already had opportunities.

In the storage closet, in the penthouse, in the clearing. He's bigger, stronger, could take whatever he wanted, and I'd have no chance of stopping him.

But he hasn't.

He's carried me when I couldn't walk. Caught me when I fell. Brought me nail polish options even if he can't tell them apart.

He's standing there worrying about me drowning in a bathtub, and somehow that's the thing that makes my decision.

"Okay, cowboy," I whisper, and my voice comes out huskier than intended.

The bubbles provide coverage, but they're starting to dissipate, leaving more skin visible beneath the water's surface. I can see his eyes track the movement, see his pupils dilate slightly, see him swallow hard.

"Why don't you join me then?"

like a sniper tracking a target. The way he finds excuses to be back in the guest room, watching her rest, dream, or do anything really, if that was his newfound mission.

Pathetic…

I sink into my desk chair, the leather still warm from my body heat, and pull up our security system out of habit more than necessity. It's something I do throughout the day—checking locations, monitoring perimeters, ensuring everyone is where they should be.

Talon's dot blinks steadily at the garage, probably covered in motor oil and listening to music that would make most people's ears bleed. His heart rate's elevated but steady—working, not fighting.

Corwin's at the clinic, has been since seven this morning. Mrs. Henderson had an appointment, I remember. Diabetes check. Then the Morrison kid's vaccinations. Normal, small-town doctor things that help maintain our cover of being productive members of society.

Shiloh's dot shows him in the forest behind the house, Duke's tracker right beside him. Same spot he's been for the last two hours, probably turning our entire winter's wood supply into kindling because he can't figure out how to process having an omega in our space.

But wait.

There's another dot.

Smaller, newer, blinking purple instead of the green we use for pack. When the fuck did we assign?—

Oh.

The medical bracelet.

Corwin had insisted said we needed to monitor her in case of complications from the poisoning.

But really, we all knew it was because none of us trusted her not to run.

Why would she stay? We're strangers who bought her like property.

The fact that we haven't touched her, haven't demanded anything, probably just makes us more suspicious in her mind.

Then again, she’s been mostly unconscious. The moment she’s awake long enough to be around us for a few ticking seconds, that can change.

The purple dot is moving toward Shiloh's position, slow and unsteady like she's having trouble with the terrain.

Thunder booms overhead, loud enough to rattle the windows, and I look up from the screen to see the clouds have darkened to almost black. The first fat drops of rain splatter against the glass, precursor to the deluge that's coming.

"Shit," I mutter, pulling up the camera feeds.

We have them scattered throughout the property—security, we tell ourselves, though really it's paranoia born from too many enemies and too much to lose. The one in the clearing behind the house gives me a perfect view of what's about to be a disaster.

Shiloh's there, shirtless because of course he fucking is, axe in hand like some romance novel lumberjack. Duke's lounging in a patch of sun that's about to disappear. And approaching from the tree line?—

Jesus Christ.

She's wearing silk pajamas— red, because apparently, she's committed to the theme —that leave absolutely nothing to imagination. I’m certain one of the others probably slipped her into those, as to who, I have no fucking clue.

The shorts barely cover her ass, the top held together by tiny pearl buttons that look like they're hanging on for dear life.

Her hair is loose, catching what's left of the light like spun copper.

And on her feet, she's wearing Shiloh's cowboy boots, shuffling more than walking because they're comically oversized.

She looks ridiculous.

She looks perfect.

She looks like trouble I don't need on my overflowing plate.

The rain starts in earnest just as she reaches Shiloh, and I smirk, already knowing what's coming.

This is going to be exactly like?—

Wait.

She's not running for cover. She's not shrieking in dismay about her ruined outfit.

She's...laughing?

I lean forward, certain the camera must be malfunctioning. But no—she's actually laughing, head thrown back, arms spread wide like she's trying to catch every drop.

The memory hits like a sucker punch: Sophia, our first week together, caught in a similar storm.

She'd been wearing a sundress, white with little flowers, her blonde hair in perfect curls that the rain destroyed in seconds.

She'd cried—actually cried—about her ruined appearance, running for the house like the rain was acid.

We'd spent an hour apologizing, promising to check weather reports, buying her new clothes to replace the ones that weren't even really damaged. She'd locked herself in the bathroom, emerging eventually with perfect makeup and a smile that never quite reached her eyes.

She'd hated the unexpected. Hated anything that messed with her carefully constructed perfection.

But Red...

Red's dancing.

Actually fucking dancing in the rain like she's never felt it before. Which, I realize with a jolt, she probably hasn't. Not in three years locked in that desert casino where even the air was controlled and processed.

The silk pajamas are already soaked through, clinging to every curve, completely transparent.

I can see everything—the full swell of her breasts, nipples hard from cold, the indent of her waist, the curve of her hips.

Water runs down her skin in rivulets that make my mouth go dry despite the whisky.

Duke's joined her now, barking and jumping, and she's playing with him like a child. They're both splashing in puddles that are forming rapidly, mud already streaking her legs.

And Shiloh...

I've known Shiloh for five years. I've seen him in combat, confined in a bed, in every emotional state from rage to grief. But I've never seen him like this.

He's watching her with an expression I can only describe as wonder. Like he's seeing something impossible, something that shouldn't exist but does. When she grabs Duke's paws to dance with him, Shiloh actually laughs.

Not his usual dark chuckle that means someone's about to get hurt. Real, genuine laughter that transforms his entire face.

She falls—of course she does in those ridiculous boots—landing flat on her ass in a puddle.

But instead of getting upset, she laughs harder, making fucking mud angels like a five-year-old.

"This is amazing!" she shouts, loud enough for the camera's audio to pick up. "I haven't felt rain in three years! Real rain!"