Page 35 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

A WOMAN WHO KEPT HER PROMISE TO HERSELF

~RED~

I stare up into his eyes for a heartbeat—forest green darkened to something almost black with want—before he leans down, claiming my lips like an answer to a sinful prayer I didn't know I'd been whispering.

The kiss starts careful, almost hesitant, like he's afraid I'll break or bolt.

His lips move against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, a sweetness I didn't expect from a man built like a weapon.

But there's something else beneath it—a tremor in the way his hand cups my face, a catch in his breath when I part my lips.

Is he nervous? The thought sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with the heat of the water or the press of his body.

Then his arm shifts from my waist, sliding lower, and suddenly his fingers are there, teasing along my folds beneath the water.

The touch is light, exploratory, but it tears a moan from my throat that he swallows like communion wine.

That small sound seems to break something in him—the kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against mine while his fingers continue their maddening exploration, never quite giving me what I need.

I can't breathe. Don't want to breathe. Want to drown in this moment, in him, in the way he makes me feel like I'm worth worshipping.

My body moves without conscious thought, twisting until I'm plastered against him, every inch of skin that can touch, touching.

The water sloshes violently, but I don't care.

His free hand grips my ass beneath the surface, pulling me impossibly closer, and we're kissing like the world is ending.

Like we're trying to crawl inside each other's skin.

Like three years of pent-up desire has finally found its outlet.

Kiss after kiss, each one deeper than the last. Our groans and moans echo off the bathroom walls, punctuated by the splash of water that's definitely overflowing onto the floor now.

Duke whines from the hallway, probably concerned about all the noise, but neither of us can stop.

Won't stop. This is everything—the heat, the need, the desperate clutch of hands on slippery skin.

He's the one who finally breaks the kiss, both of us panting like we've run marathons. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel him trembling—actually trembling—which does things to my insides I'm not prepared for.

"I don't do slow," he whispers, his voice rough as gravel.

My brain takes a second to process. "Are you referring to sex?"

"Yeah." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, and there's vulnerability there that makes my heart skip. "But...I want to try it out. Even if it may be awkward for us."

The admission is so honest, so unexpected from this controlled soldier, that I can't help the giggle that escapes. "The great Shiloh, admitting he might be awkward at something?"

His expression shifts to something adorably flustered, a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the hot water. "You know what? I'm leaving again."

He huffs and starts to stand, but I whine—actually whine, like Duke when he wants attention—and grab his arm. "No, no, I'm sorry! I'll be good!"

"Too late." But he's not really leaving. Instead, he steps out of the tub with enviable grace, water streaming down his body in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Before I can properly appreciate the view, he's reaching back for me. "Come on. I'm definitely not taking you in the tub."

"What, afraid I'll drown?" I can't help the dark humor that slips out. "That would be one hell of a way to explain to your packmates. 'Sorry boys, I broke the new omega. In the bathtub. With my penis.'"

He groans, but I catch the twitch of his lips fighting a smile. "You're impossible."

"You like it," I counter, still giggling as he easily lifts me from the water like I weigh nothing.

The cool air hits my wet skin, making me shiver, but then he's pulling me against him and kissing me again. This kiss is different—deeper, more possessive, full of promise. His hands map my body as he holds me, learning every curve, and I melt into him completely.

When we finally break apart, he doesn't set me down. Instead, he carries me like I'm precious cargo, navigating out of the bathroom and down the hall to what must be his room. The white satin sheets on the bed gleam in the low light, pristine and perfect and about to be absolutely ruined.

He lays me out carefully, like I'm something fragile and valuable. The cool satin against my damp skin makes me shiver again, but his eyes on me burn hot enough to compensate. He stands at the edge of the bed for a moment, just looking, and I fight the urge to cover myself.

"Christ," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Look at you."

"Looking's free," I manage, trying for bravado despite the way my heart hammers. "Touching costs extra."

He smiles then, slow and predatory. "Good thing I'm rich."

His hands start at my ankles, tracing up my calves with barely-there touches. "These legs that carry you despite everything." Up to my thighs. "Strong, even when they don't work right." His fingers ghost over my hips. "These curves that could make a man forget his own name."

Higher still, skimming my ribs. "Every breath you take is a miracle." His palm settles over my heart. "This, still beating after everything they tried to break in you." His touch moves to my throat, gentle as butterfly wings. "This voice that speaks truth even when it shakes."

Finally, his fingers trace my face. "And this beautiful, stubborn, brilliant mind that kept you whole when lesser people would have shattered."

I'm trembling now, overwhelmed by being seen— really seen —for the first time in my life. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel powerful.

The way he's looking at me—like I'm a feast and he's been starving—makes me feel like a goddess.

But he's not done.

"Turn over," he says softly. "Let me see your back."

I comply, rolling onto my stomach, and feel the bed dip as he kneels beside me. His fingers trace the outline of my tattoo, so gently I barely feel it.

"Tell me about this," he murmurs, his voice carrying genuine curiosity rather than demand.

I take a breath, pressing my face into the pillow for a moment before turning my head to the side so he can hear me.

"I got it about a year ago. After my first overdose on the suppressants.

" My voice comes out muffled, but I know he's listening.

"I woke up in that sketchy clinic Marnay used, barely alive, tubes everywhere.

The doctor—if you could call him that—said I was lucky my organs hadn't shut down completely. "

His fingers pause on my shoulder blade.

"How bad?"

"Bad enough that I saw my mom." I laugh, but it's hollow.

"Not like a dream. Like she was really there, sitting beside my bed, holding my hand.

She looked healthy, the way she did before the cancer.

She told me I was being stupid, that she didn't survive long enough to birth me just for me to die in some Vegas back-alley clinic. "

"Hallucinations from the drugs?"

"Probably. But it felt real. Real enough that when I could finally walk again, I took the emergency cash I'd been saving—eight hundred dollars that was supposed to be for escape—and went to this underground tattoo artist who didn't ask questions about why an omega from the Crimson Roulette wanted permanent ink. "

His fingers resume their tracing, following the outline of the Queen of Hearts that dominates the center of my back.

"Why the Queen of Hearts?"

"Because that's what we were. Queens in a deck that was always stacked against us.

Hearts because we were supposed to be all emotion, all feeling, everything soft and yielding.

" I shift slightly, feeling the pull of the tattoo even now.

"But my queen is different. See how her crown is made of thorns and roses? How her eyes are closed?"

"Is she dead or sleeping?"

"I never decided. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe she's just waiting for the right moment to open them and burn the whole casino down."

He traces the cards that border the queen—spades turned into black dahlias, clubs transformed into crimson poppies, diamonds blooming as white roses.

"The flowers?"

"Each one represents a girl who disappeared.

Diana loved black dahlias—she had this book about the murder, was obsessed with it.

Cynthia grew poppies in a tiny pot she hid under her bed, said they reminded her of home.

And Giselle..." I swallow hard. "She got a white rose from some client once.

Kept it until it died, then kept the dried petals in a jewelry box she'd stolen. "

"And the dice?"

"Twenty-one. All of them add up to twenty-one. Blackjack. The game that destroyed my life when my father bet me as collateral." My voice goes bitter. "But also the game I learned to count, to read, to beat. Because fuck the house odds."

His finger traces one of the dice, decorated with falling rose petals that might be blood drops.

"The petals that are falling?—"

"Could be dying…or bleeding. It could be transforming into something else. I left it ambiguous because that's what we all were—dying and living and becoming something else all at the same time."

"What did Marnay say when he saw it?"

I tense at the memory. "I'd forgotten to cover it during a shift change.

He walked in while I was half-dressed, and just..

. stared. For the longest time. I thought he was going to have me held down while he removed it himself.

Some of the girls said he'd done that before—took a cheese grater to a beta who'd gotten a butterfly tattoo without permission. "

"But he didn't."

"No. He tilted his head, studied it like he was appraising art for auction. Then he said, 'This increases your value. The mystery, the rebellion, the artistic quality. You've made yourself more unique, Red. More mine.'"