Page 44 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

AFTERNOON TENSION WITH THE HATER

~RED~

T he first thing that registers is the angle of sunlight —wrong, all wrong for morning.

It's coming from the west, golden and heavy in that way that only happens when the day's already half-spent.

My eyes crack open, squinting against the brightness, and search for the clock on the nightstand.

Two-thirty.

Two-thirty in the afternoon.

I bolt upright so fast the room spins, my body moving on three years of muscle memory that says oversleeping means punishment, means Marnay's cane across the backs of my thighs, means no food for twenty-four hours as a reminder that omegas who can't keep schedule don't deserve sustenance.

But then reality settles over me like the quilt I've thrown off—soft, warm, completely different from anything I've known.

There's no schedule here…

No lineup at dawn for inspection. No roster of which alphas need entertaining at which table. No consequences for sleeping past sunrise except maybe missing breakfast.

The thought is so foreign it makes my chest tight.

I can sleep in. I'm allowed to sleep in.

The freedom of it should feel liberating, but instead it just feels... wrong.

Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet. Maybe I'm more Type A than I thought—one of those people who needs structure and organization just to keep the anxiety at bay.

Three years of rigid scheduling has apparently rewired my brain to expect punishment for deviation, and now that there's no punishment coming, I don't know what to do with myself.

My body aches in new places, sweet reminders of the morning's activities. The soreness between my legs has evolved from sharp to pleasant, a constant low throb that makes me remember Shiloh's hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was something precious even while taking me apart.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, toes meeting cool hardwood, and that's when I notice them.

A dress is laid out on the chair by the window, and even from here I can see it's nothing like the performance wear I'm used to.

It's simple—a floral print with red flowers scattered across cream fabric.

But when I stand and walk closer, I realize the flowers aren't the only decoration.

Tiny dice are hidden among the petals, rolled to different numbers, a subtle nod to my past that somehow doesn't feel like a chain.

A sticky note is attached to the hanger, the handwriting neat but not Shiloh's harsh military scrawl:

"Enjoy a nice warm shower and wear this. Breakfast will be ready no matter what time you wake, so relax and get comfy."

The thoughtfulness of it makes my throat tight.

Someone—most likely Shiloh—thought about what I might need when I woke. Planned for it. Cared enough to leave instructions that are suggestions rather than orders.

Next to the dress, folded neatly, is a pair of fuzzy socks that make me laugh out loud.

They're cowboy-themed.

Tiny cowboys on horses lasso hearts across a backdrop of desert sunsets. Little spurs jingle from threads at the ankles. They're ridiculous, adorable, and so perfectly absurd for this situation that I can't help but giggle.

Here I am, living on acres of land in the middle of nowhere with four alphas who've apparently decided to embrace some sort of cowboy aesthetic.

Of all the things they could have been— mob bosses, military contractors, tech moguls —they chose cowboys?

Was it less suspicious? Some sort of inside joke?

Or just what happens when dangerous men need a cover story in the middle of nowhere?

Briar would have a field day with this.

"Cowboys, Cherry Bomb? Really? What's next, you gonna learn to ride horses and call them 'partner'?"

The thought of Briar hits like cold water, sobering my amusement instantly.

Where is she now? Still at the Crimson Roulette, still performing for men who see her as meat, still protecting other girls the way she protected me?

Is she even alive? Marnay doesn't tolerate defiance forever, and Briar's return after her supposed escape had to have consequences I didn't stay to witness.

Once I'm settled here—really settled and secure—I need to ask if there's a way to check on her.

Just to know she's breathing…surviving in there the way she taught me to survive.

God, I wish I could save her.

Wish I had the power or money or influence to walk back into that velvet prison and pull her out the way she'd pulled me through my worst moments. But right now I can barely save myself, barely establish what this new life even means.

The world has changed in three years. Or maybe it hasn't—I never really got to enjoy it before the Crimson Roulette swallowed me whole. Before that was just survival of a different kind, dodging my father's drunken rages and the parade of women he brought home to fill the void my mother left.

The shower helps clear my head, hot water sluicing away the remnants of morning sex and afternoon sleep.

I take my time, using the expensive shampoo that smells like mint and tea tree, the body wash that turns to rich lather between my palms. Every product is high-end, chosen with care, nothing like the industrial soap we got at the casino.

As I wash, I wonder what I'll even do now.

What does a person do when they suddenly have freedom but no purpose?

I've never had real hobbies—no time for them between surviving my father and surviving Marnay. Never had a job that didn't involve showing skin and faking smiles.

What skills do I even have that translate to the real world?

I can count cards, mix drinks, spot tells at poker tables.

I can dance on a pole, apply makeup in the dark, and calculate tips in my head faster than a calculator.

I know seventeen ways to redirect a handsy alpha without causing a scene and exactly how much pressure it takes to make a man's eyes water with a stiletto to the instep.

Somehow I don't think any of that's going on my resume.

The dress fits perfectly, which means someone's been paying attention to my size.

The fabric is soft, breathable cotton that moves when I move. The dice hidden among the flowers feel like a secret, something just for me to know about. The cowboy socks are even more ridiculous on than I imagined, but they're warm and soft and make me smile every time I look down.

I towel-dry my hair, leaving it loose to dry naturally.

No point in the elaborate styles I used to wear—no one here needs me to look like a casino advertisement.

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven't eaten since... when? Time moves differently here, stretched and compressed all at once.

The hallway is quiet, afternoon sun streaming through windows to paint golden rectangles on the hardwood.

I can hear movement downstairs—cabinets opening, the clink of dishes, low masculine voices that don't carry enough for me to make out words.

The domesticity of it is surreal. Four dangerous men just..

. living their lives, making food, existing in space like normal people.

I'm so lost in thought that I don't pay attention to where I'm going.

I turn the corner at the bottom of the stairs, mind elsewhere, and crash directly into what feels like a brick wall.

Except brick walls don't grunt in annoyance.

I blink, stumbling backward, and find myself face-to-chest with Rafe. He's in uniform—dark slacks, pressed shirt, everything perfectly arranged like he's about to give a presentation to investors rather than stand in his own home.

"You should watch where you're going," he says, voice flat and disapproving. "Not blindly turning corners."

The immediate criticism makes my hackles rise.

Three years of keeping my temper in check evaporate in the face of his condescension.

I pout, crossing my arms.

"This is YOUR house. You're supposed to know where everything is."

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose like I'm giving him a migraine.

"Well, you're not a thing I can predict is about to turn the corner."

"You could have heard my footsteps," I counter, chin lifting in defiance.

"I'm not a genie in a bottle."

The nonsensical response makes me blink.

"Genies are the ones who grant wishes, not predict the future, stupid."

His eyes narrow at the insult.

"Don't call me stupid."

"Don't be stupid then."

"You're being childish."

"You're being a dick."

"That's inappropriate language for?—"

"For what? An omega? Your property? Someone you spent a hundred million dollars on?" The words come out sharp, acidic. "News flash, Ice King, I've said worse to worse men than you."

His jaw clenches, that muscle ticking in a way that probably terrifies boardrooms full of executives.

But I've faced down alphas high on cocaine with guns in their waistbands. One pretty boy with control issues doesn't even register on my threat radar.

"You're impossible," he grits out.

"You're insufferable."

"You're—"

We're practically nose to nose now, both breathing hard, fists clenched like we're about to throw down right here in the hallway. The tension crackles between us, electric and hostile and?—

Suddenly I'm airborne.

Large hands grip my waist, lifting me like I weigh nothing, and for a disorienting moment I think Rafe's about to throw me through a window.

But the scent is wrong—amber and ink instead of vibrating with ice and disappointment—and then I'm being set down on what turns out to be the marble island in the kitchen.

Before I can even process what's happening, something is pressed against my lips.

"Bite," Talon's voice commands, amused and authoritative at once.

I bite automatically, and then my entire world shifts.

The flavor explodes across my tongue—cinnamon and nutmeg and brown sugar and something rich and creamy that might be pumpkin but could be sweet potato or maybe even butternut squash. The dough is light, airy, still warm, glazed with something that tastes like maple and heaven had a baby.