Page 6 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

BLOOD AND ROSES

~RED~

T he gym's changing room smelled like industrial disinfectant trying to mask years of sweat and desperation.

I peeled off my sweater, the fabric catching on the dried sweat from my fever, and reached for my sports bra.

"When did you get that?"

Briar's voice made me pause mid-motion.

I glanced over my shoulder, catching her reflection in the cracked mirror. She was staring at my back, at the artwork that covered most of it from shoulder blades to the small of my spine.

"About a year ago," I said, turning to give her a better view.

The tattoo was my one act of rebellion, my single claim to autonomy in this place.

A Queen of Hearts dominated the center, but not the traditional playing card version.

This queen was fierce, her crown made of thorns and roses, her eyes closed in either death or ecstasy—I'd never decided which.

Around her, the other cards in the deck formed a border, but they'd been reimagined as flowers.

Spades became black dahlias, clubs transformed into crimson poppies, diamonds bloomed as white roses.

And scattered throughout, like they'd been thrown by a careless gambler, were dice.

Each die showed a different combination, but if you added them all up, they equaled twenty-one.

Blackjack.

The game that had destroyed my life.

The dice were decorated with rose petals, some falling, some still attached, as if the flowers were decomposing even as they bloomed. Blood drops or dewdrops— again, I'd left it ambiguous —clung to some of the petals.

"It's beautiful," Briar said softly. "And fucking tragic."

The perfect compliment someone could give.

I have to stop myself from smiling like some manic, but a smirk can’t help but tug at the corners of my lips.

"I got it after the overdose." My fingers traced the edge of my shoulder blade where the tattoo began.

"When I woke up in that sketchy clinic, barely alive, I realized I needed something.

Some proof that I was still me, that those bloody drugs hadn't taken everything.

So I took the emergency cash I'd been saving and went to this underground artist who didn't ask questions. "

"I'm surprised Marnay allowed it."

I laughed, but there was no humor in it.

"He saw it the next day. I was changing for a shift, forgot to keep my back covered. He just stood there, staring at it for the longest time. Then he tilted his head, gave me this look. You know the one, like he's calculating your value down to the penny, and walked away. Never said a word."

Briar's eyebrows rose.

"No punishment?"

"None. But here's the fucked up part. Another omega, Giselle, tried to do the same thing a month later.

Small butterfly on her shoulder." I pulled on my sports bra, the elastic snapping against my skin.

"Marnay had her held down while he removed it with a cheese grater.

Peeled her skin off in strips while she screamed.

Then sold her to some Saudi princes for their 'collection. '"

"Jesus."

"She didn't last long. Word was they got bored with damaged goods." I grabbed my workout shorts, needing to move, to not think about Giselle's screams echoing through the dormitory halls. "The message was clear though. I was special enough to mark myself. No one else was."

"Your scent," Briar said, understanding immediately. "He needs you unique, mysterious. The tattoo adds to your mystique."

"His branded queen," I said bitterly, pulling my hair into a tight ponytail. "So what's your workout plan?"

Briar was already stripping, and I had to force myself not to stare at her body.

Not at the curves I remembered, but at the damage I could already glimpse.

"Treadmill, weights. You?"

"Boxing. I haven't kept up with my training, and I don't want to get rusty.

" I grabbed my hand wraps from my bag, the fabric worn soft from use.

"Speed's the only advantage I've got. An alpha twice my size could destroy me in seconds, but if I'm fast enough, maybe I can get one good hit in before they do. "

The truth was more complicated than that. I'd had a trainer once, someone who'd understood that omega self-defense wasn't about winning—it was about creating enough chaos to escape.

Malrik. That had been his name, though he'd gone by Mal at the gym.

A male omega, rarer than diamonds in Vegas, though somehow fitting for Sin City.

He'd shown up at the omega-only gym about eighteen months ago, all lean muscle and fluid grace, navy blue hair that looked black until the light hit it just right.

He'd noticed me fumbling with the heavy bag, throwing wild punches that would've broken my wrists in a real fight.

"You're telegraphing," he'd said, not unkindly. "Every punch, you're announcing it three seconds before you throw it."

That had started it.

Informal lessons whenever we were both there. He'd taught me to read body language, to use my size as an advantage, to go for soft targets—eyes, throat, groin. Dirty fighting, he'd called it with a grin that never quite reached his eyes.

He knew about The Crimson Roulette. Never asked directly, but he knew.

The way he'd carefully avoid touching me until I initiated contact.

He'd teach me escape moves rather than confrontation. Sometimes, he’d look at my wrists, at the roulette wheel tattoo there, with such understanding it made my chest ache.

Then high season hit—summer in Vegas, when the tourists flooded in and Marnay worked us sixteen-hour shifts. By the time I made it back to the gym, Malrik was gone. The owner said he'd just stopped coming one day.

No explanation, no goodbye.

I'd told myself he'd gotten out, found freedom somewhere.

But in Vegas, when omegas disappeared, there were usually only two explanations, and freedom wasn't the likely one.

It hurt to think he couldn’t get away…

"Go ahead and get started," Briar said, pulling me from my memories. "I know you like to take your time with training. No rush today—we can hit the mall after, do something normal for once."

"Thanks." I managed a smile, genuine despite everything. The idea of walking through a mall like a real person, window shopping without guards, pretending for just a few hours that we were free—it was a gift I hadn't expected.

I moved toward the door, then made the mistake of looking back.

Briar had her back to me, pulling off her shirt, and I saw everything.

Bruises in every stage of healing painted her skin like a sick watercolor—fresh purple-black layered over green-yellow, over brown-grey.

Scars, some old and white, others still pink and angry.

Bite marks that hadn't been there two years ago, deep enough to have required stitches that she'd clearly never gotten.

Cigarette burns in a pattern that looked deliberate, artistic even, like someone had used her skin as an ashtray while making a point.

And from last night—fresh welts, handprints, the distinctive bruising that came from being held down by multiple people at once.

I wanted to say something. To apologize, to scream, to cry. But what right did I have?

Every mark on her body was there because of me. Because she'd sacrificed herself to protect my innocence. The reality that she'd come back to this hell for reasons I still didn't understand, and then thrown herself to the wolves to keep them from tearing me apart.

She caught my reflection in the mirror, our eyes meeting for just a moment.

The look she gave me was fierce, protective, and absolutely forbidden me from commenting.

So I left without a word, my throat tight with unsaid things.

The omega-only section of the gym was my sanctuary.

The owner, a beta woman named Stella who'd lost her own sister to trafficking, enforced the separation with military precision.

Alphas stayed on their side, omegas on ours, and the two-foot-thick reinforced wall between us was both soundproof and scent-proof.

It had to be—omega pheromones during workouts could drive alphas into rut, and nobody wanted that lawsuit.

The familiar smell of chalk and rubber greeted me as I entered the boxing area.

Three heavy bags hung from reinforced chains, a speed bag in the corner, and a small ring that rarely got used.

Most omegas didn't come here to fight. They came to run, to lift light weights, to maintain the bodies that were their only currency.

But I came to remember that I was more than just flesh to be sold.

I started with stretches, feeling every place where the suppressants had made me stiff.

My joints popped like bubble wrap as I worked through the routine Malrik had taught me.

Then running—twenty minutes on the treadmill until sweat soaked through my sports bra and my legs remembered how to move without cramping.

Finally, the bag.

I wrapped my hands carefully, the ritual of it calming my nerves. Cross over, between the fingers, around the wrist. Protection for bones that were never meant to be weapons.

The first punch was tentative, testing. My form was shit after months without practice, but muscle memory kicked in quickly. Jab, cross, hook. Keep your guard up. Don't drop your shoulder. Power comes from the hips, not the arms.

I could hear Malrik’s voice in my head:

"You're not trying to knock them out, Red. You're trying to create distance. One good hit to buy you three seconds to run."

Jab, jab, cross.

The bag swayed, and I moved with it, finding my rhythm. Sweat stung my eyes, salt on my lips mixing with the copper taste of exertion. My muscles burned, but it was good pain.

Clean pain. Pain I chose.

Hook, uppercut, knee.

The combo Malrik had drilled into me until I could do it in my sleep. He'd called it the "omega special"—designed to target someone bending down to grab you. Knee to the face, uppercut to the throat, hook to the temple if you could reach it.