Page 65 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

In three months, I've barely given them any sex beyond that first time with Shiloh.

I've been so tired lately, comfortable just sleeping around the house and slowly working on my nest in the spare room.

None of them have pressured me either, which has been a revelation.

It feels like this isn't a race but something romantic, blossoming naturally with each of them at its own pace.

Even Rafe has started eating meals with us, occasionally sitting next to me on the couch during movie nights.

Last week, he actually let me lean against his shoulder while we watched some terrible action movie Talon picked.

"Business has been rather stale as of late with the riots," Marnay says, bringing me back to the present. "But my clientele has been requesting Red. Her act that night caught their eye, and they're begging for an encore."

My stomach drops. No. No, no, no.

"So," he continues with the casual air of someone discussing the weather, "I'd like to buy her back."

I have to clamp both hands over my mouth to stop from gasping. The truck stays silent, Talon and Corwin as frozen as I am.

The one who laughs is, surprisingly, Rafe. It's not his usual cold chuckle but something darker, more dangerous.

"How much are you offering to buy her for? Double?"

"Triple," Marnay announces, and the number hangs in the air like a threat.

Three hundred million dollars. For me.

The real underlying question is why? There has to be another reason.

Or intriguingly enough, another player on the playing field…

"No," Shiloh says flatly, not even pretending to consider it.

"It's not really your say, is it?" Marnay's voice has taken on an edge. "The pack alpha makes these decisions."

Rafe sighs, the sound carrying clearly.

"Do you think we really need money? We're multimillionaires. A billionaire pack, actually, if you're counting properly. Your whole establishment couldn't buy this omega."

His voice takes on a mocking tone that makes my cheeks burn.

"We're getting used to her, you see. Especially having her mouth on our cocks and her small body warming us up at night. Plus, her heat's pretty close, so it's a no. We aren't missing that for your little entertainment scheme."

The casual vulgarity of it should offend me, but I understand the game he's playing.

Making me sound used, claimed, thoroughly owned in ways that matter to alphas like Marnay.

"It would be in your best interest to cooperate," Marnay says, and there's something in his tone that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

"Why?" Rafe's voice is curious now, like a cat playing with a mouse. "Are you going to threaten us?"

The silence stretches, heavy with implication.

When Rafe speaks again, his voice has changed completely. The authority vibrating through it is so cold, so absolutely terrifying, that I feel my omega instincts screaming at me to bare my neck in submission even though he's not talking to me.

"Maybe you've forgotten how we built our empire, Marnay."

Each word is precisely enunciated, falling like hammer blows.

"You think because our roots are in the wild west that we don't have enough force to destroy your little showbiz with the snap of our fingers?"

I can hear footsteps—Rafe moving closer to Marnay, each step deliberate and far too loud.

"Let me remind you of something," he continues, and his voice has dropped to something that's almost a purr but infinitely more dangerous.

"We didn't become the most feared pack in Chicago by playing nice.

We didn't survive the Ferrero war by being civilized.

And we certainly didn't disappear into Jackknife Ridge because we were running scared. "

Another step.

"We came here because the body count was getting inconvenient. Too much paperwork. Too many questions. But make no mistake—retirement hasn't made us soft. It's just made us selective about who deserves our attention."

I can picture him now, probably close enough to Marnay that the casino manager can feel his breath, see the promise of violence in those ice-gray eyes.

"I dare you to touch what's ours," Rafe says softly, almost gently. "See if you live to tell the tale. Actually, I beg you to. I enjoy proving to our enemies that we're still the most threatening pack in America, whether in Chicago, Nevada, or in the little outskirts of Jackknife Ridge."

A pause, then…

"You decide."

The silence that follows is deafening. I'm holding my breath, Talon's hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, and even Corwin has gone completely still.

"Good day, then," Marnay finally says, his voice giving away nothing.

We listen to his footsteps returning to his car, the door closing with an expensive thump, the engine purring to life. Nobody moves until the Bentley has disappeared down the drive, even after we can no longer hear its engine.

"Holy shit," Talon breathes.

"Stay down," Corwin warns me quietly. "Until we're sure he's really gone."

But I barely hear him.

My heart is beating so fast I feel lightheaded, and not from fear.

From the knowledge that Rafe just threatened one of the most dangerous men in Nevada on my behalf. That he called me theirs with such possessive certainty. That this pack would go to war rather than let me go back to that life.

But underneath the warmth of that protection, a cold dread settles in my stomach.

Because I know something they don't.

Marnay didn't get where he is by backing down from threats. He didn't build the Crimson Roulette into Nevada's most exclusive omega entertainment venue by being scared of dangerous men. He's dealt with mob bosses, cartel leaders, and worse.

When he wants something, he finds a way to get it.

And he clearly wants me back.

"Red?" Corwin's voice breaks through my spiraling thoughts. "You can come up now."

I crawl out from behind the seats, my legs shaky. Through the windshield, I can see Rafe and Shiloh still standing where they confronted Marnay, talking in low voices.

"You okay?" Talon asks, turning to look at me with concern.

I nod, then shake my head, then shrug. "I don't know."

"He won't touch you," Corwin says firmly. "We won't let him."

"You don't understand," I whisper, watching Rafe run his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration I've come to recognize. "Marnay doesn't make empty trips. If he came all the way here, if he made that offer, it means he already has a plan."

"We can handle him," Talon says with the confidence of someone who's never dealt with Marnay's particular brand of patient cruelty.

"He has connections everywhere," I continue, dread settling deeper. "Judges, cops, politicians. He owns half of Nevada's underground and has dirt on the other half. He's survived every FBI investigation, every rival who tried to take him down, every change in the political winds."

I meet their eyes, needing them to understand.

It hits me with a sick, metallic aftertaste: Rafe might've just painted a target on every one of our backs, a neon bullseye visible from orbit.

I've seen Marnay lose before, and what he does afterwards is never as simple as sulking and licking his wounds.

He doesn't just get even—he multiplies vendettas, compounds humiliation into a new currency, and spends it gleefully on the utter destruction of whoever crossed him.

Rafe's threat might've scared lesser men, but all it did was light a fuse in Marnay's chest, and now I'm watching the sparks inch closer to the stick of dynamite that is our little found family.

I can picture exactly how it will go: He'll start with the legal system, call in every favor, every dirt-covered hand he keeps in his pocket.

Cops, state troopers, maybe even a judge or two will come snooping around the ranch, poking into our business under the pretense of zoning violations or "endangered species audits.

" If that doesn't work, he'll escalate. Property sabotage, poisoned watering holes, maybe a pack of hired muscle loosed in the night just to "send a message. "

And that's only the opening volley.

He doesn't just have resources; he has patience.

Makes you think you've won, let your guard down just enough, and then, at your lowest, he yanks the ground out from under you. He's done it to so many Omegas before. Briar warned me. The others whispered it in the lounges, between makeup retouches and costume changes.

You don't cross Marnay.

Not unless you want your world on fire.

And now the only people who ever made me feel safe are the ones squarely in his sights.

When I speak, my voice is so flat and brittle it shocks me.

"Rafe might have just painted a target on all our backs. Because Marnay?" I swallow, the old terror mixing with something newer—darker—because now it's not just about me. "Marnay never backs down."