Page 66 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

UNEXPECTED REUNIONS

~SHILOH~

T he tremor in Red's hand is subtle, but I've been trained to notice the things people try to hide.

The way her fingers shake just slightly as she pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. The micro-expressions flickering across her face—fear, doubt, the kind of bone-deep anxiety that comes from knowing exactly what your enemy is capable of.

Marnay has done his job well, instilling enough fear into these omegas to make them believe he's the absolute elite, the creator and destroyer of their lives. Like some twisted god of a neon-lit underworld who holds all the cards and makes all the rules.

It grinds my gears, makes me want to drive to Nevada right now and show him exactly what kind of violence Special Forces training can produce. But that won't help Red right now.

What she needs isn't more violence, threats, or alpha posturing.

She needs reassurance. Safety. The knowledge that she's not alone in this anymore.

I reach for her slowly, telegraphing my movements so I don't startle her. My hands cradle her cheeks gently, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as I tilt her face up to mine.

"Look at me," I murmur. "Right in my eyes for a moment."

She does, and what I see there makes my chest tight with rage and protectiveness in equal measure.

The fear is rooted deep; weeks of growing confidence and comfort stripped away by one appearance from her former captor.

It's like we've gone backward by ten steps, all our progress erased by the sight of that bastard's Bentley in our driveway.

"Fuck this," I growl, and then I'm kissing her.

Not gentle or careful, but with all the possession and promise I can put into the connection of our mouths.

I hate the expression she's wearing, hate that Marnay can still do this to her after everything we've built together thus far.

My tongue traces the seam of her lips, and she opens for me immediately, a small whimper escaping that could be fear or need or both.

When I finally pull back, we're both breathing hard.

I keep our foreheads pressed together, my hands still framing her face.

"We have every intention of protecting you," I whisper against her lips. "Marnay can try all he wants, but we really aren't the ones he should be threatening."

Because the truth is, we've been playing nice.

Settling into this quiet life in Jackknife Ridge, pretending we're reformed, domesticated.

But underneath that veneer of normalcy, we're still the pack that controlled half of Chicago's underworld.

Still, the men who survived three tours in Afghanistan, who won underground fighting championships, who performed surgery in war zones, who eliminated problems with surgical precision.

We just haven't had a reason to be those men in a while.

But for Red? To keep her safe?

We'll become those monsters again in a heartbeat.

"Give us a chance to prove that," I murmur, searching her eyes. "Trust us to handle this. To handle him."

She nods slowly, and I can see her trying to rebuild her walls, trying to find that strength that kept her untouched for three years in hell.

I press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing in her scent of cherries and honey and home.

"We need to solidify this pack stuff," I tell the others once I pull back. "Play the game that's clearly being played."

Because I have a strong feeling I know where this is stemming from.

The new omega laws have thrown everything into chaos, and men like Marnay are scrambling to maintain their empires.

Having an omega would legitimize his operation, keep the government from shutting him down.

But more than that, having Red specifically— the omega who sold for a hundred million, who captured the attention of every alpha in that auction room —would be the ultimate prize.

The sound of an engine breaks through my thoughts, and we all turn toward the drive.

Another vehicle is approaching, this one a newer model truck, cherry red with chrome details that catch the afternoon sun.

"Formation," I mutter, and we move without thinking.

The pack forms a protective line in front of Red—Rafe and me in front, Talon and Corwin flanking. It's instinctive, the way we move together after years of practice. But the truck doesn't approach with a threat.

“We sure are getting plenty of uninvited guests today,” Corwin mutters.

It pulls up casually, music playing loud enough that we can hear the bass from here.

Then the passenger window rolls down, and a familiar platinum-and-teal head pops out.

"RED!" Poppy squeals with her typical dramatic flair. "Your bestie's here to kidnap you!"

Red's whole body language changes; confusion replaces fear as she blinks at the truck.

"Poppy? What?—"

The driver's door opens, and that's when everything shifts again.

The man who steps out is tall—really tall, maybe six-four or six-five—with the kind of lean muscle that comes from actual use rather than gym sculpting.

Mixed heritage shows in his features: warm brown skin, sharp cheekbones, eyes that are an unusual amber color.

His hair is cut short on the sides with longer curls on top, currently bleached platinum blonde with purple tips that somehow works with his aesthetic.

But it's his scent that hits me like a physical force.

Sweet like taffy, cotton candy, caramel apples—every carnival treat combined into something that screams omega so loudly it's almost overwhelming. And underneath it? Gun oil. Sweat. The lingering traces of violence that don't match the sweetness at all.

Red's eyes go impossibly wide, her hand flying to her mouth.

The man grins, spreading his arms wide in welcome.

"Long time no chat, cherry bomb. Didn't think you'd be all the way here, alive and well."

"MALRIK!" Red shrieks, and then she's running.

Actually running, leaving the safety of our protective formation to launch herself at this stranger. He catches her easily, lifting her off her feet in a spin that has her laughing in a way I've rarely heard—pure, unbridled joy at seeing someone she thought was lost.

Every alpha instinct in my body is screaming.

Another omega—a male omega, which is already rare as hell—is holding our omega. Hugging her. Making her laugh. The possessive growl that builds in my chest is entirely involuntary.

"Malrik!" Red is saying, her hands framing his face like she needs to make sure he's real. "You're alive! They said…well, everyone said you were dead!"

He sets her down but keeps his hands on her shoulders, that easy grin still in place.

"Why wouldn't I be? Though I did go MIA in Nevada for a bit. Had some business to handle."

"They found a body," Red insists, and I can hear tears threatening in her voice. "Same height, same build, your tattoo on the shoulder?—"

"Ah, that." Malrik's grin turns sharper, more dangerous.

"Yeah, that was the asshole who was trying to kill me.

Didn't end too well for him." He chuckles, the sound at odds with the casual admission of murder.

"Funny thing about tattoos, they're not that hard to replicate on a corpse if you know what you're doing. "

The casual way he discusses killing someone and framing his own death should be disturbing.

Instead, I find myself oddly impressed.

This rare male omega has survived things that would break most alphas.

"Okay, let me put you down before that pack of men over there murders me," Malrik says, finally noticing our less-than-friendly expressions.

"Planning on torture first," I say flatly, not even trying to hide the threat. "Then murder."

He laughs—actually laughs at my threat—and sets Red down gently. "Hey, I'm an innocent rare omega breed. I come in peace."

"Innocent my ass," Red giggles, smacking his arm. "You once knocked out three alphas with a bar stool."

"They were being rude," he says with a shrug. "I asked them nicely to stop. Twice."

Poppy honks the horn, leaning out the window. "MALRIK! If we're late for this surprise rodeo, you're a dead omega!"

"It ain't a surprise with your big mouth," he groans, then looks at Red with a questioning expression. "Bad timing to kidnap you?"

Red looks back at us nervously, clearly torn between wanting to go with her friends and not wanting to leave, given what just happened with Marnay. She takes a step toward us, then stops, uncertainty written across her features.

I make the decision for all of us, walking up to close the distance.

"If you want to borrow our omega," I tell Malrik, making sure to emphasize the 'our', "you can. As long as you keep us updated with her location."

"Sure," Malrik agrees easily, pulling out his phone.

"Location tracking every minute, easy. I know how y'all possessive alphas are.

I'll be good." He grins, showing teeth that seem a bit too sharp for an omega.

"Plus, I'm the owner of the new gym that just opened, so you can literally track me down anytime. "

"You own the gym?" Red gasps. "The one Poppy mentioned?"

"Surprise," he says with jazz hands. "Your old instructor decided small-town Montana was more his speed than Vegas. Less chance of accidentally killing someone who deserved it and having to fake my death. Again."

Red turns to us, excitement warring with concern on her face. "Can I... I mean, with everything that just happened..."

"Yeah," I tell her, reaching out to tuck that perpetually wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "We'll clean up here. You go have fun."

"You guys could come too," she offers, but I can tell she's torn. She wants time with her friends but doesn't want us to feel excluded.

"Another time," Rafe says, surprising everyone by speaking up. "This is clearly a reunion. Enjoy it."

The relief on her face is palpable. I pull her in for a soft kiss, trying to convey reassurance and possession in equal measure. When we part, I can't resist giving her ass a quick slap that makes her yelp.