Page 8 of Roulette Rodeo (Jackknife Ridge Ranch #1)

ALL IN FOR THE UNEXPECTED

~SHILOH~

T he omega side of the gym was off-limits, but I'd been in enough restricted zones to know that rules were just suggestions when intel was on the line.

I moved down the hallway with practiced silence, each footstep calculated to avoid the creaky floorboards I'd mapped during reconnaissance two days ago.

My target wasn't in the omega section—they were on the other side of the reinforced wall, visible through the observation windows that the gym pretended didn't exist.

Luca Ferrero and his pack of degenerates were here, in the heart of Nevada, and that made them my business.

Our business, technically.

The Lucky Ace Pack hadn't come to Vegas for the slots and showgirls. We'd come because Luca's mob family was encroaching on our legitimate operations up north, trying to muscle in on businesses we'd spent years building clean.

But this went deeper than territory disputes.

Rafe and Luca used to be brothers in everything but blood.

Growing up in the same neighborhood, running the same crews, sharing everything from clothes to secrets to dreams of empire.

On the surface, you wouldn’t know with their families owning massive ranches that helped build the foundation of their small towns that grew and expanded thanks to their family lines, but those who knew what was hidden beneath the green pastures and horses, knew those boys were destined for greatness, especially together.

Most would have sworn they'd rule together forever just like their families and generations before them.

Then came the omega.

Sophia.

Even her name was a wound Rafe wouldn't let heal.

She'd been a rare jewel in their world of sharp edges and broken glass—innocent, untouched, with a scent like spring rain and possibilities.

Both alphas had wanted her. Neither would yield.

And in their dick-measuring contest disguised as courtship, they'd pushed too hard, demanded too much.

She'd died.

Overdose, the official report said.

Suicide , those who'd known her whispered.

Murder, Rafe believed in his darkest moments.

The friendship had died with her, replaced by a feud that had cost lives, territory, and any chance of peace.

Rafe had walked away from that life, tried to build something clean with us. But Luca couldn't let it go. Wouldn't let him move on when he was still suffering.

Which is why I was here, playing guardian angel with a sniper's patience.

I checked my reflection in the dark window—habit from years of ops where appearance mattered as much as ammunition.

At six-foot-four, I was built for intimidation rather than infiltration, but I'd learned to use both.

My sandy brown hair was pulled back tight, military regulation even though I'd been discharged for two years.

Forest green eyes that a therapist once called "hypervigilant" tracked every movement, every exit, every potential threat.

The Arizona sun had left its mark during last month's training in the Grand Canyon—because apparently, my idea of "fun" was rappelling down cliff faces and running tactical drills in 120-degree heat.

My skin had that permanent tan that spoke of too many hours under unforgiving skies.

The black athletic gear I wore was top-tier tactical disguised as civilian — moisture-wicking fabric that could stop a knife, if necessary.

But even the expensive material strained against biceps that had been built for carrying wounded brothers across battlefields.

The cargo pants were pure habit.

Once special forces, always prepared for war, even if that war was now fought in boardrooms and back alleys instead of desert compounds.

I positioned myself at the corner where I could observe without being seen.

Luca's pack was laughing about something, probably planning which business they'd hit next, which of our people they'd try to turn.

This was supposed to be reconnaissance, maybe a subtle warning if the opportunity arose.

Public space, too many witnesses for them to try anything serious.

All the cards on the table, but the house rules keeping everyone civil.

Then the scent hit me.

It was like taking a sniper round to the chest—sudden, devastating, completely derailing everything I thought I knew about myself.

My nostrils flared instinctively, trying to capture more of it, to break it down into components my brain could process.

But this wasn't intelligence gathering…this could only be describe as pure, animalistic recognition.

Wild cherries, but not the artificial sweetness of casino cocktails.

These were real, sun-warmed, with that slight tartness that made your mouth water.

Honey, but spiced with something that reminded me of the chai my interpreter used to make in Kandahar—cardamom, cinnamon, secrets.

Wood smoke from cherrywood specifically, like the pipe my grandfather used to smoke on his porch while telling war stories.

And underneath it all, something essentially feminine that made my cock go from zero to painful in two seconds flat.

I'd never reacted to a scent like this.

Never.

In thirty-two years of being an alpha, through countless omegas in heat, through professionally necessary seductions and recreational encounters, nothing had ever short-circuited my brain like this.

The tactician in me tried to maintain control, to remember why I was here.

But my body was already moving, drawn like a compass needle to magnetic north.

Thirty-two was ancient in alpha terms for finding a scent match.

Most alphas found their omega by twenty-five, bonded by thirty.

My pack had accepted our bachelor status after the Sophia incident.

Rafe's trauma ran too deep to risk another omega, had bent his preferences toward men exclusively—though I sometimes wondered if that was preference or just safer emotional territory.

But what if?

What if this omega, this scent that was rewriting my DNA with every breath, could heal what Sophia had broken? If this mysterious aroma belong to someone who was the missing piece that could make our pack whole instead of just functional?

My legs moved without conscious thought, following the scent trail like a bloodhound.

The mission, the careful surveillance I'd planned—all of it evaporated in the face of primitive need.

Someone slammed into me.

No—she slammed into me.

The impact should have been negligible. She was maybe five-six, soft curves and feminine angles against my tactical bulk.

She collided chest-first into my sternum, and for one brain-scrambled second I couldn’t tell if the thud in my chest was the impact or my own heart detonating inside its cage.

But the real shock wasn’t the force of her body; it was the way her presence detonated inside my skull.

Contact turned her scent from trace element to hydrogen bomb.

My vision tunneled instantly, every sense recalibrating around her—cherry and honey, smoke and spice, and another aroma under it all that scraped at my very marrow, screaming this one, this one, this one .

I’d trained for sensory overload— flashes, bangs, the disorienting chaos of battle —but nothing in my years of spec ops had prepared me for the sensory hurricane she unleashed just by existing within arm’s reach of me.

My reflexes, always disciplined, now betrayed me: my arms closed around her like a vice, my head dipped instinctively to inhale the scent pouring off her sweat-damp skin, my mouth watering with the urge to put teeth to the delicate column of her neck and make my claim.

Fuck, I’ve never wanted to mark someone so badly in my existence…

Instinct had my hands up, catching her before she could rebound.

Her body was everything my brain had promised in that first wild scent hit—lush curves, warmth, a fragile softness that felt violently out of place clashing against my bulletproof exterior.

But the moment our bodies connected, the moment her scent went from trace amounts to full saturation, I knew with battlefield certainty: mine.

That’s when I noticed the way her breathing hitched.

The way her wild mane of auburn hair clung to her temples, sweat-soaked and sticking to flushed skin.

Her face was upturned, eyes wide with a terror that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with whatever, or whoever, she’d been running from.

I didn't think.

Thinking was for people who hadn't been trained to react in milliseconds. I caught her before her knees could fully buckle and fall, pulled her against my chest where she fit like she'd been carved from my missing rib, and moved.

The storage closet was seventeen steps away. I knew because I'd memorized every room, every exit, every potential defensive position in this building three days ago. The code— obtained through "research" that may have involved hacking their security system —took two seconds to input.

Moving with this Omega was easy. So swift and effortless that getting to the storage closet took no time at all.

The door sealed behind us with a soft click, cutting us off from whatever threat had sent her running.

And then we were alone in the dark, and I could finally, truly, breathe her in.

She was tiny against me.

Five-six had been generous—maybe five-five without the athletic shoes.

But she fit against my body like she'd been designed for it, her soft curves filling all the hard angles years of combat had carved into me.

Her nose pressed into my shirt, right over my heart, and I could feel her inhaling desperately, like she was trying to burrow inside my scent.

My cock strained against my cargo pants, hard enough to hurt.

The tactical fabric that could stop a knife was doing nothing to hide my reaction to her.