Roulette Rodeo

I was raised to believe Omegas had value—if not to themselves, then to the highest bidder. Turns out, I was wrong about the bidder part. Thanks to the mess my father left behind, I've spent the last three years working in a velvet cage—dolled up, strapped in corsets, and made to smile for high-rollers and backroom gamblers at The Crimson Roulette, a velvet-gloved prison for girls like me. Until a group of men in tailored suits strolled in with sin in their eyes and luck in their pockets. Didn't flirt. Didn't smirk. Didn't miss. They just played. And won. Their prize? Me. I thought they'd drag me into something darker than the casino's red-lit halls. Instead, I woke up in a sun-drenched bed smelling like cedar, leather, and hay, with one note on the nightstand: Rest. You're safe. They brought me to Jackknife Ridge—a town so far off-grid it's barely a whisper, tucked between mountains and past sins. And the four cowboy men who brought me here? They go by the Lucky Ace Pack, and apparently, I've been rescued . . . and now I'm theirs. I may have been won in a casino, but I was kept on a ranch—fed, protected, and claimed by rough hands and steady hearts. *Now the only gamble left . . . is whether staying with these wild cowboys leads to the kind of flush that lasts a lifetime—*or if the past comes spinning—and the wheel lands red.