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. Di...