Trey
DIRTY LITTLE FIEND – Dutch Melrose
The dealer clears his throat, polite but expectant. “Place your bets, sir?”
I pick up a stack of chips and slide them across the felt, the texture crawling under my skin in a way that has always made my skin crawl.
“Put it all on red,” I say, flicking Sera a wink that I intend to be smooth, even if everything beneath it is anything but.
Sam looks at me like I’ve finally lost my fucking mind, and maybe I have, because the truth is I would lose it all—my sanity, my money, my life—without hesitation if it meant keeping breath in my wife’s lungs, if it meant preserving the light in her eyes and the curve of her smile.
My gaze drops to Seraphina’s body as I brush my knuckles along her hip, grounding myself in the simple fact of her being here, with me, and I know with a certainty that eclipses everything else that even if I walked away from this table with nothing, even if I lost every last penny to my name, I would still be the richest man in the room as long as she was mine.
The roulette wheel spins in a blur of red and black, the white ball rattling along the rim while the entire table leans in, drawn tight with anticipation, like a pack of wolves scenting blood.
Vegas has always understood men like me—has always known exactly how to tempt us.
The promise that one decision could become everything… that it could flip your luck in an instant or leave you exactly where you started.
That said, if I were here betting my kid’s tuition, that’s not strategy—that’s risking someone else for the sake of my own high.
Not that I’m going to be a parent anytime soon.
…Our pullout game is weak as fuck, though. Let’s be honest.
My fingers rest loosely against the edge of the table as the wheel begins to slow, the sharp, rhythmic clicking of the ball growing faster, more deliberate, each strike against the metal grooves echoing beneath my skin.
“Red,” Logan mutters beside me, already half-smiling.
“Red,” Sam echoes, like it’s inevitable.
I don’t say anything.
Everyone here already knows exactly where my money is.
The ball drops, bounces once, twice, teasing me with black 15, before rolling and hopping.
Red 21.
A quiet satisfaction settles low in my chest as the dealer pushes the chips toward me, the table breaking into a chorus of groans, laughter, and disbelief.
Logan slaps the felt with a sharp exhale. “Now walk away.”
Sam shakes his head, watching the pile grow. “That’s the fourth time tonight.”
“Fifth,” I correct easily, dragging the chips toward me with slow, unhurried precision.
Movement brushes the edge of my awareness before I see it, the faint trace of perfume reaching me first, expensive and deliberate.
A woman steps into my space, blonde, tall, polished in that distinctly Vegas way—every detail curated to be seen, admired, wanted. She leans her hip lightly against the table, her smile practiced, confident.
“You seem to be having a very good night,” she says, her voice smooth enough to slide.
I give her a glance that barely qualifies as interest. “Mm.”
She’s here for my mojo!
Her fingers drift a little closer to the chips, her intention as obvious as it is unremarkable. “Maybe your luck could rub off on me.”
