Page 109 of The Rust in Her Hair

So I stuff it down.

I press my lips together, drop my eyes to the carpet, and force myself to breathe until the heat recedes.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I just, I like Lyra. She’s a sweet omega, and the thought of anything happening to her."

"Understandable," Doyle says, and I hate that he says it like he's checking a box.

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card, holding it out to me between two fingers.

"If you hear from her," he says, "or if she reaches out to you, in any way, you call me. Day or night."

I take the card, not bothering to even look at it. "Of course," I say with a tight smile.

Doyle takes another sip of his coffee, then he looks between me and Winston one last time.

"I'll remind you both," he says, "the family wants this kept quiet. No talk around the building. No mention of any of this to staff or patrons." His flat eyes settle on me. "For the family's sake. Understood?"

"Understood," Winston immediately says.

I nod, my fingers tight around the little white card. "Understood," I echo.

Doyle moves toward the office door, but right before his hand touches the doorknob he turns back to me. "One more thing, Dr. Cruz." Those sharp eyes lock on my face once more. "Why didn’t you come into work that Monday after the gala?"

Ice tips into my veins and my heart begins to race all over again. "My husband went into rut," I say, refusing to shy away from Doyle’s cutting glare. "Any more questions?"

The corner of Doyle’s mouth lifts as he turns back toward the door. "I’m sure we’ll speak again soon, Dr. Cruz." Then he opens the door and slips out.

Close Quarters

Lyra

Rourke pulled Shasta against the hard planes of his chest, his emerald eyes burning with a desire that could not be tamed. "You belong to us now, my love," he growled, his voice thick with a hunger that made Shasta’s knees go weak.

Behind her, gentle Sebastian pressed his lips to the curve of her shoulder. "We have waited a thousand lifetimes for you," he whispered, "and we will love you for a thousand more."

I turn the page so fast I nearly tear it.

I found this book this morning, wedged under a stack of cathedral architecture and old library journals on Owen's side of the bed. I asked the beta if it was his before he left for work, and he quickly said no.

Owen is clearly a liar, and I am delighted about it.

My eyes go wide as I read the sensual scene unfold.

I'm sprawled sideways across the couch with my feet up on the armrest, a bowl balanced on my stomach. My lunch is chocolate puffs and fruit rings mixed together, which sounds insane and tastes incredible. I shovel in another bite as my eyes fly across the page, reading how poor, tortured Rourke wrestles with whether he's worthy of his omega’s love.

He is. Obviously.

But it's going to take him another two hundred pages to figure that out, and I am here for every agonized second of it.

Something moves down the hall, and I go still, spoon halfway to my mouth. I hear the low creak of Mack’s bed, followed by the soft shuffle of someone moving around.

Mack is finally awake.

He stayed home today. He looked wrecked this morning, with dark circles under his eyes and he was very quiet. After the others left for work, he said he was going to lie down for an hour.

That was almost four hours ago.

I peeked in on him once around noon, and found him dead asleep on top of the covers with one arm thrown over his face. I just backed right out and shut the door.