Page 11 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Me either." Owen smiles. "It took a full three months."

We're tucked into a small side gallery off the main ballroom. It’s one of the unveiled spaces the fundraiser is technically celebrating, though nobody else has wandered in yet. The lights are lower in here. Glass display cases line the walls, holding old leather-bound texts and yellowed pamphlets, and one terrifying metal musical instrument that Owen swears sounds like a dying whale.

The party is happening on the other side of the wall. I can hear distant voices, and faint music, but this space somehow feels so private.

"It's beautiful." I press my fingers to a display case, looking down at a slim brown volume open to a page of handwritten marginalia. "Whoever owned it loved it. You can tell."

"Each one of these texts has been verified against three different historical registries before it went into the system." Owen leans against the case beside me, his shoulder almost touching mine. He's holding the two flutes of champagne he grabbed from a passing waiter on the way in. He passes one to me. "I'm pretty proud of this collection, even if no one else actually cares." He glances toward the party.

"They’re all idiots," I say firmly. "This exhibit is stunning."

Owen glances down at me. He's tall for a beta. A little shy of six feet, if I had to guess. "You're contractually obligated to care about it," he says with a playful smile. "Your last name is on the building."

But then, something flickers across his face, there and gone in half a second. A small, tired kind of sadness, the look of a man who worked his ass off and not a single person at this fundraiser has come to see it.

I hate every single asshole in the next room right now, all of them drinking champagne that costs more than what Owen probably makes in a week, none of them bothering to walk back here and actually look.

So I do the only thing I know how to do in vulnerable moments like these: I say something ridiculous, hoping to make him smile.

"Actually, my grandfather's name is on the building," I correct him, then slip into my most haughty tone. "And while I wish I could care, I can't. Van Houtens don't care about things. We fund them and then take credit at parties." I take a small sip of my champagne. "It's basically our family motto. I’m sure we have it stitched onto a flag somewhere."

Owen smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"You should be thankful you got to give up three months of your life without a single thank you," I say with an exaggerated sigh, like the whole conversation is a bore. "Honestly, it’s a privilege to be used by rich assholes. It’s the highest honor our society has to offer. They should give out medals."

"Actually…" Owen’s smile grows as his tone lifts, going lighter.

I feel triumphant.

"I got a very nice email from the board," he says, puffing out his chest like he's been knighted.

"Wow," I gasp. "A whole email." I press a hand to my chest. "Be still my heart."

The beta finally lets out a real laugh, a low, delighted sound, and something in my chest goes very warm.

I can't keep a straight face going after that, and I laugh too, ducking my head to hide it. When I look back up, Owen’s eyes are locked on mine. The light catches the soft hazel color, turning them honeyed and warm, and my whole face goes warm.

"I'm really glad you like it, Lyra." His tone turns serious and soft.

Feeling a little flustered, I look down a little too fast, fixing my eyes on the open page in front of me, suddenly very interested in seventeenth-century handwriting.

"So. Um…What does this one say?" I ask as I take another sip of my champagne, trying to settle my nerves.

"That one is a personal letter from a pack omega to her sister." Owen leans in, and the clean scent of sage and lemon wraps around me. "She's describing what it felt like to bond with her second alpha. The historian who acquired it tried to publish a translation in the nineteen-eighties. He was professionally ruined for it."

"For describing a bond?"

"For describing it favorably." Those hazel eyes are still on me. "There's a difference."

"That's horrible." I shake my head, staring down at the letter in the case. "He didn't do anything wrong. He simply wrote down what someone said about their own life. That shouldn't end a career."

"Careful." Owen's mouth tips up at one corner. "Talk like that and someone's going to think you're a pack sympathizer."

"I don't give a shit what anyone thinks." I cut a glare at the large wooden door separating us from the party. "Consenting adults should be allowed to form a pack if they want to." The words jump from my mouth before I can stop them.

Owen goes very still beside me.

His eyes flick to mine and stay there. Something moves behind them, but I can’t place the emotion. Surprise, maybe. Shock?