Page 14 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Sir." Owen plants his feet and lifts his chin, but his voice stays even. "I don't think Aldric would want a scene at his own family's fundraiser. That's all."

Crispin steps up to Owen, chest to chest, using every inch of the height he has on Owen. "Careful, beta. Men who forget their place tend to lose it."

My heart is in my throat.

While Owen has a solid frame with lean muscle, Crispin is built like a damn tank, and right now he is looking at Owen like he’s begging for an excuse to throw hands.

"I could break every bone in that pretty face of yours and no one in that ballroom would lift a finger to stop me." Crispin's voice drops low, almost pleasant. "In fact, Aldric would probably thank me for it."

I move before I think, sliding between them, my back to Owen's chest, my eyes locked on Crispin.

"Crispin." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'd love to actually catch up. Properly. But this room is a little stuffy, and there are too many people listening at the door who'd love something to gossip about."

Crispin's gaze drags down to me, slow, and my pulse spikes at how close he is, at the heat of him filling the small space between us.

Then Owen's hand finds my hip. His touch is light and steady, anchoring me.

Thankfully, Crispin doesn't notice. His focus stays on my face, his nostrils flaring as he breathes me in. A low sound rolls out of him, something close to approval, and he licks his lips like he's already tasting something.

Please, go away.

Moving slowly, Crispin leans down and his mouth brushes the shell of my ear. "I guess I’ll see you at your parents' house tomorrow." His breath is hot against my skin. "I'm bringing you a present."

I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what there is to say. So I dig deep for my best smile and force it onto my face. "I look forward to it."

Something shifts in Crispin’s expression, vanity winning out over violence, the way I knew it would.

The alpha studies me a long moment, that cold half-smile climbing back into place. "Later, then." Then he turns and walks out of the gallery the way he came in, his shoulders squared, his pace measured, like a man who just won some kind of battle.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I exhale.

I don't realize I'm shaking until Owen's hand is at my elbow. "Are you okay?"

I can't answer.

"Lyra. Look at me. Are you all right?"

I look up at him.

His hazel eyes aren’t calm anymore. They’re filled with a simmering fury and fear.

"I'm okay," I say, but my voice doesn't sound like mine.

"Let me see your arm."

"It's fine."

"Lyra."

I let him turn my arm gently, exposing where Crispin's fingers were. Five faint red marks are already forming in a line against my skin.

Owen looks at them for a long moment. He doesn't say anything. He just brushes his thumb once against the inside of my wrist, so gentle, and he steps back to a respectable distance.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I should have done more to stop him."

"You did everything." My eyes burn again. "You did more than anyone has ever—" I swallow hard, fighting back tears. "You were perfect."

Something flickers across Owen's face, almost a smile, like the word perfect caught him off guard. But then he catches himself, his expression smoothing back into something more intense as his gaze cuts to the door where Crispin disappeared.