Page 23 of The Rust in Her Hair

We stop outside my father's office.

My mother releases my wrist and turns to face me. Her fingers go straight to my ponytail, yanking the elastic free so hard my head jerks to the side.

"Hold still," she says, smoothing her hands over my hair like she didn’t just rip it out by the roots. Then she straightens my collar with two quick, efficient movements, her fingers cool against my skin, her cold eyes moving over me, head to toe.

I see her frown slightly when she looks at my feet, at the mismatched socks. One white, one pale yellow with a long loose thread hanging off the big toe of the left one.

My mother lets out a short breath through her nose, clearly displeased, then she looks right at me.

"You will be sweet," she orders, her tone hushed. "You will be friendly and pleasant and agree with anything you are told. You will make Crispin Maleth feel welcome in this house."

No, I won’t, I think. Absolutely not. Not even slightly. I would rather eat the carpet.

But I don't have a choice. Her command grips me, forcing my head to nod.

"Yes, Mother," I hear myself say.

She holds my gaze for one more second, then reaches past me and opens the office door.

My father and Crispin are arranged on the far side of the room, near the cold fireplace. My father is settled in his large armchair, a glass of whiskey balanced on the arm, while Crispin occupies the matching couch beside him. Both pieces are upholstered in the same expensive navy velvet imported specifically for this room.

My father laughs at something Crispin just said, before taking a long pull from his glass.

"Move." Lavinia’s cold hand wraps around my upper arm, then pulls me forward.

Crispin looks up the moment we step inside. His gray eyes snap to me, moving down the length of me and back up, taking in my tennis skirt and my disheveled hair before settling on my face.

The corner of his mouth lifts.

"Lyra." His voice fills the room. "There you are."

My father rises from his chair, his expression smoothing into something that resembles warmth.

"Yes. There she is." He spreads his hands like my absence has been a charming inconvenience rather than the deliberate act of survival it was. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost on the court." He laughs, and Crispin laughs with him, and I smile because my mother is standing directly behind me.

"I’m glad you made it home before Crispin left," Father says as he lifts his glass. His eyes find mine over the rim of his whiskey glass and hold them. The long vein along the left side of his neck pulses once.

"I lost track of time," I say pleasantly. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting."

Crispin sets down his glass and his eyes move over me, unhurried, top to bottom and back again. Something about the smile that follows makes me want to pull my skirt down another six inches.

"No need to apologize," he says. "The view was worth the wait."

Disgust cuts through me, and I take a step back without thinking.

My mother is right behind me, solid and immovable, and I stop short.

My eyes fly to my father. Shock grips me when his smile grows.

What the hell is happening?

My parents have never liked me much. That's not self-pity, it's just fact. But there has always been a rule in this house, unspoken and ironclad: no one disrespects their property. And I am their property. The same way the Monet in the sitting room is their property, and the cellar full of wine nobody drinks is their property. You don't let someone talk carelessly about things that belong to you.

"Come here, omega." My father gestures to the small settee near the fireplace. "Sit down."

My feet move before I give them permission, across the Persian rug.

Toward the couch. Toward Crispin.