Page 3 of The Rust in Her Hair

He chuckles softly. "So shy,” he says, like it’s a compliment. "I love that about you."

I'm not shy, I’m just trying to push down the urge to throw my drink in your face. There's a freaking difference.

Crispin’s arm tightens around my waist and the sequins of my dress bite into my skin through the thin liner. The small pain anchors me.

"Release me right now," I say firmly, trying to sound polite, but my patience is fraying fast. My father would be livid with my tone, but I don't give a shit anymore.

The asshole is holding me too tight.

"Crispin." I push harder at his chest, making my drink slosh. Ice cubes clink against the glass as liquid drips over my fingers. "Now."

All at once, his chest rises with excitement, and his arm cinches tighter around my waist, holding me in place.

"Say it again." A low growl rolls out of him, quiet enough that only I can hear it. "Say my name again, Lyra."

So gross.

Something flips in my stomach as anger grips me.

"No," I snap, then shove at his chest. "Let me go right—" Then I feel it against my hip.

His cock presses against me through my dress, thick and rigid, and every thought I have evaporates.

The realization of how much bigger he is than me hits me like cold water. Crispin isn’t just tall and broad. He’s enormous with thick arms and a massive neck. At five feet and five inches, I’m absolutely nothing compared to him.

"Omega," he growls, the vibrations pushing from his chest to mine.

My heart slams against my ribs and my mouth goes dry.

He could do whatever he wants. Right here. And I couldn't stop him.

I’m trapped.

I go completely still.

I don't know what to do.

Opening my mouth, I ready myself to yell for help, but right before I can make any sound, a hand smacks Crispin hard on the shoulder from behind.

"Maleth!" A man's voice cuts through the noise. "Get over here, you bastard. We need you."

Crispin's grip on my waist loosens, and I slip out from under his arm in one quick step.

My heart pounds as I walk, waiting for him to jerk me back, crushing me against his chest once again. But he doesn’t.

Behind me, Crispin laughs loudly at something, his voice carrying over the crowd.

Picking up my pace, I keep my shoulders back and my chin level as I move through the crowd, trying like hell to look casual.

While Crispin has always been the kind of alpha who treats every boundary like a suggestion, he feels extra aggressive tonight.

He's drunk, I tell myself. That's all.

He's had too much whiskey and his filter is gone and tomorrow he'll be back to the version of himself that my father finds so impressive.

I hate that he’s always at our house.

The hallway outside the main ballroom is so quiet my heels echo on the marble floor. The bathroom is at the end, past a row of framed portraits of long-dead alphas. I’m almost there, almost inside where I can run cold water over my wrists and take a breath without the fear of my parents watching me, when I nearly walk straight into someone coming around the corner.