Page 75 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Absolutely not." I wave both hands in front of me, warding the very idea off. "It's a whole thing. You get the family name and then something the ancestors would approve of, the older and more unpronounceable the better." I let the pause stretch, because I've never told any of them this and I want to watch it land. "Take mine, for instance. Lyra's just what everyone calls me. My actual first name is Artemis."

Owen's mouth falls open.

"Artemis." He stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Your name is Artemis? A whole year I've known you, and you let me go around calling you Lyra?"

"Yes," I laugh. "Lyra's my middle name. Artemis Lyra Van Houten." I do a little seated bow, as much of a flourish as I can manage on a folding chair. "Goddess of the hunt, at your service. They picked it before I presented, back when they were sure I'd be an alpha worthy of a name like that." I keep my voice light, but there's an edge under it I don't quite smooth away. "Didn't really pan out."

Next to me, Nico’s dark eyes fix on my face, staring at me like he feels the sad truth that my parents didn't think an omega deserved a strong name. The second I had my first heat, I was no longer a Goddess-in-waiting. Instead, I was Lyra, the omega that destroyed a century of pure-alpha descendants.

My mother has never forgiven me.

"Artemis." Nico shakes his head slowly, as he leans in toward me. "No. That's not right for you."

I go still.

He plants one forearm on the table and shifts his weight forward, and the table seems to tip toward him. His scent rolls over me with the movement, dark amber and worn leather, and my next breath goes shallow without my permission.

"Artemis is too cold. A statue in a garden nobody's allowed to touch." His dark eyes stay locked on mine, moving over my face while his hand reaches for mine.

I hold my breath as his thumb traces the top of my hand.

"Lyra is perfect." His voice drops lower, rougher. "It’s sweet and bright. Perfect for you."

And I suddenly don’t know how to breathe.

Those damn photos pop into my head, lewd and raw.

All I can see is Nico buried deep in Owen from behind, that broad back curved over his beta, the thick base of his cock already starting to swell where they're locked together.

My thighs press together under the table, and I have to fight the urge to run straight for my nest and hide.

I open my mouth to say thank you, but the words get stuck along the way.

Demand he rut you. The words flash in my mind. Rut me, fuck me, claim me. Now!

"I, uh, yah. Thank you," I finally force the words out, then I drop my eyes to the table, praying no one notices the heat warming my cheeks.

But I can feel all of them looking at me.

Adrian's gone quiet across the table. Mack's stopped chewing. Even without lifting my head, I know Nico hasn't looked away once, his hand still warm over mine, his thumb resting against my pulse where it's beating like a damn drumline.

Then Owen's phone rings, and the table seems to shift.

"Oh," Owen’s voice goes tight. "It’s the director."

I glance up just in time to see Owen share a careful look with Nico.

"I’ve gotta take this." Owen slips out of his chair, then down the hall.

The next second, Nico pulls his hand back as he starts talking to Mack about some concrete that was poured wrong and they were forced to spend all week ripping it out. While I start clearing the table with Adrian.

This has become our ritual every night.

I pick up all the plates while Adrian grabs the glasses and silverware.

The alpha goes straight for the sink, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel up to his elbows. I step up next to him, inhaling that lovely scent as he leans down to open the dishwasher.

Pine, clean rain, and pure alpha.