Page 106 of The Rust in Her Hair

After his outburst, the fight, and that terrible animal sound coming out of him, I half expected to find him still wrecked this morning. Instead, he was on the couch with Lyra tucked up beside him, calm and clear-eyed and himself again.

Whatever he went through yesterday seems to be gone.

The only thing that nags at me is Mack.

He was very quiet this morning, which is so out of character for the alpha. Mack fills a room the second he walks into it. But this morning he sat on the edge of his chair, nursing his coffee while the rest of us talked. And every time I looked over at him, he had this faraway thing going on behind his eyes.

I asked him twice if he was alright, but both times he grinned and swore he was fine. I let it go because I wasn’t sure if I should push. While I can feel every slip of an emotion from Nico, my mental bond with Mack never took, so when he decides to keep something to himself, it stays locked down.

I'll ask again tonight. Corner him somewhere he can't charm his way out of it.

For now, I'm too happy to hold onto the worry.

I gather up the reports and head out of special collections and into the main hall. The morning light comes down through the tall stained-glass window at the far end, throwing color across the marble, and a handful of patrons are already scattered at the reading tables. I nod at a regular, an older man who comes in every Tuesday for the microfilm, and cut toward the front desk.

Marguerite is at the counter, her reading glasses pushed up into her silver-streaked curls, frowning at her monitor.

"Morning," I say, sliding the reports into the return bin. "How’s your day so far?"

"Morning, Owen." She looks up as she slips her glasses on her face. "The Director's looking for you."

"Winston?" I straighten. "Sure. I'll head back to my office and give him a call."

"Actually, he said to send you straight up the second I saw you." She looks at me over her frames. "He made it sound urgent."

I pause with my hand still on the return bin. In three years, I don't think I've ever been summoned straight up to Director Ellsworth’s office. He usually either emails me or he catches me in the hall. The man loves to walk and talk before he moves on to the next thing.

"Did he say what about?" I ask.

"He didn't say." Marguerite holds my eyes a beat longer than she needs to, then drops them back to her screen. "Just to send you up."

"Okay." I knock my knuckles once against the counter, keeping it light. "Guess I'll go see what I broke."

She doesn't laugh.

I tell myself it's nothing.

The exhibit has gone over well, and my numbers are good.

Winston probably wants to talk about the next acquisition, or some donor who wandered through the gallery and left impressed. Or maybe someone actually noticed that banned book…

I take the old brass elevator up to the fourth floor.

The doors open onto the quiet executive corridor. The thick carpet swallows my footsteps as I move down the hallway. The walls are lined with framed photographs of every dead Van Houten who ever cut a ribbon here.

At the end sits the Director's outer office, where his secretary, Diane, keeps a desk and a candy dish. And, most days, a good twenty minutes of easy conversation for anyone who stops by.

I like Diane. Everybody likes Diane. She keeps a photo of her grandkids on the desk and always asks after my weekend, and I always tell her more than she probably wants to hear.

"Morning, Diane." I put on my usual smile as I stop in front of her desk. "How's⁠—"

"He's waiting for you." She's already reaching for the intercom, not quite meeting my eyes. "Go on in, Owen."

The button buzzes under her finger before I've closed my mouth.

I stand there for a second, my easy greeting dying in my throat.

Diane always talks to me. Every single time.