Page 132 of The Rust in Her Hair

"The Monogamist Alliance."

Up front, Adrian turns clean around in the passenger seat, looking back at her over his shoulder. "You're kidding."

Lyra drops her eyes to her lap and says nothing.

I immediately smell the sharp scent of distress rolling off her, filling the whole cab. I quickly place my hand on hers, and squeeze gently.

"Hey now." I angle my head down, trying to see her eyes. "It's okay, darlin'."

"He's right." Owen leans into her from the other side, his shoulder pressing against hers. "It's okay."

"We've been hiding our pack for years, Lyra." Nico catches her eyes in the rearview mirror, calm and steady. "One party of monogamists isn't going to rattle us. We know how to move through a room like this."

"Hell, I do it every day at work." Owen laughs.

That does something to the omega, and I feel her hand loosen a little in mine, the sour edge in her scent pulling back a notch.

I lean down and press one kiss to her bare shoulder, letting my mouth linger there against her warm skin.

Then I drop my voice, just for her.

"Besides," I murmur against her ear, "if it gets to be too much, me and Owen can pull you into a nearby closet and really scandalize these fuckers."

Lyra snorts and one hand moves up to cover her mouth. More of her distress burns off by that laugh, and for half a second, she's just a girl giggling in the back of a truck.

Nico stops the truck, and a red-vested kid raps his knuckles against the driver's side window.

And just like that, the moment's over.

I straighten up off Lyra’s shoulder and put a respectable inch of space between us. Lyra smooths her face back into something composed, tucking her laugh away where it came from.

We all slip into the parts we came here to play.

Nico rolls the window down. "Evening."

"Evening, sir." The valet's already opening the door. "I'll take good care of it."

I bite back a grin, because our dirty work truck sitting in a line of cars worth more than my life is about the funniest thing I've seen all week.

Bracing myself, I step out of the truck and settle my hat on my head.

Showtime.

The front doors are tall enough to drive that truck through, and standing in front of them is a tiny beta with dark brown hair in a high ponytail. She’s wearing a sleek black pantsuit and has a clipboard hugged to her chest. She's checking names off a list as folks go in.

Her head comes up when she sees us. Her dark eyes zero in on my hat first, and she frowns. "Oh, um." She looks down at her clipboard with a mixture of confusion and maybe even fear. "What’s the name?" Then her gaze falls on our omega and her whole face cracks wide open. "Lyra?" She says our omega’s name like she can’t believe she’s alive.

"Hey, Calla." Lyra's voice is so soft.

This must be a friend.

The beta—Calla—lifts her free hand, reaching out like she’s going for a hug, then she stops. She curls it back against the clipboard and holds it there, her knuckles gone white. She clearly wants to grab hold of Lyra so bad it's written all over her, but she doesn't let herself do it.

It’s kinda sad.

"You look good," Calla smiles as she takes in Lyra’s face, then that glorious dress. "Your mother will die when she sees you in that dress."

"That's what I'm hoping." Lyra giggles, but her dark eyes have gone a little glassy.