Page 133 of The Rust in Her Hair

My heart breaks for the both of them, standing a foot apart and not letting themselves close it.

A car rolls up the drive behind us, engine purring low and expensive, and a door swings open.

"Careful with it." Some alpha unfolds out of the driver's seat, tossing his keys at the valet without looking. "That's a custom finish. You put one scratch on it, and it comes out of your paycheck for the next ten years."

The valet murmurs something apologetic. The alpha's already walking up the drive, straightening his cuffs like the kid isn't worth a second glance.

Lyra clears her throat and pulls her manners back on like a coat.

"Calla, this is Adrian Bennett." She turns slightly toward Adrian. The alpha nods at Calla as he sets a hand at the small of Lyra’s back. "My mate."

Calla's eyes snap to Adrian, then to the mark riding high on Lyra's throat. Then something moves through the beta’s face. Relief, maybe. Or fear?

Hell, I can’t tell.

"And this is his family," Lyra goes on. "Mack. Owen. And Owen's husband, Nico."

Calla nods at each of us in turn, polite and smooth, still hugging that clipboard tight. "It's nice to meet you all."

"Ma'am," I say, and touch my brim.

She almost smiles at that. Almost.

Then Calla leans in toward Lyra, dropping her voice so low I nearly miss it under the music leaking out through the doors.

"Are you okay?" Calla's eyes search the omega’s face, fast, clearly worried. "Are you hurt? Or…" She trails off as she glances up at Adrian’s massive frame.

Adrian catches the look on Calla's face, and I feel him tense next to me. But he doesn't say a word in his own defense. He just draws his hand back off Lyra, and lets her answer for herself.

"Oh, no." Lyra quickly shakes her head, making all that long hair fall across her shoulders. "I'm okay," she whispers. "I promise. I'm really good."

Calla holds her eyes a moment longer, weighing it. Then she nods, like she's decided to believe her. "Just let me know if you need anything," Calla smiles at Lyra before looking one last time at Adrian.

I decide right then that I like this one.

Anybody who looks at our girl like that, like her being safe actually matters, is alright by me.

Calla straightens and steps aside to let us through.

"Everyone is in the ballroom," she says, back to business, then she hesitates. "Your father might still be in his office. He was in there earlier with a few people."

"Then I'll be sure to give the office a very wide berth," Lyra says with a smile.

The corner of Calla's mouth finally gives. "That would probably be wise." Then she turns to the asshole with the expensive car. "Good evening, Mr. Calloway."

We step forward, and into a house that was never meant for living in.

The ceiling goes up and up, four, maybe five stories. It’s all pale plaster and gold trim running along the edges of it. The floor is marble, veined gray and white, polished to a shine that throws our reflections back up at us. Everything's cold and bright and quiet, our footsteps clicking along like we're walking through a bank after hours.

We pass a small room off to one side, and I slow down to look.

I can see oil paintings in heavy gold frames. A little writing desk with legs so thin I'd be scared to set a coffee cup on it. Then there’s an armless, white sofa lining the back wall. It’s one of those pieces that's more decoration than furniture.

I frown at it as we go by, trying to imagine someone just lounging on it in their underwear, but I can’t do it.

What’s the point of a couch you can't be a slob on?

At the end of the hall, Lyra leads us to the right, and the whole space opens up into a room that's got no business existing inside a house.