Page 134 of The Rust in Her Hair

It’s a ballroom.

Like an honest-to-god ballroom, with a ceiling dripping with crystal.

There's a string quartet in the corner and about a million people in black ties and sparkly dresses holding champagne flutes that catch the light. A low tide of polite laughter rolls over the whole thing.

Beside me, Lyra freezes, and Adrian goes quiet.

Heads start to turn as we make our way inside. It's slow at first, one and then another. A few of them stare at Lyra, and I watch two women lean their heads together. They whisper behind their champagne, eyes cutting back to my omega, then away again.

But most of them look at me.

They take in my hat first. Then the jeans. Then those eyes drag all the way down to my boots and back up. I watch the exact moment each one of them decides I don't belong in their pretty room, and I fucking love it.

I puff my chest out and let them look.

Lord, it's easy to rile up a rich prick.

Nico's not playing games, though. He buttons his suit jacket as those dark eyes sweep the room. I know he’s looking for every exit and checking every face like a man reading a job site for hazards. Then he dips his head toward Lyra.

"You okay?" he whispers.

"Yes." But she's not looking at him. Her eyes have narrowed, moving across the crowd with purpose now, hunting. And she knows exactly where to look. A second later she finds it near the bar, her mouth pulling into a tight line. "I see my father."

I look over, but I have no idea which old white guy he is.

"What does he look like?" I whisper to Owen.

"He’s the one in the black suit."

"They’re all in black suits," I say flatly.

Owen winks, then he turns back to Lyra.

Brat.

Lyra takes a long breath. I watch her gather herself up out of nowhere, spine straightening. All that Van Houten steel she keeps buried comes up to the surface as she locks in.

"Okay," she says firmly. "Let's do this."

And God help me, seeing my omega stand there, squaring up to face down her own father, has me hard as a fucking fence post inside my good jeans. But there's not one blessed thing I can do about it, so I tug my hat down, adjust myself as discreetly as I can manage, and follow her into the lion's den.

The five of us move into the crowd like something we rehearsed.

Lyra and Adrian take the lead, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, the two of them reading like any young mated pair come to pay their respects. Nico and Owen fall in close behind. And I bring up the rear, taking my sweet time about it.

I tip my hat at every pretty lady I pass. A wink here, a slow nod there. Most of them go stiff and scandalized, clutching their pearls like I might rob them, but a couple go pink in the cheeks and glance back at me over a bare shoulder.

If I weren’t a mated man…

A waiter drifts by with a tray of champagne, and I lift a flute off it without breaking my stride. Another one passes with little dots of something on toast, and I snag one of those too. I don't know what's on it and I don't much care. I pop it in my mouth, then wash it down with a swallow of champagne, and keep walking.

If I've got to spend my evening in a room full of people who'd sooner see me dead, I'm at least gonna eat their food and drink their liquor while I do it.

Up ahead, Lyra slows.

She stops in front of a little cluster of alphas near the bar. They’re all silver-haired men in expensive tuxedos, and every one of them turns to look at her.

I find her father immediately.