Page 149 of The Rust in Her Hair

"Must have been." She winks before going back to her monitor. "Try not to let the workday ruin that good mood too much."

"If only." I rap my knuckles on the counter and head for the elevator.

The old brass cage rattles closed, and I lean back against the wall as it carries me up, and I let myself think about my interview with Halvern last week.

I can't think of a single reason I won't get the job.

They want me to build the whole exhibit from the ground up, an open, honest collection on pack history and culture, right out in the daylight where anyone can walk in and see it.

No more hiding.

Unfortunately, the money's a good deal less than what I make here. But we've been saving for a while now, and even if it takes the boys a few months to find steady work, we'll be comfortable enough in Halvern to breathe. Things are cheaper out there. Slower.

We might even manage a bigger house.

The cage settles on my floor and the doors fold open.

I'm smiling again when I step out.

My office is about halfway down the hall and to the right. I let myself in, drop into my chair, and thumb the computer awake while it grinds through its slow morning wake-up. A couple of coworkers drift past my open door, coffee in hand, none of them so much as glancing in. It's a normal Monday. Quiet.

I pull up my email and start typing out a reply to a colleague at another university about a manuscript loan. Half my mind is still three hours up the coast in a house that doesn't even exist yet.

I wonder how much it would cost to build a custom shop for the boys.

My office door squeaks.

I glance up with a smile already on my face, expecting someone from acquisitions, or a page needing a signature. But it’s neither.

Crispin Maleth is standing in my doorway, and the smile on my face instantly falls.

The alpha looks like hell.

There's a dark, ugly bruise spread along the left side of his jaw. It’s purple at the center and going green-yellow at the edges, exactly where Mack's fist landed at the party. It's swollen enough to pull the corner of his mouth down.

"Dr. Cruz." He leans against my doorframe, his chin jutting forward like he's ready for a fight.

I make myself breathe, then I pull my professional face on, the one I use for donors and difficult patrons, and I keep my voice easy.

"Mr. Maleth." I clasp my hands on my desk. "How are you doing?"

He doesn't answer. He just tilts his head, studying me, and something cold moves behind those slate-gray eyes.

"I have to admit," he finally says, "I never realized how close you and Lyra are."

Everything in me goes still.

I shift in my chair before I can stop myself, and I hate that I do it, because a man like Crispin reads a flinch the way I read a card catalog. But I don't know what to say.

It also doesn’t help that I don't know what he saw, or what he thinks he saw, or how much of this is a guess he's fishing to confirm.

Crispin strolls the rest of the way into my office like he owns it. He unbuttons his suit jacket with two fingers, then lowers himself into one of the chairs across from my desk. He settles, then crosses one leg over the other.

Fear climbs up the back of my throat, and I do the hardest thing I've done in years.

I reach for my bond with Nico, and I take everything churning in me, the fear and the racing pulse and the certainty that this is very bad, and I smooth it down on my end until nothing leaks across. Nico doesn't need to feel me panic over this.

Because the truth is, an alpha like Crispin doesn't get his own hands dirty. He loves his reputation too much. Men like that don't throw punches in a public building where anyone might see. If Crispin wants me hurt, he'll do it the coward's way, a quiet word, a hired stranger in a parking garage weeks from now. Not here. And definitely not himself.