Page 165 of The Rust in Her Hair

Burning

Lyra

It feels like it’s been hours since I made that damn phone call. I’m not sure how much actual time has passed, but each second makes my gut twist tighter and tighter.

Anxious, I burrow deeper into my nest, pulling my blanket up under my chin. I can’t seem to get warm. I've got nothing on but my underwear and one of Adrian's shirts, the red flannel one, but I keep shaking like I’m freezing to death.

"Lyra?" Owen whispers into my hair. His chest is against my back and one arm heavy over my waist. "Did you hear me, baby?" He hasn't stopped talking since I hung up.

His voice has stayed low and easy against the back of my neck, and I love him for trying, but I’m too wound up to focus.

Where the hell are my alphas?

"We’re going to have a garden," Owen says. His thumb moves in slow circles against my hip. "And a few big oak trees where we can hang a hammock between them." A soft laugh moves through his chest and into my spine. "And a big front porch. Do you want a big porch?"

"Porch," I say, trying to swallow a pained whimper. A sharp, twisting cramp rolls through my gut, stealing my breath. I press my face harder into my pillow, forcing my muscles to relax, determined not to let him know my anxiety is this bad.

"It’ll be really big." He gathers me in a little closer. "With five rocking chairs lined up all in a row."

I try to picture it. A yard with morning sun. Dirt under my nails. A version of my life where I get to want small, ordinary things and then simply have them. For half a second, I almost see it, but then the ache clenches down low and mean, and my mind slides right off the garden and back down into that garage.

Mack is there right now, trying to talk some sense into Crispin.

Or maybe he’s already headed home.

Or maybe Crispin killed my alpha, and he’s trying to get rid of Mack’s dead body.

I don’t want to question my alphas. I really don’t. But having Mack beat up Crispin isn’t going to convince the asshole to let me go.

Crispin Maleth is a vicious, bloodthirsty alpha who would sooner die than not get his way.

"Hey." Owen's palm flattens on my belly, warm through my shirt, and he must feel how tight I've gone, because his voice drops lower still. "Lyra. You’re shaking."

"I’m just worried," I lie as the next cramp makes heat bloom in my gut. It spreads out, rushing down my legs and up my chest.

I’m suddenly way too hot.

"Mack knows what he's doing," Owen says softly. "He's just going to rattle him. He’ll make it real clear what happens if Crispin ever comes near you again." His lips press to the back of my head. "He'll be home before you know it, complaining that his knuckles hurt and eating everything in the kitchen."

But I don’t believe any of it.

My body is burning now, sweat blooming along my sides and chest.

A pained groan tears out of me before I can stop it, and I curl away from Owen, trying to get out from under the weight of his arm and the heat rolling off him.

"Lyra?" The ease drops out of his voice all at once. "Hey, hey, what is it? What's wrong?"

I can't answer him.

The next cramp slams into me, folding me in half around it, and there's no room left in me for words, no room even for air. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. All I can do is claw at the sheets.

It feels like my whole body is trying to turn itself inside out, and all I can do is ride it, silent and shaking, my eyes squeezed shut against the dark.

"Okay. Okay, I've got you." Owen's voice rises with panic. "I'm getting you out of here, come here, I've got you."

He gets his arms under me and starts to lift. Panic slams into me, and my hand shoots out, closing around every blanket within reach. I hold on to them as he stands and carries me out of the closet. The blankets come with us, torn loose from where I'd tucked and layered them so carefully. And I feel the whole thing come apart in one ugly rush.

The sound that rips out of me isn't crying. It's worse than crying.