Page 20 of The Rust in Her Hair

The knot inside me is a constant, throbbing presence, connecting us in the most primal way possible. And I can't help but feel safe and cherished, completely sated.

"Such a good beta," Nico murmurs against my temple, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Taking my knot so beautifully. No one else can take me like you do."

I let out a soft sigh, closing my eyes, but the second they close, I see Lyra's face: her honey-brown eyes wide with fear, and the small whimper she made when Crispin grabbed her echoing in my mind.

My arms tighten around Nico as I think about Crispin seeing her tomorrow.

He'll be in her house, walking through her halls, looking at her with those possessive eyes.

The thought makes me sick, my knot-stretched body suddenly tense with a fear that has nothing to do with pleasure.

God, I hope she's okay.

I hope she survives tomorrow.

Company Manners

Lyra

The towncar pulls away from the curb the second my feet hit the pavement.

The house looms in front of me, four stories of old money and cold marble, every window lit from within like a lantern, except nobody lives inside. I take a deep breath of the warm evening air before I push through the front double-doors.

Calla is crossing the foyer with a stack of folders pressed against her chest. Her chestnut hair is falling out of its clip. It’s the one thing about her that refuses to stay professional.

The beta stops the second she sees me, her amber eyes going warm with relief.

"There you are." She shifts the folders to her hip. "It's past seven." She glances at her watch. "I was starting to think you'd moved to another country."

"I was at the club," I say, gesturing at my white tennis skirt and the racket bag hanging off my shoulder. "I was there all day. Got completely in the zone and lost track of time."

Calla tilts her head exactly one degree, one brow arching. "You weren't hiding from Crispin Maleth?"

"I was working on my backhand," I say.

Calla levels a flat look at me. "You hate tennis."

"I'm learning to love it."

"You have said, and I am quoting you directly, that tennis is a sport invented by people with too much money and aggression, and not enough therapy."

"People change, Calla," I say simply.

"You said it last week."

"It was a formative week."

Her mouth curves into a slow smile.

"My backhand needed a lot of work."

"Right."

"All day's worth."

"Mm." The beta gives me a pointed look. "And it had nothing to do with the fact that Mr. Maleth was scheduled to be here at ten this morning."

"Total coincidence." I press a hand to my chest, pretending to be wounded. "And I am offended that you would even suggest I would deliberately avoid a guest of my father's. I have been nothing but gracious and welcoming to Mr. Maleth at every opportunity."