Page 26 of The Rust in Her Hair

I look at it.

Artemis Lyra Van Houten.

My full name. A powerful one that they chose for a she-alpha and then took back the second I presented as an omega. And now I’m just Lyra. Sad, controlled, useless Lyra.

"Lyra." My father says my name.

He’s watching me.

My mother is watching me.

Crispin's hand is warm and heavy on my back, his thumb moving in a slow circle against my spine.

My hand lifts, and my whole body begins to tremble as I fight with everything I have against my mother’s command.

My stomach turns over, bile climbing the back of my throat. My vision swims at the edges as I push against her will. It’s like trying to breathe underwater, like every instinct in my body turning against me all at once.

The pen shakes in my grip.

Crispin lets out a low, satisfied laugh against my hair. "Look at her," he murmurs, to no one and everyone. "She's so excited her whole body is thrumming." His mouth finds my ear, his breath hot and heavy with whiskey. "Sign it, Lyra."

The pen touches the paper.

And I sign my name.

No

Lyra

In one swift motion, Crispin takes the pen from me, presses it to the paper, and signs his name in one long, loopy stroke.

I stare at the two names, sitting side by side on the page.

Crispin Augustine Maleth

Followed by…

Artemis Lyra Van Houten

My signature is slightly uneven, the letters trembling where I fought the hardest.

I have never hated my own handwriting before today.

The second Crispin caps the pen, the pressure in the room shifts, and my mother takes a step back.

I pull in a quick breath, trying to be quiet. I don’t want anyone to notice how desperately I needed it.

My father reaches across me and grabs Crispin's hand, pumping it twice, his face split into a ridiculously wide smile. His cheeks are so red.

"Welcome to the family, son," my father says, and he actually sounds happy.

"Wonderful,” my mother says and the word comes out warm. Like actually warm. I have to stop myself from turning to look at her just to confirm it came from her mouth.

The office door opens. "Excuse me, sir." Thomas, our butler, appears in the frame, his expression perfectly neutral like always. "Dinner is served."

"Excellent." My father claps his hands together once, already moving toward the door, his energy lifted and bright. "I'm absolutely famished."

My mother turns to follow him, but she pauses at my shoulder, just briefly, her pale green eyes cutting to my face.