Page 27 of The Rust in Her Hair

"It's nice," she says quietly, "to finally have something to be proud of you for."

Then she's gone, her heels clicking down the hall after my father.

The moment my mother leaves the room, my spine unlocks one vertebra at a time, air filling my lungs like I'm breathing for the first time in an hour. I curl my fingers into a fist at my side, testing them, half amazed when they actually listen.

My hands are mine again.

I angle my body toward the door, but Crispin's hand closes around my arm, holding me in place.

"Leaving so soon, my love?" His voice is low and intimate. The scent of cloves and whiskey washes over me again, thick and suffocating.

My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a frantic drum against my breastbone.

But, thankfully, I'm able to take a step back.

Crispin doesn't let go of my arm. His grip gentles instead, his thumb smoothing over the mark his fingers left last night, almost like he's soothing something he broke. I force myself to breathe evenly, though my lungs feel too tight inside my ribcage.

"Come sit with me." He nods toward the couch by the cold fireplace, pulling me gently forward. "Just for a minute. I know today's been a lot."

I shake my head, locking my knees, determined to stay put, but Crispin doesn’t care.

He slides his arm around my waist, and he hauls me forward, away from my father's desk, and past the wall of leather-bound books nobody in this house has ever read. I dig my heels into the rug, but it does nothing against the strength banked in his arm, and my feet drag two useless lines through the fibers before giving up entirely.

His pace stays slow, almost tender, like he's escorting me somewhere I actually want to go.

By the time we reach the couch, my legs have remembered how to hold me, but it's too late to matter. He lowers us both down together, close enough that his knee presses into mine. The velvet of the couch feels weirdly rough against my bare legs, a stark contrast to the smooth fabric of my dress.

"Lyra." He tips my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to look at him. His gray eyes go soft at the edges. It’s a weird expression from him. "Talk to me, omega."

Talk to me?

What the fuck?

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I close it again, my jaw working around a sentence that refuses to form. Every word I own feels locked somewhere out of reach, useless against a man who just smiled as I signed my name over to him.

"It’s okay, Lyra." Crispin’s mouth curves into an amused smile as he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me impossibly close. His side is touching mine, his fingers digging into my waist. I can feel the warmth of his body through my clothes, his presence overwhelming in the small space.

Alarm bells are screaming in my head, but I can’t seem to do anything other than sit here like a fucking idiot.

My hands tremble slightly in my lap, and I clasp them together to hide the shaking.

"I completely understand why you’d be so overwhelmed." He places his other hand on my bare knee, and my stomach tightens. "It’s actually very sweet,” he says the way you'd praise a dog for sitting.

My eyes cut to the door just past him.

Ten feet, maybe twelve.

But Crispin is so close. He’d only need half a second to catch me, and both of us know it.

"I promise I won’t take you too far from your parents," the alpha continues. "My place on the coast is only a few hours away," he says, like we're two people picking up a conversation instead of two strangers who just got legally bound to each other. "The whole thing is surrounded in glass. Massive windows with views of the beach. You can see the water from every room." He reaches for my hand, and I let him.

How the hell do I get out of this?

"I thought we could hold the ceremony there," he says. "Somewhere with a little more privacy than the city."

Oh my god.

He's planning our wedding.