Page 31 of The Rust in Her Hair

Crispin seems to notice the change in me. He pauses, his fingers still resting against my clit, a curious expression on his face.

"That's better," he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. "See? You can be a good girl when you try."

But I'm not trying. I'm not doing anything at all.

My body has taken over, making decisions without my consent, doing whatever it thinks is necessary to survive this moment. And as I lie there, frozen and pliant beneath him, I can feel a part of myself breaking, piece by piece.

"It’s almost shocking how quickly omegas can sense a bond with their mate." Crispin smiles slowly, a self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face, like he's so fucking happy I'm finally obeying. "Tell me how much you love this."

Then he pushes two dry fingers deep inside me, making me wince in pain.

The rough, invasive thrust cuts through me, but my body remains pliant, betraying the scream that wants to tear from my throat.

He starts to pump them, in and out, a slow, deliberate rhythm that feels both violating and methodical. And with each thrust, something inside me shifts. The calm that had settled over me shatters, replaced by a blinding rage that grips me so tightly I can barely breathe. It's hot and fierce and overwhelming, a primal fury that eclipses even the terror I felt moments ago.

"You are going to be so good to me," Crispin whispers as he shifts.

I feel his fingers leave my body, and then I hear his belt being unbuckled—the metallic clink followed by the rasp of leather sliding through loops. His hips lift off of mine, giving me a precious inch of space, and in that moment, my rage takes over completely.

I gather every ounce of strength I have left, roll my hips, then drive my knee up, hard, connecting with his balls with all the force I can muster.

The impact is sickeningly solid—his warm balls crushing against my kneecap with a wet, meaty thud that vibrates up my thigh. For a horrifying second, I can feel the delicate sac give way, the tissue yielding to the force of my blow.

Crispin makes a sound I've never heard a grown man make, high and strangled, and he folds forward instantly, both hands flying down to cup himself as he collapses sideways off the couch and onto the rug, his face contorting in agony.

Finally able to move, I launch myself off the couch, my heart hammering against my ribs, my body trembling with adrenaline and rage.

And I run.

I don't stop at the office door. I don't look back to see if he's still on the floor, still curled around himself, still breathing.

I just run, my feet slapping frantic and uneven against the floor.

Voices drift from the dining room, my father's laugh rolling loud and easy over the clink of silverware, still no idea that anything has gone wrong. Thomas rounds the corner with a tray balanced against his forearm, and I duck past him so fast he has to catch it to keep it from sliding.

"Miss Lyra⁠—"

I don't hear the rest of it.

The staircase blurs beneath me, two steps at a time, one hand dragging along the banister for balance, while a hundred years of Van Houten alphas stare down at me from their frames.

My bedroom door slams behind me hard enough to rattle the frame, and I twist the lock with fingers that don't feel like mine anymore.

My heart is a fist against my ribs, so loud I can hear it over my own breath.

Panicked, I turn to face the room, and something warm trickles down the inside of my thigh.

Blood.

Thin and dark, tracking a slow line down the inside of my thigh.

I blink at the sight, weirdly numb to it.

There isn't room left inside me for one more thing to feel, so I just watch it slide down my skin for a second, distant and strange, and then I keep moving.

My body moves toward my bed, picking up my sneakers. I shove my feet into them, then cross to my nest and dig beneath the far pillow. My fingers close around the small roll of bills I've been hiding there for a few years.

It’s not very much money, but it’s all I have right now.