Page 33 of The Rust in Her Hair

Soft morning light cuts across the gray couch and the dark wooden coffee table. The card table's open by the window with a few empty pizza boxes on top from dinner last night.

I need to clean it up.

Tea first.

Owen's at the stove when I walk into the kitchen. He's got the kettle going, one hip braced against the counter, scrolling through his phone.

The beta is wearing nothing but a loose pair of boxers and his glasses, his hair sticking up on one side, telling me he slept hard. His body is lean and lightly muscled, more runner than fighter, a soft trail of dark hair leading down from his navel into the waistband riding low on his hips.

He looks so damn good.

I cross the room and kiss him before he even looks up. My palm finds his jaw, a few days of stubble rough against my hand. He makes a small, pleased sound against my mouth and leans into it for a second before he pulls back.

"Morning," I say against his lips.

"Mm. Morning." He sets his phone face down on the counter. "You're up early for a man who spent last night wrecking Mack."

"I couldn’t resist. He asked nicely."

"He always does." Owen huffs a laugh, then reaches past for a second mug, setting it down beside his own.

I take the tea down from the cabinet, dropping a bag in each mug while the kettle ticks toward a boil. "I forgot to ask you how the fundraiser went the other night."

"It was fine." Owen scratches the scruff under his chin. "About what you'd expect. Two hundred people in black tie, all congratulating each other for caring about literacy while they complain about the wine." He pulls his glasses off to rub at the bridge of his nose. "I stood next to a marble bust of somebody's dead grandfather for the first hour, counting down the seconds until I could leave."

"Sounds thrilling."

"Riveting." He slides his glasses back on and pours the water, steam curling up between us.

I keep my voice easy, watching the tea steep instead of watching him. "Was Lyra there?"

His hand stills on the kettle for a second, before it keeps moving. He doesn't look up right away, busy topping off my mug like it needs his full attention.

"Yeah." He finally lifts his eyes to mine. "She was there."

"How's she doing?"

"Fine, I guess," he says a little too fast, then softens it with a shrug. "Why do you ask?"

I shrug back, spooning sugar into my mug. "No reason. Know she's your friend. I was curious if she made it."

Owen holds my gaze a second longer than turns back to his tea.

I get why he’s caught a little off guard. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever asked about the omega before. But Renata’s words have been rattling in my head all night.

After Mack fell asleep, I kept thinking about why Owen would want to be friendly with someone whose father makes a career out of hating men like us.

"Sorry it was so boring." I wrap my arm around Owen's waist and pull him back against my chest, my chin hooking over his shoulder. "I am sad I missed you in that tux." I press my mouth to the side of his neck. "I bet you looked unbelievable."

"I looked like a penguin who lost a bet." He tips his head to give me better access, a smile creeping into his voice. "Bow tie included."

"Mm. My favorite kind of penguin." I nip his earlobe, and he huffs out a laugh, leaning back into me harder.

I move lower, my teeth catching on the raised scar below his ear. Nico's mark. It’s the one Owen doesn’t have to hide. It sits high enough that even his collar can't cover it, proof to anyone who looks close enough that our beta belongs to somebody.

Mine and Mack's marks sit lower, tucked along the curve of his throat where a shirt collar swallows them whole.

"You still have it?" I ask as I suck at his skin. "The tux?"