Page 36 of The Rust in Her Hair

"This is it," Owen says as we turn the corner.

The gallery opens up ahead of us, low light pooling over glass display cases lining both walls, old leather-bound books propped open under it, yellowed pamphlets pinned flat behind the glass. Owen goes quiet beside me, watching my face instead of the room, waiting to see what I think.

"Owen." I stop in front of the first case, an old brown volume covered in a tidy, foreign handwriting. "This is incredible."

"Yeah?" His voice goes soft, pleased, like he wasn't sure I’d like it.

"Yeah." I move down the row, admiring each piece and reading the placards. "You built this."

I look over at him, and Owen beams with pride.

"Come here." He waves me toward a case near the back wall, tapping the glass over a slim brown volume open to a page of cramped handwriting. "This one's my favorite." His voice drops to a whisper, as he traces the edge of the glass, careful, like he could still damage the page from out here. "It's a letter from a pack omega to her sister." He looks up at me, something quiet and open on his face. "She talks about the love and security she feels being bonded to three alphas. The whole book is a love letter to pack life and how special and important it is."

My eyebrows climb. "You put that in here? In a library owned by the Van Houtens?"

Owen smiles, then slowly nods. "Yup. Buried in the middle of the exhibit on seventeenth-century alpha literary achievements," he says. There’s a spark in his eyes, and it makes me smile too. "Figured if I was going to build something, it might as well mean something too."

I look down at my mate, something warm and fierce settling in my chest.

My beta, hiding a piece of our world in plain sight, right under the nose of the man who wants people like us erased. He has no idea how badly I want to kiss him right now.

"Anyway," Owen lets out a soft sigh. "I’m glad you like it."

"I love it," I say, following my mate to the next exhibit, then the next.

That scent gets stronger as we move deeper into the gallery. Sweeter. Closer.

I inhale deeply, letting the aroma soak into my skin.

It’s so fucking good.

I stop in front of a squat clay vase with dense etchings circling its belly. I try to focus on the placard beside it. Something about trade routes. My eyes keep sliding off the words, my head turning half an inch toward the back corner of the room before I catch myself doing it and force my attention back to the glass.

"Do you smell that?" I ask.

Owen frowns, sniffing once. "Smell what?"

"That." I turn in a slow circle, chasing it. "Kind of like toasted almonds. With something sweet."

"I don't smell anything." He watches me with a small, confused smile. "Could it be perfume or…" he trails off, looking at me as I stare off into the distance. "You feeling okay, Adrian?"

I don't answer him, because I'm already moving, my feet carrying me toward the back corner of the gallery.

It's like something's got a hook in my chest and started reeling.

I need to find the source of that scent.

I need to find, claim, love, fuck.

A narrow hallway breaks off from the corner, dim and easy to miss, lined with a couple of unmarked doors on one side. My legs carry me past the first door, then the second, the scent growing so strong I can taste it at the back of my throat.

"Adrian?" Owen's voice trails behind me. "Where are you going?"

I stop in front of a plain door, unmarked, tucked at the end of the hall.

Mine.

"That's the cleaning closet," Owen says somewhere behind me. "Mops, buckets, extra light bulbs, that kind of thing."