Page 40 of The Rust in Her Hair

"No." It bursts out of me, sharp enough that they both go still. "Please. No hospital."

They'll call my parents.

Or maybe even Crispin. After all, I basically belong to him now.

And if they force me to go with that asshole, I’ll fucking kill myself.

But I don't say any of that out loud. I just press my arms tight across my stomach and shake my head again.

"Nobody's making you do anything." Owen's hand settles on my knee.

"She's hurt, Owen." Adrian isn't cruel about it. He says it quietly, like pushing at all pains him, and his eyes flick to me and away, and whatever he pictures drags his jaw tight. "We don't know how bad."

Heat floods up my neck, and I turn my face away, unable to hold his eyes another second.

Then they're talking over my head, hospital and risk, what I need against what I'm asking for, and I let the thread of it go. Their voices smear into a low hum. My gaze drifts up the leaning towers of books and the crooked frames and catches on a photo propped on the corner of the desk.

I stare at the little framed photo, latching onto something solid while everything else in the room keeps sliding past me.

Four men are all squeezed together in the frame, grinning at whoever was holding the camera. A man with tan skin and dark hair has his arm slung around Owen's shoulders, both of them laughing at something outside the frame. Two other men stand pressed in close beside them, grinning at the camera. One of them, built broad through the chest with a flannel shirt straining at the shoulders, is Adrian. The other man has messy blond hair that touches his jawline, falling into his face. He’s got a slightly darker beard and one arm thrown wide like he was mid-laugh when the photo was taken.

They all look so happy.

"Okay." Adrian lets out a defeated sigh. "We’ll see what Nico says."

Owen turns back to me, crouching down so we're eye level, his hands finding mine again. "We're taking you home." His tone is certain, making the decision for me. And, honestly, I'm relieved.

"Okay." I nod, and something in my chest finally loosens, the last of the tension bleeding out of me all at once.

I take a deep breath and push myself up onto shaky legs. The pine scent of the flannel shirt mixes with Owen's clean sage and lemon, both of them surrounding me at once, steady and warm.

I take one step forward, and my knees buckle without warning, the floor tilting hard to one side.

Adrian is there before I can fall, one big hand wraps carefully around my arm as his arm scoops under my knees. Then I'm off my feet entirely, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing at all.

I gasp, my palm flying out to press flat against him, steadying myself against solid muscle and warm skin through thin cotton.

"I've got you," Adrian says in the gentlest voice. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

Owen appears at my side instantly, one hand smoothing over my hair, the other resting light against Adrian's arm like he needs to be touching both of us at once. "You’re safe, Lyra," he says. "It’ll all be okay."

And I have no idea why, but I believe them.

Away

Lyra

Isit wedged between Owen and Adrian in the cab of the truck, and I can't make my mind hold onto anything.

Adrian's thigh is pressed against mine on one side, etched with muscle even through his jeans. His forearm is braced on his leg as he drives, veins standing out along it every time he shifts gears. Owen sits on my other side, his long legs angled a little awkward in the small space. His knee bumps mine every time the truck rolls over a pothole…which is often.

Somewhere far down inside me, I know I should be afraid. Some small part of me still is. But the fear has sunk to the bottom of something deep and dark, and what's left up here on the surface are scents swirling around me.

Crisp pine and bright lemon. Sage runs underneath it all. It moves through me every time I breathe, and breathing is the only thing I seem able to do on purpose.

My fingers find the frayed cuff of the flannel Adrian gave me before we left. It swallows my hands. I work my thumb over the worn hem, back and forth, back and forth, until the fabric goes warm under my touch.

If I keep my mind on the thread, I don't have to feel Crispin's hands. The weight of him pressing me down. The clove and musk of him crowding into my throat.