Page 47 of The Rust in Her Hair

Adrian huffs. It's not quite a laugh, but it's close, the first crack of light on his face since he got back home.

"There he is." Mack points at the alpha, satisfied. Then he twists toward the loveseat and jabs a finger at the box of donuts. "And hey. We got a lady under this roof now, so I don't want to hear about anybody inhalin' that whole box before she's out of the shower. We share. Civilized." He stops. "I'll even let her have the maple bar."

Clean

Lyra

The mirror is white with steam. I stand in front of it dripping, staring at the blur where my face should be.

I wipe a streak clear, and a pale girl looks back at me.

My eyes are pink-rimmed, and my wet hair sticks dark against my neck. My neck….

Just beneath my left ear is the mark Crispin left. A dark, ugly bruise sucked into my skin, the blunt shape of his mouth still printed into me. My stomach turns at the sight of it, and my mouth floods with spit.

"Get off me," I whisper as I bring the heel of my hand up to scrub at it. I grind against the tender skin until it burns.

I want to fucking claw it off.

I want to take a fistful of my own flesh and tear it away and leave the mark behind on the floor.

My eyes sting with tears again, and I immediately stop rubbing.

Stop it, Lyra.

I press the heels of my hands into the counter and pull in a deep breath. My eyes drop to the pale pink polish on my nails. It’s chipped along every tip.

Enough, I say to myself. You've cried enough.

I keep my eyes on the ruined polish and shove the swell of hopelessness back down, everything beating against my ribs. I refuse to fall apart over this.

Not again.

After all, it’s done and there’s no helping it, but if I keep crying and freaking out over it, then I might as well lay on the floor and die. It’s practically the same thing.

Looking up at the mirror, I stare right into my own eyes. "Get over it," I whisper to my reflection. "Put this behind you and figure out what you’re going to do next."

I clench my jaw as I gather up the entire memory—the office, the couch, his hands, and the pain, and I shove it back, deep into the recesses of my mind. Then I press the lid shut the way I've done a thousand times before.

For a moment, my jaw aches and my hands have gone to fists on the cold counter. But finally my eyes clear and my breathing evens out. And the girl in the mirror smooths her face into something that could pass for fine.

There. Better.

I towel off, then reach for the clean clothes Owen left folded on the counter. Gray sweatpants and a soft black t-shirt with Wexley University printed across the chest in faded, cracked letters. I dress, and the pants pool over my feet and the shirt falls past my hips, and both smell faintly of him.

So good.

I comb my fingers through my wet hair, take one more deep breath, then open the door.

Steam follows me into the cool of the hall. I go slow, bare feet quiet on the wood as I look at the pictures that line the wall.

There’s a young woman with green hair and a beautiful smile who looks so much like Nico. Another picture shows Nico and Owen on their wedding day, both of them laughing too hard to face the camera. Farther down, three men crowded together on a dock, shirtless and sunburned. There’s a lake shimmering bright behind them. Nico is in the middle with his arms slung around the other two, Adrian on his left with two fingers up behind Nico's head, and on the right a man I don't recognize, big and blond, his head tipped back mid-laugh.

They look happy.

I stop at the mouth of the hallway, where I can see into the living room without stepping into it.

Owen is sitting on the arm of the couch. He looks worn all the way through, but he's smiling. The blond alpha from the photo is telling him some story with his whole body, both hands going, and whatever it is, it's working. Owen's shoulders shake, and he drags a hand down his face like the man is too much.