Page 55 of The Rust in Her Hair

I leave them in the kitchen and go into the living room.

Owen's still on the couch, the blanket kicked to his waist. I crouch beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. He surfaces slowly, blinking up at me in the dark.

"Hey," I whisper. "Go wash up while I move Lyra."

"You're moving her?"

"To the guest room. Go."

Owen rubs his eyes as he pushes upright. "The sheets are clean. I put fresh ones on the bed in their room before I crashed." He blinks several times, before looking up at me. "And I hid all their sex toys. I figured she didn’t need to wake up to a giant silicone dildo sitting on the nightstand."

I can’t help but smile as I press a kiss to his temple and stand. "Go take a shower, cariño."

My beta smiles up at me, nodding. "Yes, alpha."

Then I turn, pulling my shirt over my head as I make my way down the hall, tossing it through the bathroom door. I need a shower myself.

Maybe I’ll slip in with Owen after I move Lyra. I’m sure he could use the stress relief too.

I ease the bedroom door open, bracing myself for that bitter, fear-drenched aroma, but the smell that hits me instead is even more shocking.

Vanilla and toasted almond, warm and soft underneath it.

It fills the whole room, worked into every inch of air around me.

There's no fear in it now. None of the sour animal panic I got off her this morning.

Just…her.

So this is what Adrian's been losing his mind over.

It's a good scent. I'll give him that much.

Sweet without being cloying, the kind of thing you'd want to lean toward, but it’s not near as good as Owen’s soft sage and lemon. That man smells like heaven on earth.

I inhale once again, enjoying her scent, then I cross to the bed.

Lyra’s so small in the middle of the mattress, curled toward my pillow with her face half-buried in it. Her dark hair spills across the pillowcase, and asleep like this, with the fear wiped off her, I can actually see her.

She's lovely.

Soft mouth and dark lashes with rosy cheeks.

She’s the kind of pretty that probably turns heads without trying.

It makes sense why Owen has a crush on her.

Moving slowly, I slide one arm under her shoulders and the other under the blanket to reach for her knees. But instead of sweatpants, my forearm meets bare skin.

Confused, I look down and find Owen’s gray sweatpants pooled on the floor by the bed. She must have kicked them off in her sleep, too hot or too tangled to stay in them.

Thankfully, Owen's black shirt is long enough to cover what needs covering, so I leave it and lift her.

The omega weighs almost nothing.

She comes up against my chest without waking, warm all the way through, soft in a way that makes me hold her more carefully rather than less. Her head rolls to my shoulder and settles there, her breath slow and even against my collarbone. Whatever she's dreaming, it isn't a nightmare. Thank god.

I carry her down the hall to the spare room like that, and she doesn't stir once.