Page 68 of The Rust in Her Hair

And now I’m the one making the beds. The corners aren’t near as perfect as Marta’s but they’re good enough.

I smooth my hands over the comforter one more time, then step back to admire my work.

It's easily the best one so far. The pillows are stacked, the blanket hangs even on both sides, and I did the whole thing with my own two hands. I don't care that it's a little lopsided near the foot. I made it. Me.

Look at you, Lyra Van Houten. A regular little homemaker.

With the beds done and the kitchen counters wiped down, there's nothing left to do but wait for the boys to get home. Owen's back at work now, which means the house is mine until the boy’s boots hit the porch after five.

I drop onto the couch, tuck my feet up under Adrian's borrowed flannel, and click the TV on.

The first week I was here, I sat glued to the TV from morning to dark, thumbing through channel after channel, bracing for my own face to come sliding across the screen. Missing. Runaway. If found, contact Aldric Van Houten.

But I haven’t seen any stories about me running away.

Which makes no sense, because Crispin's family owns half the stations in this city. If he wanted my face on every screen from here to the coast, it would be done. So either Crispin doesn't care that I ran, or my father would rather die than let the world know his daughter bolted before the wedding.

It’s probably the second one.

I flip through the channels again. Cooking show. Weather. A man selling knives to nobody. Nothing about me.

So far so good.

Then I glance at the clock next to the TV. It’s just past ten in the morning. Too early for a nap.

The last few days, Renata’s been coming by to hang out for an hour or so before going to work. I think Owen asked her so I wouldn’t be alone all day long. I like being around the she-alpha. She’s fun and tells the best stories about Owen and the boys. But she’s not coming by today. She had errands to run.

On screen, a woman with television-teeth beams into the camera. "When we come back, the summer trend everyone's talking about. Stay with us."

A commercial fades up in soft gold light. A bride in white, glowing, radiant, her new alpha's hand splayed over her hip. A gentle voice pours over the top of it:

"Every omega dreams of a perfect wedding night. With HeatWell, you can make certain your body is ready for your most important moments. Ask your alpha if timed induction is right for your special day."

I stare at the happy bride without blinking until the commercial ends, and a car dealership ad blares on in its place, some man in a cowboy hat hollering about zero down and no payments till spring over a wall of honking horns.

Only then do I notice my hands are squeezed into fists.

Your special day….

My "special day" with Crispin has long since come and gone.

An image of the asshole folded up on my father's rug, both hands cupped between his legs, flashes through my mind, and I can't help but smile.

It's the nicest thought I've had all week.

My eyes drift to the carpet as I think about that moment. I should have finished the job in my father's office. Crispin was in such a vulnerable position with both hands cupped around what was left of his dignity. I should have found something sharp and cracked it over his head.

Next time, aim higher.

I turn the TV off.

The screen goes black, and the quiet rushes back in.

I drop my arms and pull the collar of the flannel up over my nose, breathing in.

Crisp pine and fresh air.

I don't know when it happened, but somewhere in the last few weeks Adrian's scent stopped being a stranger's and started being something else. Something that settles me. When I'm wrapped up in it like this, I feel loose and relaxed, like I could sleep the whole day away.