Page 69 of The Rust in Her Hair

In fact, their scents seem to all do something to me.

Owen soothes me. His clean sage and lemon smooths all my sharp edges down until I can breathe evenly again.

Mack makes no sense at all. His hazelnut shouldn't do anything, but every time it drifts past me I feel my mouth wanting to curve up into a smile. It’s like there’s some dumb, involuntary happiness rising in my chest for no reason. It also doesn't help that the massive alpha walks around half-naked most of the time.

But Nico is a different problem entirely. One lungful of his dark, worn leather, and my whole body goes warm and stupid, heat curling low in my belly whether I want it there or not. I actually spend most of my day trying not to think about it.

My eyes drift down the hall toward the guest room and the big, soft bed I just finished making.

A nap would be so lovely right now.

"Screw it."

I push off the couch and head toward the guest room, already picturing the way that comforter's going to feel on my skin.

I make it three steps into the room before stopping.

The bed is perfect. The corners are smooth, the pillows stacked, everything crisp and even. And if I crawl into it, I'll wrinkle the whole thing, and there's something about undoing my own work I can't quite stomach.

But if I get a blanket, then I could lie on top of it and not mess it up.

I pad back out and down the hall to the primary bedroom, where I draped a quilt over the foot of the bed.

The second I open the door, I’m hit with the full force of Nico’s scent. It makes my toes tingle with each step.

He’s married to Owen, I chant over and over and over.

The big green quilt is right where I left it. I pick it up and hug it to my chest, then snuggle my face right into the worn, soft material. It's warm from the sun coming through the window, with a faint trace of Owen’s lemon and sage.

He’s married to Nico, I chant again and again.

I turn to leave, but stop, because one blanket doesn't seem like nearly enough all of a sudden.

Glancing around the room, I see a heavier blanket folded over a small chair in the corner. I grab that one too, then scan the bed one more time.

The bed has so many pillows.

Nobody needs this many pillows.

Surely they won't miss one or two. I tuck one under my arms, then decide the big one against the headboard is better, softer, so I take that instead. Then I snatch the first back, because now that I'm holding them, I can't figure out which I'd rather do without.

My arms are stacked so high I can't see over the top of them. I shift my feet forward, and one of the pillows slips free, hitting the floor. I readjust, clamp everything tighter to my chest, and make it two more steps before a second pillow slides loose and flops at my feet.

"Oh, for the love of⁠—"

I give up and just dump the whole armload on the floor in the middle of the room, blankets and pillows spilling out across the carpet in a soft heap.

There. Much better.

I'm crouched over the pile, refolding the blankets, when I notice the closet door standing ajar across from me.

A dark navy hoodie hangs half off a hook. It looks soft.

I move and snatch it as fast as I can, then inhale it deeply.

Worn leather and dark amber. Nico.

It matches a shirt already draped over my shoulders, and some part of me decides, with total certainty, that I need more. I snatch the gray shirt that was hanging beside it, because it's soft and it's Owen’s and it smells like warmth. Then a pair of sweats off the floor that's so worn it's practically felt.