Page 83 of The Rust in Her Hair

Her head comes up when the door opens, and her eyes go wide, catching on me. Her lips part around a small breath. She looks almost startled to see me standing there, like she'd been kneeling in the middle of my bed waiting for someone to walk through that door and hadn't quite believed anyone actually would.

Then something in her face steadies. Her chin lifts a fraction, and she holds my gaze.

"You’re home," she says softly as I take in the sight of her.

She’s on her knees. Spine straight and shoulders back. Her hands rest folded in her lap and her ankles are tucked neatly behind her. It's the posture her mother drilled into her, the one she falls into at the dinner table without thinking, except there's nothing prim about it now.

She's wearing one of Nico’s thin, white shirts. The lamp behind her cuts straight through the worn material. I can see everything. The full weight of her breasts, the dark points of her nipples pushed hard against the fabric, the shadow of her waist tapering down. My mouth goes dry.

"Lyra." Her name comes out rough. "What, what are you doing?"

Her throat works as she swallows. Her hands twist together in her lap, and when she lifts her eyes to mine they're bright and wet, almost like she’s nervous or scared, but she doesn't look away.

"I…uh…" She licks her lips then pulls in a deep breath. "I’m glad your home." Then, slowly, she parts her knees.

The shirt rides up her bare thighs, and she draws in a shaking breath, her lips opening like she's finally going to tell me what's happening to her.

But before she can get a word out, Nico steps into the room behind me, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

"Owen, do we have other bl—" He stops mid-word as his eyes land on Lyra.

Everything about him locks up, his hand frozen right above my shoulder.

His dark eyes go to the omega and stay there, dragging up her face, down over the see through shirt, all the way down the bare stretch of her parted legs. He takes in every inch of what she's put on display.

"Nico," she whispers as she curls her fingers under the hem of the t-shirt.

She pulls in a breath and holds it, her chest lifting, her mouth opening around whatever she's finally worked up the nerve to say.

Then she stops.

Her nostrils flare, and her gaze cuts past me to the doorway, to Nico, and I watch her lose the thread of whatever she was about to say. That's when it reaches me too.

Adrian's rut soaked into Nico’s skin, sharp and hot and heavy, wrapping around all of us until even my dull nose is drowning in it.

"Ah-alpha," Lyra’s chest heaves once, the soft peaks of her breasts pushing against the white fabric.

A low growl rolls out of Nico's chest, then he moves toward the bed.

Lyra pulls in a deep breath through her nose, and I watch her pupils blow wide and black, swallowing all that honey brown. I can't tell if it's Nico himself or the rut clinging to him or both at once, but something in her cracks open at the smell of him, and her whole body sways toward the alpha crossing the room.

Down our bond, Nico's want hits me like a wall of heat. It’s so intense, I have to grab the doorframe. He wants her. God, he wants her, more than I've felt him want anything.

I look at Lyra, swaying on her knees in the middle of our bed with her legs open and her eyes gone dark, and I send up the only prayer I've got.

Please want him back.

Closer

Lyra

Nico inches toward me with his impressive chest on full display.

He's all thick slabs of muscle stacked heavy across his chest and shoulders. His stomach cuts into deep ridges that flex with every lazy step he takes. A dusting of dark hair trails down his belly and disappears into the waistband riding low on his hips.

My mouth actually waters, and I have to press my lips together to fight the urge to moan.

Nico moves closer, his eyes fixed on me, and his scent thickens with every step.