Rare Things
Owen
I've read the same acquisition report four times, and I couldn't tell you a single word of it.
My mind keeps drifting back to this morning.
To Lyra, standing in the kitchen in an oversized shirt with her hair a soft mess and that mark on her throat. Nico's teeth, printed deep into her skin, right where the whole world could see it.
She caught me staring at it over breakfast and smiled. Not the careful, practiced little smile she uses with strangers at parties, but a real one, bright enough that I forgot how to breathe for a second.
She's ours now.
I set the report down and give up the pretense of working, because there's no fighting the grin pulling at my mouth.
A month ago she was a girl I practically stalked at work, and now she's in our house and in our bed, and I get to go home to her tonight.
I run a hand through my hair and let myself bask in all of it—Nico’s happy thrum in our bond, and even Adrian feels good right now.
The alpha seemed back to normal this morning, which loosened something in my chest I hadn't realized was still knotted up.
After his outburst, the fight, and that terrible animal sound coming out of him, I half expected to find him still wrecked this morning. Instead, he was on the couch with Lyra tucked up beside him, calm and clear-eyed and himself again.
Whatever he went through yesterday seems to be gone.
The only thing that nags at me is Mack.
He was very quiet this morning, which is so out of character for the alpha.
Mack fills a room the second he walks into it.
But this morning he sat on the edge of his chair, nursing his coffee while the rest of us talked.
And every time I looked over at him, he had this faraway thing going on behind his eyes.
I asked him twice if he was alright, but both times he grinned and swore he was fine. I let it go because I wasn’t sure if I should push. While I can feel every slip of an emotion from Nico, my mental bond with Mack never took, so when he decides to keep something to himself, it stays locked down.
I'll ask again tonight. Corner him somewhere he can't charm his way out of it.
For now, I'm too happy to hold onto the worry.
I gather up the reports and head out of special collections and into the main hall.
The morning light comes down through the tall stained-glass window at the far end, throwing color across the marble, and a handful of patrons are already scattered at the reading tables.
I nod at a regular, an older man who comes in every Tuesday for the microfilm, and cut toward the front desk.
Marguerite is at the counter, her reading glasses pushed up into her silver-streaked curls, frowning at her monitor.
"Morning," I say, sliding the reports into the return bin. "How’s your day so far?"
"Morning, Owen." She looks up as she slips her glasses on her face. "The Director's looking for you."
"Winston?" I straighten. "Sure. I'll head back to my office and give him a call."
"Actually, he said to send you straight up the second I saw you." She looks at me over her frames. "He made it sound urgent."
I pause with my hand still on the return bin. In three years, I don't think I've ever been summoned straight up to Director Ellsworth’s office. He usually either emails me or he catches me in the hall. The man loves to walk and talk before he moves on to the next thing.
"Did he say what about?" I ask.
"He didn't say." Marguerite holds my eyes a beat longer than she needs to, then drops them back to her screen. "Just to send you up."
"Okay." I knock my knuckles once against the counter, keeping it light. "Guess I'll go see what I broke."
She doesn't laugh.
I tell myself it's nothing.
The exhibit has gone over well, and my numbers are good.
Winston probably wants to talk about the next acquisition, or some donor who wandered through the gallery and left impressed. Or maybe someone actually noticed that banned book…
I take the old brass elevator up to the fourth floor.
The doors open onto the quiet executive corridor. The thick carpet swallows my footsteps as I move down the hallway. The walls are lined with framed photographs of every dead Van Houten who ever cut a ribbon here.
At the end sits the Director's outer office, where his secretary, Diane, keeps a desk and a candy dish. And, most days, a good twenty minutes of easy conversation for anyone who stops by.
I like Diane. Everybody likes Diane. She keeps a photo of her grandkids on the desk and always asks after my weekend, and I always tell her more than she probably wants to hear.
"Morning, Diane." I put on my usual smile as I stop in front of her desk. "How's—"
"He's waiting for you." She's already reaching for the intercom, not quite meeting my eyes. "Go on in, Owen."
The button buzzes under her finger before I've closed my mouth.
I stand there for a second, my easy greeting dying in my throat.
Diane always talks to me. Every single time.
She asks about my pack, even though she thinks they're my roommates. And she tells me about her grandson's baseball games. But today she won't even look at me.
Something is definitely wrong.
Taking a deep breath, I carefully search for my bond with Nico, and smooth it shut on my end.
I don’t want him feeling my worry from across the city.
He's on a job site with a hundred things already on his plate, and there's nothing he can do from there but worry.
I'll tell him everything tonight, face to face.
I push my glasses up my nose, and I go in.
Director Ellsworth's office is all dark wood and polished brass with floor-to-ceiling shelves along two walls. There’s a wide window behind the desk looking out over the quad. He's on his feet when I come in, which he almost never is.
"Dr. Cruz." He rounds the desk, hand already out. "Thank you for coming up so quickly."
Winston is a tall, narrow alpha somewhere in his sixties, with silver hair combed back off a long face. He always looks like he's just come from somewhere more important, and today is no exception.
"Of course." I shake it. His grip is firmer than usual. "Marguerite made it sound urgent."
"Sit, sit." He gestures at the chairs in front of his desk, and that's when I notice we're not alone.
There's an alpha standing by the shelves near the window.
He doesn't fit the room.
His navy blue suit looks a little too big for him, sitting wide along his shoulders. He's got a to-go coffee cup in one hand, the paper kind, and I recognize the logo. It's from the diner three blocks over, the one with the cracked vinyl booths.
Winston clears his throat. "Owen, this is Marcus Doyle. He's a private investigator."
"Oh?" I frown, not sure what’s going on.
Please don’t be about Lyra. Please don’t be about Lyra. Please don’t be about Lyra.
Marcus crosses the room, offering his hand. He's got a plain, forgettable face and eyes that don't miss anything.
"Dr. Owen Cruz," Ellsworth says. "Our archivist for special collections."
"Dr. Cruz." Doyle's handshake is brief and dry. "I appreciate your time."
"Sure." I make myself smile, hoping I don’t sound too nervous. "What's this about?"
Doyle lets go of my hand and studies my face for a second before he answers. "It's about Lyra Van Houten."
Ice tips in my veins and my whole body locks up for half a second.
And the worst part is, I know Doyle sees it too, because his eyes sharpen on me the exact moment it lands.
But there's nothing I can do to take it back.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I try to pass my reaction off as worry, and lean into it.
"Lyra?" I look between the two of them. "Is she okay?"
Doyle doesn't answer right away. He just stares.
I have never been a good liar. Even Mack can read me across a room.
"I’m afraid Ms. Van Houten has gone missing," Mr. Doyle says finally.
I press a hand flat over my heart, letting my face fall.
"Missing?" My voice cracks, and for once I don't have to fake it, because the word out of his mouth makes it real in a way it hasn't been. Somewhere out there, people who love Lyra think she’s lost…even if those people are horrible. "Oh, god," I gasp. "How long has she been missing?"
Doyle doesn't answer that either. He tilts his head slightly, still reading me. "I'm told the two of you are friends," he says, completely ignoring my question.
I make myself breathe.
"I guess you could say that." I keep my voice careful, measured.
"We talk when she comes into the library.
She loves the collections." I glance at Winston.
"She always has lots of questions, and I'm happy to answer them.
" I lift a shoulder, going for casual. "But it's not like we go get coffee or anything. She's a patron. A friendly one."
Doyle nods slowly, like he's filing that away. "When did you last see her?"
I let myself actually think about it, or pretend to, my eyes drifting up toward the ceiling.
"The fundraiser," I say. "About a month ago. There was a gala to highlight the new exhibit." I bring my gaze back down. "That's the last time I saw her."
"It’s my understanding that she would normally come here rather often," Doyle says as he pulls a small notebook out of his front breast pocket. He opens it with a flick of his wrist. "Mr. Van Houten’s assistant, Calla, told me that Ms. Van Houten used to come down here at least twice a week."
I shrug, fighting the urge to tell him it was much more often than that. "I’m not sure. I was friendly with her when I saw her, but I spend the majority of my day working in my office."
"Did it alarm you that you haven’t seen her in over a month, when you say she came in so regularly?"
"It's strange." I hold his eyes, because looking away now would be worse. "I noticed she wasn’t here. But it’s not my place to go asking after the chairman of the board’s daughter." I spread my hands. "I mean, it’s not like I have her number. I wouldn't even know how to reach her."
Doyle studies me again, and I feel sweat prickle down the small of my back.
The silence stretches, and I can't stand it, so I fill it.
"How are her parents?" I ask, glancing at Winston. "They must be beside themselves."
"They’re holding up," Doyle says, but his tone is weirdly flat. "As best they can, under the circumstances. They’re both very worried, especially Mrs. Van Houten."
"Of course." I shake my head. "God, of course." I push on, because talking feels safer than being watched. "Do they have any idea where she went? Was it, I mean, did someone take her? Or was she snatched? Or…." I shrug again, pretending like I don’t have a clue what to think.
Doyle takes a slow sip of his coffee before he answers, watching me over the rim of the cup.
"The family's working theory is that she ran away," he says.
"There was an arranged marriage in the works.
A good match, by all accounts. Ms. Van Houten was quite excited about it.
" He sets the cup back down. "But omegas are known to be nervous creatures.
Her parents' fear is that she got cold feet and took off. "
Excited about it.
I have to physically stop myself from reacting, because I can’t help but wonder if the person she was meant to marry was the same one who hurt her.
"I didn’t know she was betrothed," I say, somehow keeping my voice very light. "Who was she to marry?"
Doyle's eyes stay flat on mine. "That's not something I'm at liberty to discuss."
I want to demand this assshole tell me, but it would just look suspicious. So instead, I nod slowly, like I'm taking it in.
"Of course," I say with as much respect as I can muster, but it’s getting so damn hard to keep my temper in check.
"Have her parents gone to the police to report Lyra missing?
" I ask, refraining from adding that any decent parent would have already done that.
"Is her face out there? I haven't seen anything on the news, and if she's been gone a month—"
"The family would prefer to keep this private for now," Winston cuts in, gently, from behind his desk.
I turn to look at him. "Private?"
"They're confident she'll come home on her own," Doyle says. "A young omega, first time out on her own. No money, no phone. These situations tend to resolve themselves. Her father is confident she'll turn up when she's cold and hungry, and tired of proving a point."
And that's what finally does it.
Heat climbs up my neck and into my face.
It doesn’t matter that I know Lyra is safe. It’s that her parents sent a man in a cheap suit to quietly ask around instead of putting her face on every screen in the city.
"It’s been a month." My words come out sharper than I mean them to.
"She's a young omega, alone, with nowhere to go, and you're telling me the plan is to wait?
She could be lying in a ditch somewhere.
She could have been forcefully mated by god knows who.
Hell, she could be dead, and you're all sitting on it because it's a private matter? "
"Owen," Winston hisses my name like he’s offended for Lyra’s family. "I'm sure the Van Houtens know what they're doing. They love their daughter. This is being handled the way they see fit."
I open my mouth, ready to share exactly what I think of Aldric fucking Van Houten.
But I'm supposed to be a casual friend, and Doyle is watching me, and Winston signs my paychecks, and all it will do is get me fired or worse.
So I stuff it down.
I press my lips together, drop my eyes to the carpet, and force myself to breathe until the heat recedes.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I just, I like Lyra. She’s a sweet omega, and the thought of anything happening to her."
"Understandable," Doyle says, and I hate that he says it like he's checking a box.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a card, holding it out to me between two fingers.
"If you hear from her," he says, "or if she reaches out to you, in any way, you call me. Day or night."
I take the card, not bothering to even look at it. "Of course," I say with a tight smile.
Doyle takes another sip of his coffee, then he looks between me and Winston one last time.
"I'll remind you both," he says, "the family wants this kept quiet. No talk around the building. No mention of any of this to staff or patrons." His flat eyes settle on me. "For the family's sake. Understood?"
"Understood," Winston immediately says.
I nod, my fingers tight around the little white card. "Understood," I echo.
Doyle moves toward the office door, but right before his hand touches the doorknob he turns back to me. "One more thing, Dr. Cruz." Those sharp eyes lock on my face once more. "Why didn’t you come into work that Monday after the gala?"
Ice tips into my veins and my heart begins to race all over again. "My husband went into rut," I say, refusing to shy away from Doyle’s cutting glare. "Any more questions?"
The corner of Doyle’s mouth lifts as he turns back toward the door. "I’m sure we’ll speak again soon, Dr. Cruz." Then he opens the door and slips out.