Midnight
Lyra
"Ican’t believe you cataloged these by hand."
"Me either." Owen smiles. "It took a full three months."
We're tucked into a small side gallery off the main ballroom. It’s one of the unveiled spaces the fundraiser is technically celebrating, though nobody else has wandered in yet.
The lights are lower in here. Glass display cases line the walls, holding old leather-bound texts and yellowed pamphlets, and one terrifying metal musical instrument that Owen swears sounds like a dying whale.
The party is happening on the other side of the wall. I can hear distant voices, and faint music, but this space somehow feels so private.
"It's beautiful." I press my fingers to a display case, looking down at a slim brown volume open to a page of handwritten marginalia. "Whoever owned it loved it. You can tell."
"Each one of these texts has been verified against three different historical registries before it went into the system.
" Owen leans against the case beside me, his shoulder almost touching mine.
He's holding the two flutes of champagne he grabbed from a passing waiter on the way in.
He passes one to me. "I'm pretty proud of this collection, even if no one else actually cares. " He glances toward the party.
"They’re all idiots," I say firmly. "This exhibit is stunning."
Owen glances down at me. He's tall for a beta. A little shy of six feet, if I had to guess. "You're contractually obligated to care about it," he says with a playful smile. "Your last name is on the building."
But then, something flickers across his face, there and gone in half a second. A small, tired kind of sadness, the look of a man who worked his ass off and not a single person at this fundraiser has come to see it.
I hate every single asshole in the next room right now, all of them drinking champagne that costs more than what Owen probably makes in a week, none of them bothering to walk back here and actually look.
So I do the only thing I know how to do in vulnerable moments like these: I say something ridiculous, hoping to make him smile.
"Actually, my grandfather's name is on the building," I correct him, then slip into my most haughty tone.
"And while I wish I could care, I can't. Van Houtens don't care about things.
We fund them and then take credit at parties.
" I take a small sip of my champagne. "It's basically our family motto. I’m sure we have it stitched onto a flag somewhere. "
Owen smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
"You should be thankful you got to give up three months of your life without a single thank you," I say with an exaggerated sigh, like the whole conversation is a bore. "Honestly, it’s a privilege to be used by rich assholes. It’s the highest honor our society has to offer. They should give out medals."
"Actually…" Owen’s smile grows as his tone lifts, going lighter.
I feel triumphant.
"I got a very nice email from the board," he says, puffing out his chest like he's been knighted.
"Wow," I gasp. "A whole email." I press a hand to my chest. "Be still my heart."
The beta finally lets out a real laugh, a low, delighted sound, and something in my chest goes very warm.
I can't keep a straight face going after that, and I laugh too, ducking my head to hide it. When I look back up, Owen’s eyes are locked on mine. The light catches the soft hazel color, turning them honeyed and warm, and my whole face goes warm.
"I'm really glad you like it, Lyra." His tone turns serious and soft.
Feeling a little flustered, I look down a little too fast, fixing my eyes on the open page in front of me, suddenly very interested in seventeenth-century handwriting.
"So. Um…What does this one say?" I ask as I take another sip of my champagne, trying to settle my nerves.
"That one is a personal letter from a pack omega to her sister.
" Owen leans in, and the clean scent of sage and lemon wraps around me.
"She's describing what it felt like to bond with her second alpha.
The historian who acquired it tried to publish a translation in the nineteen-eighties. He was professionally ruined for it."
"For describing a bond?"
"For describing it favorably." Those hazel eyes are still on me. "There's a difference."
"That's horrible." I shake my head, staring down at the letter in the case. "He didn't do anything wrong. He simply wrote down what someone said about their own life. That shouldn't end a career."
"Careful." Owen's mouth tips up at one corner. "Talk like that and someone's going to think you're a pack sympathizer."
"I don't give a shit what anyone thinks." I cut a glare at the large wooden door separating us from the party. "Consenting adults should be allowed to form a pack if they want to." The words jump from my mouth before I can stop them.
Owen goes very still beside me.
His eyes flick to mine and stay there. Something moves behind them, but I can’t place the emotion. Surprise, maybe. Shock?
But he looks away before I can fully read him.
Swallowing hard, I pretend to read the placard, and the reality of what came out of my mouth catches up to me a second too late.
Why did I say that?
While I’ve known Owen for a year, and have spent countless hours in his company, I have never once asked him what he actually thinks about pack life. He might hate them every bit as much as my father.
Hopefully, I didn’t offend him.
"Lyra," Owen whispers my name, then he leans in. His mouth is close to my ear and the scent of lemony-sage is everywhere. His breath stirs the small hairs at my temple when he speaks. "Don’t tell anyone, but I agree with you."
Shocked, I look up at him.
He's so close.
The corner of his mouth lifts into the smallest smile, and his hazel eyes are warmer than I have ever seen. And for one suspended second, neither of us says anything else.
We just stand there, looking at each other.
"You do?" I finally whisper.
"I do." His voice is all rumbly. "But don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me."
He winks and my body flashes warm and tingly.
All at once, my chest is suddenly too small for everything happening inside me. I’m fluttery and warm at the same time. I press one palm flat against the cool glass of the display case, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Owen smiles a little wider as the music picks up in the other room…a room full of monogamists. Pack-haters. And here we are, standing in an exhibit with a seventeenth-century book, talking about how lovely packs are.
"What are you smiling about?" Owen asks, and I swear his eyes shimmer.
"Nothing. I um—" I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. "I had no idea I was standing next to such a social deviant."
Owen tips his head back and laughs, his shoulders shaking and the sound coming out warm and loud. "I’m so sorry to offend, Ms. Van Houten." He’s all smiles, making my heart beat a little faster. "A lady of your standing shouldn't have to keep company with scoundrels like myself. I’ll leave you be."
He turns like he's actually going to walk away, and I grab his arm, laughing.
"Absolutely not." I tighten my grip, pulling him back. "Don’t you dare abandon me here with a bunch of dead alphas and a suspicious vase."
Owen stops immediately, and laughs.
His eyes sparkle as he looks down at me, and something shifts in his expression. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something else, some easy comeback, but nothing comes out. Instead he stares down at me, his hazel eyes searching my face for a long moment.
Owen's smile slowly fades, replaced by something deeper, more intense. We stand there, looking into each other's eyes, the air between us growing thick with something.
"Lyra," he whispers my name, then he licks his lips.
My eyes catch the movement, tracing the wet path his tongue takes across his bottom lip. I watch his mouth, fascinated by the shape of it, the way it moves when he speaks and the soft, dark beard that he keeps trim.
When I finally drag my gaze back up, our eyes lock.
"I…um…" I try to think of something to say, but then Owen’s gaze drops to my mouth, and my mind goes blank.
He’s so close and warm, and safe.
It’s hard to find men in this world that feel safe.
"Omega," Owen whispers. "I have to tell you something." He leans down, his mouth ghosting over mine.
"What?" The word is breathy, and it takes everything in me not to push up onto my tip-toes and press my mouth to his.
"I’m—"
But before he can finish, the heavy door groans open.
The scent of clove and dark musk hits me almost instantly, and ice tips into my veins. Owen's posture changes beside me, going stiff.
"There you are." Crispin's voice fills the room. He's smiling, which is the worst version of him. "Sneaking off, Lyra? That's not very ladylike."
The alpha doesn't look at Owen at all.
His shiny black shoes hit the polished floor in a hard, uneven rhythm. Too fast. The sound echoes off the glass cases and the high ceiling, sharp and metallic, like a clock counting down.
"I’ve been looking everywhere for you." He sways like his balance is a little off.
He's drunker than he was an hour ago. I can see it in his eyes now. They're glassy and a little wild, and they're locked on me with a terrifying amount of intensity.
Fear slips over me as he gets closer, and I take a small step back, but my hip bumps the display case. There is nowhere to go.
"Mr. Maleth," I say, holding up one hand, like it'll do anything to stop him.
But it’s too late.
Crispin is practically on top of me, his hand closing around my upper arm, jerking me forward.
It immediately hurts.
His grip is too tight, and a small sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. The champagne tilts in my glass. I don't drop it. I want to drop it but I don't.
"Mr. Maleth." Owen's voice is shockingly calm. Conversational. He sets his own champagne down on top of the display case with a small careful click. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."