Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 143: What About Marcus?

Spending a night at a swanky hotel does wonders for a girl’s confidence.

Highly recommend, 10/10.

But three days later, it still hasn’t made my magic any easier to access, so—that blows, and not in the fun way.

I sigh, adjusting my position on the couch. My body’s flat against the cushions, legs up in the air like I’m some weird human L-shape, holding my Fundamentals of Glyph Construction textbook high above my face. I snagged it from the library, hoping another textbook might... I don’t know. Help.

The words blur together after three straight hours of reading. I’ve gone through this Chapter four times and the only thing I’ve learned is that whoever wrote this textbook hates students.

A triumphant shriek pierces my concentration.

"Nicole! Look!" Penelope bounces on her heels, pointing at the coffee table where two candles now burn with steady flames. "I did two at once!"

"Great job," I mumble, not lowering the book.

There’s a beat of silence, then the distinct sound of my best friend’s annoyed huff. "Seriously? That’s all I get? I’ve been working on that all week."

"No, really. It’s awesome. You’re awesome."

I feel rather than see her looming over me. Then her face appears, upside-down from my perspective, blocking my view of the textbook.

"Why are you being such a gloomy butthead?" She narrows her eyes. "Did Logan say something stupid? I’ll cut him."

I drop the book to the floor, giving up. Again. "No, it’s not Logan." ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"Then what? Because you’ve been staring at that page for twenty minutes, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t blinked once."

Sitting up makes my legs feel strangely light and my head dizzy as blood rushes out of my body, trying to regain balance.

"I sent an email to Dr. Blackthorn’s office three days ago about the magical examination. No response."

She flops down next to me. "So? Send another one."

I grimace. "I did, so now I look desperate." Which rankles. A lot. Mainly because of a certain chthonoid with attitude manning the desk.

For someone who’s supposed to be a special case, I’m getting no help at all. It feels deliberate, but I can’t imagine what the end game is for these people.

"You kind of are desperate."

I shoot my best friend a look of murder and mayhem, but it doesn’t faze her in the slightest.

She shrugs. "What? It’s true. You need the test, and we’re kind of stuck until you get it."

My stomach twists into a tighter knot. And this is exactly the problem.

What if I’m a failure? What if this stupid university doesn’t fix whatever Catalyst-level issue I have with magic control? The Conclave seems to want me around, sure. But we all know they’d have no issue nixing me from this world if I remain a loose cannon.

Groaning, I collapse to the cushions once again, my brief spurt of energy flatlining to zero as I snag the book off the floor and return to my half-blind perusal of glyph creation.

Every student on campus can do more than me. I’m not used to being a failure.

Mediocre at times? Sure. But not a complete loser.

"I have to figure this out. There has to be something I’m missing." My voice hardens with determination. "Dev was right—I’m approaching this all wrong."

"Mmkay." Penelope sits by her two candlesticks, watching me from a safe distance.

I must look crazy. I feel crazy, like my soul’s being torn apart with all my worries and concerns. At first, coming to Thornhaven felt almost like a punishment. Who wants to go to a university coded as a magical high school? No self-respecting, independent adult of my age, I’m sure.

Now, I’m starting to feel it. The anxiety dancing around my gut, wondering if I’m going to explode again. The what ifs of my future if I can’t figure this out. Under no circumstance did I think I wouldn’t be able to use my magic; after all, I’d used it. On multiple occasions. Without really trying.

Ergo, it’s possible.

But possible doesn’t mean easy.

I slam the book shut and hurl it onto the coffee table. The textbook skids across the surface, nearly toppling Penelope’s precious candles.

"Hey!" she squawks, lunging forward to blow them out before disaster strikes. Tendrils of smoke curl up from the extinguished wicks. "I worked hard on those!"

Flopping onto my belly, I bury my face in the seat cushion like I’m trying to suffocate myself. It doesn’t work.

My brain feels like mush. Fried, overcooked, disappointing mush.

"What’s your deal?" Her voice carries a suspicious edge I know too well. "Do you need another sex break? Is that why you’re all twitchy and irritable?"

"God, no." I don’t remove my face from the cushion, even if my words come out a little garbled. "I’ll literally die if I have more sex. My vagina will fall off and I’ll bleed to death."

She snorts. "That’s not anatomically possible, but I appreciate the visual."

My phone buzzes on the couch beside me. I reach around blindly until my fingers contact the familiar plastic case.

[LOGAN: Almost home. Princess Paws handled her booster shots like a champ. What’s the plan for tonight?]

I smile despite my frustration. Logan taking my cat to the vet without being asked is weirdly domestic, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. What I do know is "what’s the plan for tonight" is absolutely code for "am I staying over?"

Before I can respond, Penelope leans over my shoulder, her red hair tickling my nose.

"Tell him you want to be fucked until you can’t stand anymore," she says with complete seriousness, as if she’s suggesting I ask him to pick up milk on the way home.

I elbow her away, fighting a sneeze. "Jesus, Pippa. Can you please lose your virginity already so you can stop living vicariously through my sex life? It’s getting weird."

"I’m not living vicariously!" She straightens, hand to chest as she pretends virtue. "I’m merely helping you figure out your magical conundrum. It’s a sacrifice only a best friend would make."

"Friends don’t dictate other friends’ sexcapades."

"They absolutely do when said friend has a smoking hot alpha werewolf who’s clearly trying to bang her into next week."

I can’t help but laugh. "You’re such a perv."

"I prefer ’sexual enthusiast.’" She tosses her fiery red hair over her shoulder with dramatic flair. "Besides, it’s not my fault you have all the fun. I want my own elevator scene someday."

The blush heating my cheeks probably has me as red as a cherry tomato. "Plenty of fish in the sea of academia."

She sighs dreamily, collapsing back into the armchair across from me. "Not really. I’m surrounded by boys, not men. The other day, I watched two sophomores have a contest to see who could fit the most marshmallows in their mouth while reciting an incantation." She wrinkles her nose. "One of them turned his ears into actual marshmallows. It was both impressive and deeply, and I mean deeply, unsexy. There’s probably a metaphor to boobs in there, but I’m not feeling it, you know?"

I tap out a noncommittal response to Logan, telling him we’re just hanging out tonight and he’s welcome to join—in other words, Penelope’s home, so no sex—before tossing my phone aside.

"No good prospects at all?" I ask absently, still half-thinking about my magical inadequacies.

"None. Zero. Zilch." She counts on her fingers. "The guys in our class are too young, the professors are off-limits—not that I’d want to anyway—and the staff are all ancient or married or both."

I stare up at the ceiling, my mind drifting to another person we know who isn’t ancient, isn’t a professor, and certainly isn’t a boy.

"There’s always Marcus," I say, the words tumbling out before my brain can catch up with my mouth.

The silence that follows is so sudden it’s like someone hit mute on the universe. I turn my head to find my best friend frozen, her aquamarine eyes wide with... something I can’t quite place. She’s gone very, very quiet.

"Marcus?" she finally says, his name coming out softer than I’ve ever heard her speak. "As in Marcus Ashby? Logan’s lawyer?"

As if we know another Marcus. I’m sure they exist somewhere, but... hmm. Her reaction is so very, very telling.

"Yeah, him." I watch her carefully. "You know, perfectly tailored suits, slicked-back hair, probably bathes in money, sexy body and perfect face? That Marcus Ashby?"

Penelope doesn’t snap back with a quip. Instead, she tucks her legs underneath herself, looking oddly thoughtful, a faint blush on her cheeks. Her fingers fidget with the hem of her shirt—a nervous habit I’ve rarely seen.

Ah-hah. My girl has a crush.

Should have seen this from the start, but I’ve been a little busy. But right now? This is the perfect—and most delicious—way to distract myself.

"He’s not exactly my type," she says slowly, as if testing each word before letting it escape.

Pish posh; this girl wants in his pants. Bad.

"Since when do you have a type? Your type is ’breathing and legal.’"

"That’s not true!" She throws a decorative pillow at me with all the force of a grumpy, sexually frustrated marshmallow. Which is none. "I have standards."

"And Marcus doesn’t meet them because...?"

She chews her bottom lip, something she only does when she’s genuinely contemplating something serious.

"He’s just so... polished. Like, I bet he’s never had a spontaneous thought in his life. Everything calculated, everything precise." She makes a face, but it lacks her usual dramatic flair. "He probably has sex according to a spreadsheet."

I raise an eyebrow. "That sounds weirdly specific."

"You know what I mean! He’s all business, all the time."

I sit up, suddenly interested in this conversation. "I don’t know. Sometimes the uptight ones are the ones with the wildest secrets. All that restraint has to go somewhere, right?"

Penelope goes oddly still again, her eyes distant like she’s seeing something—or someone—completely different.

"You think?" she asks quietly.