Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 150: Of Course It Gets Worse

I wake up to pain. Sweet, delicious, earned-every-bruise pain. My inner thighs burn. My hips ache where his fingers dug in. And my core—well. Let’s just say walking might require some mental preparation.

The mattress dips beside me. Logan, already dressed in dark jeans and a charcoal henley, scrolls through his phone. His jaw is tight, the tendons in his neck prominent. The morning light cuts across his features, giving him a stony, distant look.

So much for afterglow.

I grab my phone from the nightstand. Seven angry texts from Penelope light up my screen:

[PENELOPE: Okay, didn’t expect to come home to this. Seriously? Some of us have class tomorrow. Hint: It’s BOTH OF US. (10:27 p.m.)]

[PENELOPE: Seriously, I’m about to come knock on your door and make shit awkward. At least have the decency to let Logan answer it. Naked. I wanna see it for myself. For science. (11:13 p.m.)]

[PENELOPE: Okay, I love you, but if I have to hear "HARDER" one more time, I’m selling all these pretty new wardstones for a sports car. Or maybe a new bar. (1:47 a.m.)]

[PENELOPE: BTW, does he have like supernatural stamina or something? It’s been THREE HOURS. I am TIRED, Nicole. (1:48 a.m.)]

[PENELOPE: You know what? Never mind. I don’t need to worry about his stamina. Also, missing my texts is one thing, but why TF are neither of you answering when I knock on your damn door? Did you forget you have a roommate? AND RULES?! (1:50 a.m.)]

[PENELOPE: I’m buying noise-canceling headphones. I used your card. Thank you. They were fucking expensive, and I have no guilt whatsoever. Also, I stole your cat again. (2:11 a.m.)]

Heat crawls up my neck. Great. My best friend now has an audio recording of Logan and me rage-banging in her brain. Forever.

I shift under the covers, wincing at every protest from my muscles. The sheet falls away, revealing a trail of purpling marks across my collarbone. I’ve been branded, thoroughly and visibly, and I’m not angry about it.

Logan doesn’t look up from his phone. Everything’s still awkward, because we decided to go for a marathon of ahem-ahem time over, you know, communicating. Every time we stopped, one of us would say something, the tension would ratchet, and bam. In bed again.

Can’t really say I regret it, but there were definitely other—more mature—choices for us to make. (We didn’t. Obviously.)

I clear my throat. "So... are we broken up, or having breakfast?"

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. "Don’t be silly. Do you want me to make some coffee?"

The gentleness in his voice catches me off-guard. It’s more sweet and soft than charming Logan. It also doesn’t match Brooding Logan, or Feral Wolf Logan who who fucked me through the mattress last night. Honestly, it’s a miracle there isn’t a hole in the damn thing. A Nicole-sized hole.

"Coffee would be good." I tug the sheet higher. Self-consciousness always comes in afterward, like he didn’t taste every inch of me, even down to my toes.

Don’t ask.

He stands, moves toward the door, then hesitates. His hand flexes at his side, like he might reach for me, but he thinks better of it.

"I can order donuts or something?" Instead of being a statement, it lifts at the end like a question.

"If you want to, I won’t say no." frёewebnoѵēl.com

He nods once and disappears into the kitchen.

I exhale. We should talk about last night. About Dev. About his jealousy. About the way he objectified me, dominated me, made me come so hard I think I blacked out for a second.

But I’m not ready for any of those conversations. I’d rather go for another round with my deliciously overused body than deal with adult relationship stuff. I don’t exactly have a stellar history with relationships... and Scott put all the blame on my doorstep, even if it was his dick in a third-party’s vajayjay.

I throw back the covers with a grimace and check my legs. Yep. Bruises in the shape of fingertips. Hips, thighs, even my calves. My inner thighs sport a friction burn, and it stings. Probably from his stubble.

And I don’t even want to think about the state of my neck. While he didn’t go full-bore werewolf marking his mate forevermore, it wasn’t far off.

I pull on one of Logan’s shirts—he has plenty in my drawers, in case of sleepovers. Non-sexual ones.

Damn it, I’m going to have to face Penelope, and I’m not looking forward to it. Hopefully she’s already gone—

My phone buzzes.

[PENELOPE: I’m leaving early. Logan looks like he swallowed an electric eel. Whatever’s between you two, work it out so I don’t have to be the awkward third wheel after hearing y’all bang for hours! Love you! (Details later, or else.)]

I love that woman.

The face looking at me from the mirror definitely belongs to someone who got fucked six ways from Sunday. Hair a rat’s nest. Eyes still heavy. Lips swollen.

And hickeys. So many goddamn hickeys.

"Territorial much?" I mutter to my reflection, dabbing concealer on the worst of them.

When I emerge, Logan stands at the kitchen counter, two steaming mugs in front of him. He slides one toward me, frowning at my neck.

Yeah, asshole, I covered them. Deal with it.

But of course I don’t say it aloud.

"Thanks." I take a sip. Perfect. Sweet and yummy, with a nutty flavor in it. A peek at the counter shows he’s bought some fancy coffee syrups. Yum.

I should probably apologize to him. Say something about how I’m bad at expressing my emotions and how I’ll try to do better and shit.

But instead of doing any of that, I stare at his phone, buzzing on the counter. He checks it with a sigh, only for his bored expression to darken as his shoulders straighten. His teeth grind together—I can hear them. His forearms flex.

My brain desperately tries to do a tap dance down Gutter Road, but I yoink it back, focusing on his expression.

He looks very alpha right now. Angry, tear-someone’s-throat-out alpha.

"What is it?" I set my coffee down, suddenly not thirsty anymore.

"We have a problem."

Every syllable is clipped and short. Uh-oh. Bad news bears, indeed.

"Bigger than mine and your inability to communicate?" The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it, a giant neon sign saying hi, my name is Nicole and I have no ability to cope with stressful situations outside of sarcasm and inappropriate humor.

He meets my eyes. "They’ve issued an arrest warrant."

I blink. "What? Who? For what?"

"For Scott’s murder."

I blink again, like I’m a vapid bimbo as my brain struggles to process his words. "But... didn’t they drop all the charges?" I mean, it was on the news! It’s been ages now. We’ve moved on.

Logan’s expression hardens. "Against you." He pins me with a grim stare. "Not me."

"That’s not—how—" My thoughts scatter like marbles. I’ve officially lost them all. "That doesn’t make any sense. Why? They dropped the charges... Oh."

No, they didn’t. They stopped charging me with Officer Nancy’s murder. I was never arrested for Scott’s, just a person of interest, as they say. When they charged Logan, it never occurred to me they might revisit the case.

This was not on my Academy Life Bingo Card.

But I know exactly how they’d pin this on me. I was Scott’s ex-fiancée. I had motive. I was at the scene. I’ve been accused before. Why would I be surprised that someone decided to try again?

"Marcus is already on it," Logan says, sounding strangely far away. "They claim to have a witness."

"But there can’t be one. I didn’t do it. They have no evidence. I didn’t—" My hands shake, and he grabs them in his, warm and reassuring.

My stomach’s still flipping around, though.

"We’ll protect you, Nicole. Don’t worry."

I’m worried.