Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 115: Heritage

Jumping onto this opportunity, I ask, "What is a Catalyst, and why am I so important?"

"A Catalyst is both historically significant and insignificant in many ways—" Marcus starts.

"I don’t want the history. What exactly is a Catalyst?"

He sighs. "Catalysts are mixed-blood supernaturals."

"That’s not special. Half-breeds exist all over."

"Those are bred with humans, not each other." Mild distaste crosses his face; while half-breed supernaturals aren’t hard to find, they don’t assimilate well in either aspect of their identities. At least, that’s what the general consensus is. "And it’s highly likely you aren’t human at all. At least not in the traditional sense. What do you know about your parents?"

I shake my head. "Not much." Just the few memories of my mother I’ve kept with me, but I’m not going into those unless I have to.

"I discovered you were adopted as a child."

I shrug. "That was never a secret."

"Might as well have been. No one knew about it." He drums his fingers on his knee and straightens in his chair. "Well, that’s neither here nor there, I suppose. In some old records, Catalysts are shifters who can shift into anything, or can use magic of any kind. A jack-of-all trades, if you will."

A laugh escapes me, a little hysterical. "I’ve never shifted in my life."

"What about your magic?"

My throat tightens. "Nothing special." The memory of my mother’s stern face flashes through my mind, her words echoing: never use it.

Marcus checks the timer—two minutes left. "A Catalyst is special because of their bloodline. Heritage-class, dating back before the age of shifters and magic. Some called them gods because of the powers they held. And, much later, it was found that they could breed with the lower supernaturals. When they did, they brought out power far beyond normal capabilities."

So... I’m important because of what babies I can bear? As terrible as the kidnapping was, it didn’t seem like they were preparing to breed me to anyone.

"And it is said that their blood increases the powers of those who ingest it."

Ah.

The purple lines under my skin itch, even though no one can see them. Invisible, but always there.

"Heritage-class supernaturals were thought to be hunted to extinction, but some bloodlines survived in secrecy." He gestures toward me. "Such as you."

"What exactly is a Heritage-class supernatural? I’ve never heard of that before."

"No, you wouldn’t have. Their existence isn’t known to many. Their eradication is the shame of supernatural history. However—" Marcus leans forward to grab his phone, which gives off a shrill ring. "Our time is up and cameras back on. Smile, Ms. d’Armand. They’re always watching."

"But I have other—"

"Another time, Ms. d’Armand." He adjusts his impeccably tailored suit, offering a charming smile in the face of my frustration. "There is only so much I can do for you. I hope I helped."

* * *

Logan returns a few minutes after the enigmatic lawyer leaves the room, having left me with a thousand more questions and no real answers.

I want to pummel Logan with all the things I want to know, but his tight eyes and grim set to his jaw leave me a little worried.

"Are you okay?"

"I’m fine."

Logan’s lips brush my forehead, soft and warm. The mattress dips as he settles beside me, and something crinkles against my palm. My muscles tense at the touch of paper.

"Want a back massage?" His voice carries a forced lightness.

"Yes, please."

I roll onto my stomach, using the motion to peek at the crumpled note. Five words make my blood run cold: Can’t negotiate any more time.

Logan’s hands work into the knots along my spine, but my mind races. The message confirms what my gut has been screaming—he doesn’t trust these people either. The same ones whose power he used to save my life.

My throat tightens. If Logan had to choose between letting me die or accepting help from people he doesn’t trust...

His thumbs press into a particularly tight spot between my shoulder blades. I should focus on relaxing, but Marcus’s words tumble through my head. Ancient bloodlines. The Lycan throne. Dragons who see humans as lesser beings.

A frustrated breath escapes my lips. I wasted my time with Marcus. I should have asked about Xavier and Eliana, about what they did to me in that facility. About why this place—whatever it is—wants me here. About what being a Catalyst really means beyond some vague explanation about mixed blood and power enhancement.

Of course, had I realized I only had ten minutes before he got there, I probably could have written down my questions in priority order, instead of coming up with them in the spur of the moment.

Logan’s hands still. "Too hard?"

"No." I turn my face to the side, catching a glimpse of his profile. "Just thinking."

His fingers resume their steady pressure, but there’s tension in every movement now. He has secrets he can’t share with me, and I have questions he can’t answer.

Not a great start to a relationship, or whatever we’re doing with each other.

I mean, it’s obviously a relationship, right?

We have a baby together. A cat-baby, anyway.

"Princess Paws is killing his curtains."

"Damn." His hands still against my back. "He’s going to murder me."

"He didn’t seem very thrilled."

"No, he wouldn’t be." Resuming the massage, Lucas mutters, "The man’s obsessed with luxury. Even his curtains are made of silk."

"At least Princess Paws has good taste." I sink into the mattress as Logan’s thumbs work a particularly stubborn knot.

"Don’t let Marcus hear you say that. He’ll lecture you for an hour about the historical significance of Manchurian silk and its proper appreciation."

Does Manchurian silk have historical significance? I don’t even know where it’s from. I have a few fancy and expensive pieces in my wardrobe, but I get them from the department store. "Sounds like you’ve heard that lecture before."

"Only about twenty times since we were kids." Logan’s hands pause for a heartbeat. "He’s been my best friend since we were seven. Only person I’d trust with Princess Paws, actually."

The casual way he drops this information makes me think he did it on purpose. Letting me know who I can trust here. "Wait. You’ve known Marcus since you were seven?"

"Mhm."

Hmm. I wet my lips, hesitating. "Is he... human?"

"No." Logan’s fingers trace down my spine. "He’s an alpha."

My muscles lock up. I roll over, dislodging his hands, and search his face for any hint of humor. There isn’t any.

"Marcus Ashby. The man who color-coordinates his tie clips with his cufflinks and carries his own sanitizing wipes. That Marcus is an alpha wolf shifter?"

"You should see his den. Everything’s arranged by height and color." Logan’s lips twitch. "Even his books are organized by spine width."

"But he’s so..." I wave my hand, searching for the right word. "Fastidious?"

"We’re not all cavemen who drag our women around by their hair, you know. Some of us even know which fork to use at fancy dinner parties."

"I didn’t mean—"

"I know what you meant." His smile softens the words. "But alphas come in all types. Marcus just happens to be the type who sends his suits to Milan for dry cleaning."