Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 144: Trigger Point

"You’re blushing. You are genuinely blushing right now. Just thinking of him has morphed you into a tomato." I can’t keep the glee out of my voice as I watch Penelope’s face continue to redden. "Marcus Ashby has you flustered. This is historic. I need to document this moment for posterity."

"Do not," she warns, pointing her finger at me with all the menace of an angry kitten. "I will end you."

The front door clicks open before I can respond, and Logan walks in with a paper bag of Chinese takeout in one hand and Princess Paws in the other. Well, technically, it’s her travel kennel.

The first thing he does? He unzips the cage of doom, allowing our little white kitten to dash out with a wild, unhinged yowl, zooming straight up to the top of her cat tree and giving us all a view of her back.

She’s angry. Oh, man.

Tonight’s going to be fun.

Princess Paws likes to ambush toes when she’s feeling spicy.

"Food’s here," Logan announces, kicking the door shut behind him. The kitten doesn’t even twitch.

Penelope gives me her say-a-fucking-word-and-I-will-end-you glare. Created two seconds ago and already patented.

"Perfect timing," I say as Logan sets the food on our coffee table. "I just realized I’m starving."

The lights flicker suddenly, making all of us pause. Logan looks at the ceiling with a frown. "Has that been happening often?"

"No." Not particularly worried, I pull out a plate for each of us. And silverware. "I’m sure it’s nothing."

The air in the center of our living room ripples, as if defying my words. My stomach drops as a familiar girl appears out of nowhere, with strange purple eyes.

"You need to get out," she says, voice crackling with static. "It’s too dangerous here. The Conclave is—"

Her image warps, pixelating around the edges. Blood still trickles down her forehead, her clothes torn and dirty. But this time, with Logan here, I notice something else—the way her eyes darken when they land on him, filled with genuine fear.

"—using you." She steps back. "Don’t trust him. Don’t trust him!"

And then she disappears.

Again.

Seems like she didn’t know Logan was here.

Suddenly, I’m not so hungry anymore.

Judging by the way Logan’s slowly turned to stare at me, his green eyes squinted half-closed and his jaw twitching like it’s being electrocuted, we’re about to have a Fight.

Yeah, with the capital F and everything.

"How long has a Specter been able to access this place?"

I blink. He came right out of the gate with a question I didn’t expect, and it throws me off balance.

"That’s not a Specter." She’s clearly some sort of hologram. Specters are a proper classification of supernatural, ones with bodies. It might be made of little more than spectral energy, but it’s still a body.

Hologirl does not have a body.

His shoulders roll back and his spine goes straight. Pheromones fill the space between us. Alpha Werewolf Mode has been activated. Great.

Low and dangerous, he says, "I know what a Specter is, Nicole."

My lips press tight. Penelope sneaks by to pile some lo mein on her plate.

"Do you? Because she wasn’t a Specter."

"I know what I saw." Logan’s speaking through his teeth now. "Her aura signature was purple—classic Specter manifestation."

"Aura signature?" I throw my hand in the general direction she’d manifested. "What aura signature? She was glitching, Logan. Like a bad Zoom call. Specters don’t pixelate and stutter like they’re buffering on shitty Wi-Fi. Did the temperature drop? Did you feel existential dread? No, right? Not. A. Specter. This is Supe 101, Logan."

"Glitching," he repeats flatly.

"Yes, glitching. Her entire form was breaking apart. Hologram, projection—something tech-based or magically simulated. Not a spirit, not a ghost, definitely not a Specter. I might not know how she did it, but I know what she isn’t."

He scrubs a hand over his face. "I didn’t see any glitching."

"Well, I did." My arms cross over my chest. "Maybe your supernatural vision doesn’t pick up all the frequencies mine does."

That gets me a low growl. Penelope, plate full and fork acquired, slides behind me and onto the couch, watching as she shovels lo mein into her mouth. Like we’re her entertainment.

"Look," I exhale, trying to defuse the tension before Logan pops a blood vessel. "Can we at least agree she wasn’t normal? She literally vanished into thin air. Even a Specter takes time to coalesce and dissipate. And she was scared. Specters don’t feel fear."

"Fine." He concedes with obvious reluctance, but the important thing is he concedes. "Still, it means something still has access to your dorm, and that’s concerning."

I run my hand through my hair, trying not to sound smug—but if you’ve ever won an argument with an alpha wolf spreading pheromones, you’d understand. It’s a high like no other. Alpha wolves are notoriously stubborn. "So we’re agreeing that I’m right? She’s not a Specter?"

His glare is hot enough to melt my face. Which it doesn’t, because metaphor, but—yeah. "You’re missing the point."

"No, I’m establishing basic facts so we can figure out what’s actually happening." I try for a sweet smile, but for some reason his eye twitches. Maybe my smugness is leaking through.

As his lover of undetermined title, I should probably be a little less obnoxious over winning. Trying to radiate humble and submissive, I continue, "You’re right. It is concerning she’s gotten in here again so easily."

Then freeze as I realize my mistake.

Logan’s entire body goes rigid. "Again?"

Shit.

"How many times, Nicole?" His voice drops an octave.

Princess Paws chooses this moment to creep down from her perch, sensing the brewing storm and wisely making her way toward Penelope instead of her mom. Or dad.

"She... may have appeared once before." I can’t meet his eyes. Smugness? No longer in the picture. Nope. It’s survival time. "Like, last week, maybe?"

"Last week." His repetition is flat, dangerous.

"It wasn’t a big deal—"

"Not a big deal?" Logan’s volume rises sharply. "A projection—hostile or otherwise—materializes in your living space, and you didn’t think to mention it?"

"Nothing happened!"

Wrong answer. He’s puffing up his chest even more.

I change tactics. "I was handling it!"

"Handling what? You don’t even know what it is!" He stands now, towering over me, his words a bellow. "This is exactly what I’ve been concerned about. You’re being targeted!"

"Will you stop yelling?" I snap, standing to meet him inch for inch. Well—as many inches as I can, anyway.

He doesn’t listen. "You need to tell me these things! How am I supposed to protect you when you hide critical information?"

"Protect me?" Now I’m the one shouting. "You leave me at the drop of a hat for your stupid mysterious missions and now you’re upset when something happens when you’re gone?"

"It’s my job, Nicole!"

We’re off on a weird tangent now, and I’m not even sure why we’re arguing about him being gone. I don’t care. He’s right. It is his job. But damn it, he started yelling, and now I am, too.

It’s not about who’s right; it’s about who’s louder.

A stupid fight when you’re up against an alpha werewolf.

I should stop. I’m going to stop. I want to stop.

And yet what comes out is, "I fucking know that, Logan!" at an obnoxiously screechy register.

"This isn’t a game, Nicole!"

"Good, because I’m not playing!"

Logan’s mouth snaps shut. His green eyes glower at me before he spins on his heel and marches to the door.

He’s got his phone out, dialing something as he goes, but there’s no explanation to be had.

Penelope mutters, "Uh-oh."

He starts barking orders into the phone: "I need a team over here ASAP. What? Madrid? I don’t give a shit. If you can’t get your ass stateside in the next hour, then send someone who is."

The door slams behind him.

Silence fills the apartment. Or it would be silent, if not for Penelope loudly slurping noodles.

I turn to her, hands still shaking from the adrenaline rush. "Seriously?"

She swallows her mouthful of lo mein and whistles low. "Damn. You two do everything with fireworks, don’t you? From fucking to fighting."

I collapse back onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Not helpful, Pippa."

"Wasn’t trying to be." She twirls more noodles onto her fork. "Just making an observation."

"He’s impossible," I mutter.

"Mmhmm." She nods sagely. "Impossible hot. Impossible controlling. Impossible to live without, apparently."

I throw a fortune cookie at her head, which she deftly dodges, still slurping away.

"You know you have to apologize first, right?"

I groan. "I know."