Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 157: Brynn’s Offer

"You need someone to teach you control," Brynn says, leaning forward with her fingers steepled under her chin. Her voice is honey-soft now, nothing like her slightly maniacal cackling of earlier. "Before you hurt yourself—or worse, someone you care about."

Something in her tone sends ice water down my spine. Like she already knows about what happened when I was with the Conclave. Like she can see the blood on my soul.

The casual certainty of her prediction is too close to the truth.

"You’re a walking powder keg with a lit fuse, darling." Her old eyes lock onto mine. "And when you explode? I guarantee it won’t be pretty."

My throat tightens, and I glance away, unable to hold her gaze.

"I can teach you to harness your untamed power. To bend it to your will instead of the other way around." She tilts her head, wrinkled face suddenly gentle. "What do you say, Nicole? Let me mentor you."

God, it’s tempting. So tempting my mouth physically aches with wanting to say yes. Control is exactly what I need—what I’ve been desperate for since discovering my powers. I’m tired of feeling like a liability, tired of being afraid of my own emotions.

Her hand extends toward me—palm up, fingers gnarled but steady. Waiting.

But... this is the woman Logan refused to call, even when desperate. The one whose name makes his jaw clench and his shoulders tighten. The one who binds supernatural beings in contracts they can’t even discuss.

The one whose work with Logan is so secret he can’t speak about it.

I step back, hands falling to my sides. "I want help, but not like this. I’m not signing anything."

Brynn’s face transforms in an instant—her mouth pulling down in an exaggerated pout. It would be comical even on someone less ancient and dangerous. She looks like a child denied candy, not a powerful witch rejected by a potential student.

"Suit yourself," she mutters, flicking her wrist like she’s shooing a fly.

A sharp crack splits the air. The ward collapses with a hiss and a subtle pressure shift pops my ears.

"You can come in now," she calls, not even glancing toward the door.

The bedroom opens instantly. Logan’s already halfway through it like he’d been braced against the frame the entire time. His eyes cut to me—quick, intense, searching.

"Did she touch you?" he asks, low and rough. It’s not a real question. He’s already scanning for the answer.

I shake my head. "I’m fine."

Brynn waves a hand impatiently, already shifting mental gears. "Good. Now strip."

"Excuse me?" She’d told me to strip a little bit ago, too, but... well, I’d honestly thought she was fucking with us.

Brynn doesn’t even look up. She’s already conjuring something from thin air—a long, slender brush with fine, spun-silver bristles. "Don’t waste time. This spell isn’t a joke."

With another casual flick of her wrist, a roll of ancient silk materializes beside her, followed by a shallow ceramic bowl. It smells metallic and sweet, and strangely otherworldly. For some reason, I imagine starlight smells like this if given physical form...

But of course, it’s all fanciful bullshit. Stars probably stink. Terribly.

"I’m putting this one on your tab, wolf," she says to Logan without looking up. "But if you don’t deliver soon..."

She lets the threat hang. Logan exhales slowly through his nose, his jaw tight with annoyance and pheromones snapping through the air. I know him well enough now to read his body language with some accuracy. It’s not aggressive—just supremely irritated, probably over how she speaks to us.

Strangely, I feel an answering ripple of irritation surge through my own chest. I have no idea why I suddenly want this woman gone so badly, but the feeling is visceral. Primal.

Brynn looks up at me and grins with her creepy, old, desperately-in-need-of-dentures teeth. "I can feel what you’re thinking, sweetheart. Your bond’s loud."

"Leave her alone," Logan growls, the words vibrating with warning.

She just smirks, saying nothing more as she arranges her supplies on the coffee table.

With reluctance weighing my limbs, I begin awkwardly unfastening my shirt buttons. Logan politely turns around, like he hasn’t seen it all. Licked it all. Slid his dick over—

Okay, wow. Bond, calm the fuck down. This is not the time to be thinking about sex. For some reason, I feel like the witch might be able to... hear it.

"Any requests?" Brynn asks casually, as if she’s taking my order at a restaurant, and definitely not like she’s listening into my more prurient thoughts. "I can make you a man, if you prefer."

"What? No!" The horror in my voice is genuine. "Absolutely not."

"Just checking." She shrugs. "Most people have something they’d change."

"Well..." I hesitate, feeling ridiculous. "I’ve always wanted to be blonde. With perfect curls."

Brynn cackles, the sound rattling around the penthouse. "Most of us do when we’re born with dark hair. It’s human nature to want what we haven’t got."

"Could you give me awesome cheekbones, too?" I press, curiosity growing. "And one of those tiny, dainty faces?"

"I could," she says with a sly glance at Logan’s back. "Your wolf into that sort of thing?"

Logan’s shoulders grow impossibly more rigid. "Don’t tease her," he says through gritted teeth.

Brynn just laughs again, but my thoughts have already darkened. I picture myself transformed into some petite, athletic blonde pixie—the exact type of woman Scott cheated on me with. The memory of finding them together flashes unwelcome through my mind, and with it comes a surge of hot jealousy.

"Keep your bond in check, girl," Brynn warns sharply. "Unless you want to blow this place up."

I stiffen, pulling in a slow breath through my nose. In. Out. Keep it together.

By now I’m down to my underwear, every inch of skin suddenly aware of itself. Brynn gestures toward the ottoman she’s draped in silk, and I cross to it reluctantly, settling on the cool, smooth fabric. My spine straightens, like I’m under inspection.

She dips the brush into the strange ink without fanfare. I brace for... something, as she lifts it toward my arm.

The first stroke tingles—like a static shock dragged slowly across my skin. The ink glows faintly silver as the bristles pass. I flinch, not from pain exactly, but from the sensation of something reaching in.

She keeps painting in smooth, precise lines. Glyphs twist over my forearm in tight, delicate curves. Symbols I don’t recognize. Symbols that feel like they’re alive. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

"What do they mean?" I whisper. Whispering seems appropriate. Don’t ask me why; I’m not thinking too deeply about it.

"Concealment. Disguise. Deflection." She offers nothing else, focused on the task at hand.

The brush glides from my arms to my shoulders, tracing across my ribs and down the curve of my spine. Each mark leaves my skin tingling, like it’s being stitched tighter, reshaped one careful line at a time. It’s not painful, but it is... invasive. Like being redrawn from the outside.

She saves my sternum for last. The final sigil sprawls across my chest, intricate and looping, woven through with angles and spirals that seem to hum against my bones. It stretches from my collarbones to just beneath my breast.

"Hold still," she murmurs when I twitch.

The brush lifts. She sets it aside and speaks again, but the language doesn’t touch my mind—it slips past it, sliding straight into lines of my skin, like a flush of cold.

Then it hits.

Magic detonates with a soundless force, intrusive beneath my skin. It burns hot, then freezes, then surges electric through every nerve ending. My breath catches. My knees give out.

Logan’s hands are there before I fall. Strong, reliable. The only reason I’m not facedown on the rug right now.

This is not the magical glow-up I had in mind.

The bitch could’ve warned me.

The sensation fades—leaving behind a numb shimmer, like every part of me has gone half-asleep. I feel... held together. Not by skin, but by spellwork. Like my body is wearing something it doesn’t entirely trust.

Brynn steps back slowly, her expression lit with quiet satisfaction.

Like she’s just finished painting a bomb.