Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 109: Alpha Dominance

"She’s not a danger."

Logan’s voice.

It calls me back from somewhere dark and comfortable. Someplace without pain or fear or—well, much of anything, really.

"She’s a living bomb. Five people are dead, Everett. That isn’t something you can just brush off. She has to be contained."

"We pushed her too far. We all knew she was anxious when she couldn’t see me. I told all of you I needed to get back, but you all insisted that damn debriefing couldn’t wait. Was it worth it?"

"Normal people don’t explode and murder innocent people, Everett. She has to stay here. It’s for her own safety, too. Or do you want her to become a target instead of an asset?"

"You know they gave her something. We just need to ride its effects out. I’m not going to stay behind this motherfucking glass. If I’m not around, we’re just asking for trouble again."

Murder?

I’m not a murderer.

Officer Nancy was killed by that not-a-shifter panther. I saw it happen. That wasn’t me.

I didn’t kill Scott, either.

Why are they calling me a murderer?

Whoever he’s talking to—I don’t like them. High voice, but kind of masculine still. A little too snobby for my taste. Like he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else in the room.

My blood burns with awareness as my eyes snap open. Every cell in my body screams danger, and I scan the room until I find the source—a man in crisp paramilitary gear standing next to Logan. No patches, no insignias, nothing to identify him. Just pristine black tactical gear that fits too well to be standard issue.

The sight of his angular face sends ice through my veins. Ash-blond hair cut ruthlessly short, cold gray eyes that remind me of surgical steel. A precise, thin mouth that barely moves as he speaks. Everything about him radiates calculated menace.

My fingers curl into fists. The urge to kill him floods my system with adrenaline. But why? I’ve never seen him before. This visceral reaction makes no sense, yet every instinct labels him as enemy, threat, target.

Why?

My blood burns.

Beeping cuts through my thoughts. The heart monitor beside me spikes, numbers climbing as my pulse races. Other machines join the chorus—blood pressure, oxygen levels, all climbing higher.

Strange. How can they keep track of my blood pressure without something squeezing my arm to death? That tiny detail distracts my brain from its urge to kill a random human—which is not normal, but I can’t quite wrap my head around it—and the adrenaline slowly fades away.

"Nicole." Logan’s voice draws my attention, and my eyes meet his.

All those feelings of needing to attack the man he’s with have disappeared. My body is mine again, and I feel distinctly Nicole-ish, if a little frightened by how un-Nicole I felt for a solid minute upon regaining consciousness.

Then a new fear takes over.

I’m trapped in a glass box. Floor-to-ceiling windows on all sides put me on display like some museum exhibit. Logan and the stranger stand on the other side, next to a set of curtains.

My skin crawls.

Somehow, this is so much worse than being at the mercy of psychopathic dragons.

"Nicole, look at me." Logan presses his palm to the glass. "You’re safe here."

Safe? I’m in a fishbowl where anyone can watch me sleep, cry, exist. The curtains mock me from the wrong side of the barrier. No privacy, no control, no choice.

The beeping grows more insistent as panic claws up my throat. My hands shake as I reach for the thin hospital blanket, desperate for any shield against those cold gray eyes still studying me like a specimen under glass.

My brain, having regained normal Nicole function, slowly filters through the massive amount of information dumped into it in the past couple minutes.

Strange response upon waking, with the desire to kill someone. He doesn’t seem very friendly and I don’t think I like the man—though it’s impossible to truly tell as I haven’t actually met him yet—but homicidal tendencies toward people is not a normal reaction. For anyone. Except maybe murderers.

And speaking of murderers—what is it he said?

Five people are dead. Because of me.

I’m a living bomb. My brain shies away from the vague memory of my magic building and exploding out of me. Who was in the room with me then? There was a nurse. The one trying to take my blood. I didn’t want her to have it.

Doesn’t mean I wanted her dead.

I hope she’s not dead.

Fuck.

Am I a bomb?

Am I a murderer?

What the fuck is going on?

"Fuck this." Logan moves toward what must be the door into my hamster wheel, but the stranger’s arm shoots out.

My heart lurches as the man catches Logan’s shoulder.

Logan snarls, his eyes flashing amber. The sound sends shivers down my spine, but not from fear. That’s his alpha voice, the one that makes other wolves submit. I can’t smell them from my glass-encased jail, but I know his pheromones are probably blanketing their area.

The stranger doesn’t even flinch.

They stand there for a long time, staring each other down, before suddenly everything changes from a tense stand-off to a fight. Logan’s fist connects with the man’s jaw. The stranger absorbs the blow like it’s nothing, pivoting to grab Logan’s arm.

My mouth goes dry as the stranger slams Logan against my glass prison. The impact rattles through the barrier, but not as much as you’d think. The glass holds easily against the impact. Logan struggles, muscles straining, but the stranger pins him there with inhuman strength.

This isn’t possible. Logan’s an alpha werewolf. He could probably bench press a car if he really wanted to. But this man holds him in place with one hand, expression unchanged.

What is he?

Those cold gray eyes lock onto mine. "You need to calm down, Ms. d’Armand. Unless you want more innocent blood on your hands."

The monitor’s steady beep transforms into a frantic staccato. My pulse pounds in my ears as his words sink in.

Innocent blood. On my hands.

Five people dead.

Because of me.

The machines scream in harmony with my racing heart. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I can’t breathe. Can’t think past the horror of what he’s saying.

I killed people.

I’m a murderer.

A monster.