Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 158: I Don’t Like It

Logan looks horrified.

I must look terrible.

I blink away the stars dancing at the edges of my vision. My body tingles from head to toe like I’ve been struck by lightning, but Logan’s expression is what sends ice through my veins. Not cautious. Not confused. Outright horrified. Like I have a pig’s face and horse’s ass.

Before I can ask what’s wrong, Brynn snaps her fingers, smug satisfaction radiating from her like heat from a furnace. Despite being thoroughly human(ish), I can practically smell the victory wafting from her direction.

A full-length mirror materializes from thin air, its ornate frame hovering upright just a few feet away. If there was a museum for old things (so basically, any museum), it would fit right into something from the Renaissance era or something.

I’m no expert in historical genres, but you know—one of those. Heavy, overly-detailed, belongs in some castle somewhere and reflecting the images of ladies in silk gowns before they head to a ball.

Yeah. You get it.

"What the—" I physically jerk away from the mirror.

Then I realize it’s me in there.

Brynn’s smile widens as I step toward the mirror, drawn by morbid curiosity and dread. My feet move without conscious thought, until my eyes catch up to my brain and I freeze.

Holy. Shit.

The woman staring back at me is... gorgeous. Not regular-person gorgeous. Fantasy-goddess gorgeous. Photoshop-filter-but-in-real-life gorgeous. My face is flawlessly symmetrical, with high cheekbones to make an elf weep beneath eyes now bigger and bluer, framed by thick, curly lashes. My lips are a plump Cupid’s bow, my nose slimmer. My hair—yep. My hair is blonde. Platinum blonde waves cascading over tiny, frail shoulders.

I can see my collarbone.

Like, every dip and hollow, I can see.

My gaze drops lower and my jaw follows. My breasts belong in magazines. Defy-all-laws-of-physics perfect, perky and full, sitting high on my chest despite their size. Sure, they look straight from the plastic surgery factory, but they’re the dreams of porn-loving men worldwide. My stomach is flat. Flat.

I haven’t had a flat tummy in... I don’t even know if I was born with one, honestly.

My waist nips in dramatically, before flaring to hips that would make an hourglass jealous.

My hands hover over this new body, afraid to touch it. Am I shorter? I look shorter. I take a hesitant step forward and immediately wobble on legs too long for my new height.

Logan catches me reflexively, his hands steady on my bare arms—but not like usual. There’s nothing intimate in his touch. No heat. No recognition, at least not on his end. My body clenches and squeezes and twists itself into a horny little spiral just from the brief touch alone.

The second I steady myself, he releases me. Quickly. Like my skin burns him.

Okay; new body is a horny bitch. Noted.

Brynn claps her hands together like a kid at a birthday party, which, yes, is very weird on her old woman face. "So? Do you like it?"

Logan stares at me, looking like someone’s ripped something precious from him. His head shakes once, definitively.

"No."

Just that. No elaboration. No softening. It’s a freaking slap to my new, perfect face, but also a warm snuggle to the real version of Nicole still inside me. Somewhere.

My frown deepens. He’s lying. He has to be. I’ve never looked this good in my life. I run my hands over my now-sculpted stomach, turn slightly to check out my ass (which is, frankly, ridiculous in the best possible way), cup my breasts experimentally, and even tug at my hair. The blonde strands feel silky between my fingers.

The markings Brynn painted are completely gone. No trace of ink remains on my skin, but the magic feels embedded, humming just below the surface. Not temporary. Not painted on.

"This feels... permanent," I say slowly, horror creeping into my voice as the reality sinks in.

Brynn hums in satisfaction, a sound that sends goosebumps racing across my new skin. "Too late for regrets now."

I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry. "This is temporary, right?"

Brynn pauses, letting the question hang painfully in the air before answering. "It’ll last until it’s removed. So yes. Technically."

Relief floods through me—until she adds: "But it doesn’t change your magical signature. If they’re looking deeper than skin? You’ll still glow like a neon sign."

I process this information, oddly detached from my own anxiety. Maybe it’s shock. Maybe it’s something else. I flip my new blonde hair over my shoulder, flutter lashes which need no mascara, and look directly at Logan.

"You really don’t like it?" I ask, practically purring at him.

Logan’s jaw clenches so hard I swear I hear his teeth grinding. "I don’t," he grits out, not even looking at me.

Liar.

If he didn’t like it, he’d be looking at me. He’s avoiding it because he doesn’t want me to know how much he does like it.

Jerk.

But also, best boyfriend ever.

Brynn cackles like she’s just witnessed the punchline to the funniest joke ever told.

She snaps her fingers and all her tools—the brushes, jars, cloths—vanish in puffs of smoke, leaving only her wheelchair behind. She flops into it with theatrical flair and a long, satisfied sigh.

"Good luck, darling," she says, waving her fingers at me. "Oh—and don’t worry about pregnancy. The spell would collapse the moment a second life force took root, so there’s some built-in contraception. Enjoy, alpha."

Logan makes a strangled sound like he’s being choked. "She smells wrong," he snaps.

I blink. Of all things to complain about, it’s my smell?

Brynn snorts, rolling her eyes. "Of course she does. You want her scent recognized by the very people out to get her? Don’t be silly, alpha."

Logan groans. "I don’t like it."

Rude. It’s my new smell now, after all. He needs to like it.

"Toodles!" Brynn singsongs, rolling toward the elevator with smug satisfaction radiating from every inch of her fake frail body.

And just like that, I’m standing there. Nude. Beautiful. Confused. A stranger in a body I don’t recognize.

Logan drags both hands down his face like this day has aged him ten years. "Get dressed, Nicole." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

I look down at my new body, suddenly less shy about being naked. Everything’s obscenely—practically pornographically—top tier. Why hide it? I feel a strange confidence take hold, something reckless and unfamiliar. After all, it isn’t really my body.

I raise an eyebrow, toss my hair, and purr, "What? Don’t you want to come touch me? See how it feels?"

Logan groans again. Possibly at the ceiling. Probably at the now-departed Brynn. "Please just put some clothes on, Nicole."

I poke at my flat belly. "There’s a little problem here, Logan."

"What now?"

"There’s no way my old clothes are going to fit."