Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 28: Going Home

After filing an official complaint against Scott, the rest of my day is unexpectedly open.

Thankfully, as someone who was saving all her vacation hours for a wedding that’s no longer happening, I can take another day off without too much concern—though I am worried about missing communication from the Fernsby account.

Rich clients don’t like to be kept waiting.

And he might take my recent silence as a sign that all the rumors are true...

No. No, it’ll be okay. I’ll call them as my priority on Monday and explain that I was hospitalized after the accident on the mountain.

Hyping myself up, convincing my worried brain I haven’t lost thousands of dollars in commission, I head home in a rideshare, wanting nothing more than a shower. The sensation of Scott’s fingers digging into my arms, the dread when I realized he was about to kiss me, leaves my body feeling dirty.

Beyond that, his change in behavior is concerning. Admittedly, I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. After all, the Scott I agreed to marry isn’t the type of man who would cheat.

But this Scott—the one who can’t take no for an answer, so persistent in his delusions that I’m somehow falling apart without him? He’s a stranger.

He’s never been one to leverage his work authority over others. Aside from our recent breakup, Scott’s been a great superior to work for.

Has he been hiding his true self all this time?

Distracted by my thoughts, I don’t check the number when someone calls my phone, answering immediately. "Nicole d’Armand."

Damn. I’m even answering my personal phone like a work call.

"Where are you?" The voice seems familiar, definitely male, but it’s hard to tell through the static. Pulling the phone from my ear, I check the number, but it just says Restricted.

"Who is this?"

"Where are you?" the staticky voice repeats, the sound of impatience coming through loud and clear despite the interference on the line.

"Who’s asking?"

"Look, I’m just trying—" and the voice cuts out, leaving me with only partial sounds.

Pulling the phone away from my face once again to check the signal strength—full, of course, as I expect—I press it against my ear. "I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying."

"—go home. Okay? Got it?"

"Hello?"

"Whatever you do, don’t—"

The line goes dead, leaving me with little more than an ominous shiver.

* * *

"Thank you," I tell the rideshare driver as I slip out of the car.

"Have a safe day, ma’am."

"You too," I respond automatically, despite my brain getting stuck on the way he says to have a safe day, instead of a good or nice one.

As a solo female traveler, I’m sure he’s worried about my safety. It’s a kind thing to say. Shoving my paranoia down with a firm stamp of a mental heel, I stride into the lobby of my apartment building with confidence, even as my brain wonders what the next accident will be.

I’m not made for the murder mystery lifestyle. No idea how people can live this way. It has me so paranoid I’m second-guessing everyone.

And it isn’t even my case!

If it wasn’t for the damn Fernsby account, I’d leave it to the SED and whatever task force my company comes up with to work with them. I want nothing to do with this kind of high-stakes situation.

I like magic. Magic is simple. Refined. It follows a set of rules. It’s predictable.

It’s the best friend everyone needs in this world—along with Penelope, of course.

The lobby’s unusually busy for this time of day, with a few other people grabbing mail. I barely register their faces—honestly couldn’t tell you what my neighbor looks like if a gun was pressed to my head—and check my box.

Empty.

I blink, peering into the empty cavity. Even on slow days, there’s always something. A flyer for pizza delivery. A credit card offer. A reminder that my car’s extended warranty is about to expire (it isn’t).

Instead of taking the elevator, I use the stairs. Once a week or so, I force myself through the torture. Beauty is pain. I need exercise. I eat too many cookies on a regular basis.

Three flights. Four. My calves burn, reminding me how long it’s been since I hit the gym. Note to self: cardio is not optional when you’re dealing with supernatural threats. Take advantage of the gym membership. It’s taken out of my bank account on a faithful monthly basis, but I think I’ve walked through the doors twice.

I reach my floor, my knees twinging a little. Screw stairs. I hate stairs.

The hallway is mercifully empty, no nosy neighbors to dodge. But every sense of mine goes on high alert.

Something’s not right.

I can’t put my finger on it, but years of working with magic have honed my instincts. There’s a charge in the air, barely perceptible but unmistakable. Like the calm before a storm, or the moment before a spell ignites.

My hand hovers over the doorknob. Should I go in? Call the police? For what? A feeling? They’d laugh and hang up on me.

There’s nothing strange to be seen. Or heard. Or smelled. Just that faint electric tingle in the air.

"Get a grip, Nicole. It’s your own damn apartment."

I take a deep breath, slide the key into the lock, and turn it.

The door swings open silently. I step inside, every muscle tense, ready to react to... what? A magical booby trap? An intruder? Scott, come to beg forgiveness again? Of course not. He’s at work, where I left him.

The apartment looks exactly as I left it this morning. Dishes in the sink (I really need to do those). A half-empty coffee mug on the counter. My laptop closed on the coffee table, surrounded by a scatter of papers from my investigation.

I close the door behind me, engaging the deadbolt with a firm snick that should leave me feeling relieved but just heightens my unease.

No sign of forced entry. No mysterious packages or notes left behind.

So why can’t I shake this feeling?

I move through the apartment, checking each room methodically. Bedroom: Untouched. Bathroom: Nothing unusual, unless you count the impressive collection of half-empty shampoo bottles I keep meaning to consolidate. Guest room: Filled with Scott’s shit he needs to take back.

Speaking of which... fishing my phone out of my pocket, I send a quick text, asking to get his shit out of my apartment tonight.

His response comes quickly—asking my forgiveness, then a thumbs-up saying he’ll come by after work.

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my skull. Forgiveness? Is he serious? The audacity of this man never ceases to amaze me.

"Forgiveness," I scoff. Yeah, right.

Tossing my phone to the couch, I grab the laboriously glued-together Meissen (thanks to Penelope) and set it in the room with the rest of Scott’s effects. Don’t need to stare at ugly baby cupids any longer than necessary.

I should have known by his taste in antiques that we weren’t meant to be.