Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 152: Alpha Domestic

I stare at the elevator floor with laser-like intensity. The same floor where Logan and I... you know. Did the thing. The sex thing. The thing where I apparently turned into Old Faithful and gushed all over the polished surface. My cheeks burn, and I force my gaze to stay locked on one particular spot near my left foot.

"Has this been cleaned since I... you know..." My voice trails off in a strangled whisper.

Logan, standing beside me with Princess Paws’ carrier tucked under one arm, raises an eyebrow. "Since you what? Had the most spectacular orgasm of your life?"

"Exploded on it," I hiss, mortified.

His lips twitch. "I had it professionally sanitized. Twice."

Thank God. Though I can’t help but wonder what the cleaning crew thought when they got that call. Hi, yes, can you send someone up? We need to sterilize the elevator. No, I can’t tell you why.

Logan looks unfairly good carrying a cat carrier. Like some domestic version of an alpha werewolf—Alpha Domestic™, if you will. His bicep flexes as he shifts Princess Paws’ weight, and she gives a disgruntled meow in response.

"Almost there, Princess," he coos down at her. "I’ve got treats waiting for you."

It’s unfair how sexy he looks when acting adorable. I probably look half-demented when I’m cooing at the cat.

Cat Ladies are not sexy. It’s a known fact. We wear robes covered in cat fur and smell like used litter.

Then again, I have about seven cats to go before I can officially be entitled Cat Lady Nicole, so I guess I’m safe.

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the familiar penthouse suite. The place smells clean. Very professionally spritzed with something orangey.

My shoulders drop half an inch as tension drains away. It isn’t home, but at least I can sit down for a while.

I shuffle past Logan and make a beeline for the couch, where I flop face-down with a dramatic groan. Shakespeare would be proud.

It’s been a very busy... hour? Half-hour? Things kind of escalated quickly after his little "bomb" announcement. I’m still processing.

"Make yourself at home," Logan says dryly, setting our kitten’s carrier down. He unlatches the door and she emerges with royal disdain, tail high and bushy.

"She’s pissed at you," I mumble into the cushion.

"She’ll forgive me once she sees what I’ve set up." Logan leads Princess Paws around a corner, his voice carrying back to me. "See? Your own private bathroom space. And yes, it’s the same litter. Don’t meow like that. You’re being dramatic. Just step on it."

I turn my head just enough to breathe properly, watching as he shows my cat a pristine litter box tucked discreetly in an alcove. Because of course Logan Everett doesn’t just have a litter box—he has a designer litter setup, strategically placed for feline privacy. With a privacy fence.

What are those foldy screen-things called? Room dividers? Yeah. One of those.

"Explain like I’m five why I’m here again?" I call out, still limp on the couch. "And please tell me the table got sterilized." I cast a wary eyeball n the direction of the dining table, remembering another bout of debauchery there.

Logan returns, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. He perches on the arm of a chair opposite me. "The bomb threat was the fastest legal method to remove you from Thornhaven without alerting the wrong people."

I blink. "Legal method?"

"Well, legal for me. It’s not technically illegal."

"Legal by whose standard?" I prop myself up on my elbows to squint at him. Following his thought process must be how he feels following mine.

Ah, relationships. So glamorous and romantic.

"The Conclave." He shrugs. "I’m not rebelling, for the record. It’s just the easiest way to make sure you’re protected. Marcus helped arrange it."

"How? When?"

"This was our emergency plan since before you arrived on campus."

I sit up slowly, my brain finally connecting dots. "You ruined everyone’s day with a fake bomb threat just to... get me out of my dorm room?"

Something shifts in Logan’s expression—a hardening around his eyes, the slightest flare of his nostrils. "Why should I care about their day when my mate is in danger?"

His tone vibrates with alpha dominance, and it sends a shiver down my spine. Not the sexy kind. The oh shit, he’s actually upset kind. I’m supposed to be avoiding this situation.

Good girlfriend Nicole is here to stay, damn it.

"You were about to be arrested, Nicole. Or worse. Do you know how close we are to you being taken by the police? Or by whoever this mystery witness is working for?" He presses his lips together, green eyes stormy. "If you’d been taken into custody, we might never have gotten you out. Not with what you are. We can’t keep a secret like that forever."

He’s right. I’m an asshole. Here he is, moving heaven and earth to protect me, and I’m worried about inconveniencing some students who probably welcomed the day off anyway.

Maybe not a traumatic day off, but werewolves don’t exactly do things in a human way sometimes.

"I’m sorry." Aiming for contrite, I lower my head and look up from below. Penelope says it makes us look small and delicate, and stirs men’s protective instincts. "I’m just not used to this kind of care."

Patting the couch beside me, I add, "Come sit."

I’m being affectionate. This is what affection looks like.

So explain to me why Logan’s staring at me like I have two heads.

"What?" I hope my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.

He approaches cautiously, sinking onto the cushion next to me but maintaining a careful distance. Like I might bite. Which is rich, coming from the werewolf.

I sigh and scoot over, awkwardly interlacing my arm with his and pressing against his side. It’s stiff, it’s uncomfortable, and it’s probably the least sexy cuddle in human history.

"I’m sorry," I blurt out. "I’m terrible at this. I hold grudges. I get mean when I’m mad. I’m not good at... you know, adulting with emotions."

The words spill out unfiltered, surprising even me with their honesty. But they’re true. Scott was never a big fan of me when I’d get "on one", which is why separating work and our relationship was kind of a necessity.

Logan’s arm shifts, and for a horrible moment I think he’s pulling away. Instead, he wraps it around my shoulders and draws me closer.

"You’re not mean," he says quietly. "You’re sweet. Accommodating. Thoughtful. You care so much, it leaks out sideways when you’re scared."

Every word he says is so gentle, so kind, so loving...

I pull away and study his face, my eyebrows diving down. "You’re trying to butter me up."

His lips quirk up at the corner. "Bingo."

The tension between us pops like a bubble, and I find myself laughing—the first real laugh since this whole mess between us started. I slump against him, letting my head rest on his shoulder.

"We’re really bad at this relationship thing, aren’t we?"

His hand strokes my hair. "I don’t know. I think we’re figuring it out."

Princess Paws leaps onto the couch, settling herself primly between us. Her blue eyes flick from Logan to me, as if to say, Settle down, children. I’ll supervise from here.

Or maybe I’m hungry. Feed me now, peasants.

Could be either. freeweɓnovel.cѳm

Maybe we are figuring this out. Not gracefully. Not efficiently. But somehow.

"So... what happens next?" I ask him, trying really hard not to just... sigh.