Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 108: Critical Mass

"No."

It’s probably saying something about my personality that the first word I can say after being extubated is a straight denial, but to be fair, the situation I’m in warrants it.

The nurse’s pink scrubs mock me with their cheerfulness as she approaches my bed, brandishing those three empty vials like weapons. My throat burns from the tube removal, but I manage to croak out another firm "No" when she reaches for my arm.

"Ms. d’Armand, we need to monitor your recovery." Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s frustrated by my sudden obstinance, I’m sure. "Just a few small samples."

The memory of purple lines crawling under my skin makes my stomach turn. That, and the weird serum they’ve injected me with. As much as I trust Logan—and I do—I have zero interest in giving this place my blood. I don’t want to become some sort of new-age Frankenstein. "Not. Consenting." Each word scrapes like sandpaper, but I need to make this crystal clear. "Want. My blood. Back."

Taken aback, she stammers, "Back?"

I nod. One sharp, firm jerk of my head.

"I’m afraid that’s not possible. The samples were used for necessary testing—" freewebnøvel.coɱ

I lift my hand, pointing at the door. Where did Logan go? Someone came in saying he was needed, and now he’s been gone for a year. The clock says it’s only been three hours, but it sure as hell feels like a year.

The room feels colder without him, more clinical. More like that other place.

My voice cracks. "No more."

The nurse’s professional mask slips for a moment, revealing frustration. "Ms. d’Armand, you’re being unreasonable. These tests are standard procedure. We need to check your blood counts, see if your electrolytes are doing okay, and make sure you’re on the right track to recovery."

Yeah. I get it. I really do.

But what else are they doing with my blood?

I’m no expert in conspiracy theories, but I’m pretty sure any person who knows anything about conspiracy theories would assert that there is a zero percent chance they’re not doing something else with my blood.

Why else would a shady organization come out of nowhere to mount a full-scale invasion to get me back from dragons? Dragons who, by the way, haven’t been seen in our country in like, forever. As far as most humans are concerned, they’re nothing more than a fairy tale.

The memory of Xavier’s bite sends a shiver down my spine. Definitely not a fairy tale.

I want to tell this nurse exactly where she can stick those vials, but my throat identifies as pain, and Logan isn’t here to back me up.

Princess Paws lets out a small meow from her spot at the foot of my bed, and I’m grateful for at least one ally in this sterile room. The blue spirits haven’t reappeared since the explosion of magic. Another thing no one’s talking about, leaving me only more firm in my suspicion against the people helping me right now.

Is it terrible that I have no loyalty or faith toward the people who risked their lives to protect me?

Maybe. But I don’t really care.

The nurse steps closer, and I press myself against the pillows. "No."

She sighs. "I’ll have to note your refusal in your chart. The doctor won’t be pleased."

So? That’s his problem. Not mine.

They can do old-fashioned doctoring to figure out how I’m doing. I still have a fever, so we know whatever infection isn’t out of my bloodstream yet. Keep treating it, then. But no blood. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

But where the hell is Logan? He wouldn’t leave me alone, not after everything. Unless...

The monitor’s beeping speeds up as panic claws at my chest. Did something happen to him? Did the dragons come back? Is the world ending? Maybe it’s an apocalypse. Maybe he’s cheating on me. Is it cheating if we’re not-dating, but dating? Or is it just sex. Really good sex, but still—

No, it can’t be just sex. He still thinks of me as his mate, right? Then again, there was the whole rejection, so maybe he can be distracted by a big pair of blue eyes and a jiggly ass. And boobs. Really sexy boobs.

The nurse glances at the readings, then back at me. "Ms. d’Armand, you need to calm down."

I shake my head, pointing at the door again.

Get out.

Get out and bring back Logan before some slut slips on his dick.

Or the apocalypse happens.

Or whatever horrible thing has kept him from me this long.

"Ms. d’Armand, take a deep breath. Can you hear me?"

Maybe it’s apocalypse sex. He’s been detained by apocalypse sex by some blonde bimbo with giant boobs.

"Shit. Her heart rate’s... God damn fucking Mondays! Ms. d’Armand, can you hear me? Please take a deep breath for me and try to calm down."

The room is spinning. See? Definitely an apocalypse. Shit. My bed’s shaking, too. And I’m suddenly really, really hot. Maybe I should take off my clothes.

Pain explodes in my chest like someone’s driven a burning stake through my heart. Something loud and mechanical wails in harmony with my agony.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me—"

A shrill beep pierces through my spiral of paranoid thoughts. The intercom crackles with static before a robotic voice announces, "Code Blue, Room 742. Code Blue, Room 742."

I can feel those purple lines. They’re back, and they’re everywhere. Burning. Wiggling. Aching. The sensation reminds me of the serum, but worse—so much worse. Each pulse sends fresh waves of fire through my veins.

"Crash cart! I need a crash cart in here now!"

My back arches off the bed. The restraints bite into my wrists as my body convulses. Something’s wrong.

The room spins faster, ceiling tiles blurring into a white vortex above me.

More voices join the chaos. Footsteps thunder down the hall. The purple lines spread faster. I can feel them beneath my skin. Can they see them?

I need Logan. Where is he? The thought loops through my mind as darkness creeps in from the edges of my vision.

The nurse returns with others, their voices a jumbled mess of medical jargon. Someone cuts away my hospital gown. Cold paddles press against my chest.

"Clear!"

My body jerks as electricity courses through me. It meets the magical current already racing through my veins, and the resulting clash sends fresh agony rippling outward.

"What the hell is that?" someone asks.

"Those markings—"

"Focus on the patient!"

Another shock. My teeth clamp down on my tongue. The taste of copper floods my mouth.

"Heart rate’s all over the place—"

"Someone get Dr. Matthews!"

The ceiling lights flicker. Medical equipment screams in protest. Static electricity makes my hair stand on end.

And I’m filled with magic.

Filled to the brim as it burns through my body.

And still they’re trying to resuscitate me. Like I’m dead on the table.

But I’m not dead, because I’m right here. I can hear what they’re saying. Feel what they’re doing.

My fingers won’t move. My toes won’t curl. The magic surges through my veins, but my body refuses to respond to any command I give it.

"She’s not responding!"

The medical team’s voices fade into white noise as something else catches my attention—a pull, deep in my chest. Like a vacuum drawing in air, but instead of oxygen, it’s pure magic. The sensation grows stronger with each passing second.

The lights above me flicker faster. Sparks rain down from the ceiling fixtures. The medical equipment’s electronic whine shifts to a higher pitch, making my teeth ache.

"What’s happening?"

"Everything’s going haywire!"

I want to scream, to warn them, but my lips won’t move. My jaw stays locked. The magic keeps pouring in, filling every cell until I feel like I’ll burst. The purple lines beneath my skin pulse with each new wave.

More magic rushes in. From the walls. From the air. From the people around me. It’s too much. Far too much.

Princess Paws yowls from somewhere. The sound pierces through the chaos, but I can’t even turn my head to look at her.

The pull intensifies. Magic rips through the room like a tornado, invisible but devastating. I feel it all—every spark of electricity, every breath of life, every hint of supernatural energy. It all flows into me, trapped in this unresponsive shell of flesh and bone.

Pressure builds behind my eyes. In my chest. Along my spine. The purple lines spread faster, covering every inch of exposed skin. They writhe and twist, no longer following the paths of my veins.

"Her skin—"

"What the hell is that?"

"Isn’t this the woman who killed—"

"Shit. Everyone back! Now!"

The magic keeps coming. Faster. Stronger. More insistent. My body can’t contain it all. The pressure increases until I think my skull will crack.

A single coherent thought breaks through the maelstrom: This is what a bomb feels like before it detonates.

The magic reaches critical mass.

And everything explodes.