Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 14: The Fernsby Mansion (II)

The owner met me at the door last time.

I guess I warrant a butler now?

The man’s voice carries a hint of amusement, as if he’s privy to some inside joke I’m not aware of. I take a moment to study him, my eyes drawn to the stark contrast between his youthful features and the shock of silver hair adorning his head.

"Thank you. I’m here to—"

"Discuss security upgrades, yes. Please, follow me."

He turns on his heel, not waiting for my response. I hurry to keep up, my heels clicking against the marble floor. As we walk, I can’t help but steal glances at him. His skin glows with a healthy tan, the kind that speaks of hours spent under the sun. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he’s a vampire. But no, that can’t be right. Vampires and tans don’t exactly go hand in hand.

"I don’t believe we’ve met before," I say, trying to break the silence. "I’m Nicole."

He glances back, a small smile playing on his lips. "Ah, yes. Forgive my manners. I’m Jasper."

Jasper. It fits him, somehow. Old-fashioned, yet timeless. Honestly, kind of vamp-y, too. Putting a question mark on vamp, but he could be any kind of supe.

"So, Jasper, have you worked for the Fernsbys long?"

He chuckles, a sound that seems to reverberate through the air. "Oh, you could say that. Time has a funny way of blurring here."

Creepy, cryptic inside jokes that aren’t elaborated on? Great. Just what I need with this atmosphere. Also, vamp-y. It’d be a slam dunk if the man wasn’t so tan.

Maybe it’s self-tanner. Does that work on vamp skin? I’ll have to scour the internet and see what the batsluts have to say about it. (For those of you too innocent to step foot downtown after 11pm on a weekday—they’re vamp groupies. Yes, they exist.)

"Mr. Fernsby will see you now," Jasper announces, stopping at an imposing set of double doors. "Please enjoy your time here."

Something about Jasper’s tone, the way his blue eyes seem to bore into mine, sets me on edge. Seriously, why does everything feel so weird today?

"Thank you, Jasper."

He inclines his head, a gesture that feels more regal than subservient, and melts away into the shadows of the house.

Raising my hand, I knock firmly on the door.

"Enter," a voice calls from within, deep and resonant.

I push the door open, stepping into Mr. Fernsby’s sanctuary. The room is just as I remember—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a massive desk dominating the center, and an air of quiet power that seems to emanate from every surface.

Mr. Fernsby rises from his chair, a tall, imposing figure with an air of aristocratic bearing. His silver-streaked black hair is impeccably styled, framing a face that could have been chiseled from marble. But it’s his nose that catches my attention—regal, almost haughty in its perfection.

Okay, no, it’s just huge.

The guy is swimming in gold. He could get that fixed if he wanted. But I guess he doesn’t need the confidence boost.

Is it shallow to be so distracted by his nose? Probably. It’s just so out of place in an otherwise beautiful face.

"Ah, Ms. d’Armand." His voice is smooth, cultured. "A pleasure to see you again."

I shake his extended hand, feeling the firm grip of a man accustomed to power. His smile is amiable, but there’s a glint in his brown eyes. Jonathan Fernsby is not a man to be trifled with.

I force a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. "Of course, Mr. Fernsby. I understand you have concerns about recent security breaches in the supernatural community." Though I have an idea where he heard those rumors, I’m not on speaking terms with the dick who probably brought them to his attention. Seriously, screw Logan. "I’m here to assure you that our systems are—"

He waves a hand, cutting me off. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss, and I fear pleasantries will only waste our limited time. And do call me Jonathan."

I sink into the chair across from him, my guard instantly up. Pleasantries? Call him Jonathan? Mr. Fernsby is all about getting to the point and has no interest in being on a first-name basis with someone of my wealth class.

"Right. Jonathan. As I was saying..."

"Tea?" he interrupts, motioning to the tea set by his desk. It’s on a rolling cart, with steam rising from the teapot.

I clear my throat, ready to refuse when I see the expectation on his face.

Somehow, I don’t think he’d like if I said no. Even to something as simple as a cup of tea.

"I would love some. Thank you, sir."

"Again, call me Jonathan, Nicole."

Jonathan’s hands move with practiced grace as he prepares the tea. The delicate clink of china fills the air.

"Cream?"

"No, thank you."

He adds two scoops of sugar, stirring with meticulous precision. The spoon doesn’t touch the sides of the cup once.

Magic is truly awe-inspiring, but after a while you take it for granted. Watching someone stir their tea without clinking the cup like a buffoon? Oddly fascinating. Who does that? My favorite coffee cups have silver rings on the bottom from my vigorous stirring.

I accept the tea with a polite nod, the warmth seeping through the fine porcelain into my fingers. The aroma is rich, enticing, but something prickles at the back of my neck. Instinct, maybe. Or paranoia.

I lift the cup, letting the steam caress my face. My lips barely graze the liquid, not quite sipping as I leave it untouched.

Am I supposed to lift my pinky?

Is that a real thing, or just from movies?

Deciding it’s better to be considered uncultured than just plain stupid, I leave my pinky alone.

Mr. Fernsby leans forward, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes me want to squirm.

"Tell me, Nicole, what do you know about the recent... incidents?"

I set my cup down on the saucer, the china clinking softly. My hands find each other in my lap, fingers intertwining. The familiar posture grounds me, a subtle armor as I shift into professional mode.

"Incidents, Jonathan?" I tilt my head in curiosity. "I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. Our company deals with a wide range of security issues."

Mr. Fernsby’s eyes narrow, the brown depths seeming to darken. "Come now, Nicole. Surely you’re aware of the recent misfortunes of your clients?"

My face remains neutral. As soon as Logan dropped that bomb on me two days ago, I’ve been checking in with my recent clients. So far, not a single one has dropped dead. I’m not about to lose this client over rumors.

"Sir—Jonathan," I amend hastily as his eyes flash, "I’m not aware of any misfortunes befalling our clients. Could you be more specific about your concerns?"

Mr. Fernsby’s eyes narrow, his fingers steepling beneath his chin. The silence stretches between us. My skin prickles under his scrutiny, but I maintain my composure, meeting his gaze steadily.

He sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of centuries. "Very well, Ms. d’Armand. Let me be blunt. Three of your clients have met untimely ends in the past month. All after upgrading their security systems through your company."

My heart skips a beat, but I keep my face neutral. This isn’t true. I’ve been checking, double-checking, triple-checking. No deaths. No ’misfortunes.’ Nothing out of the ordinary.

I don’t doubt the deaths Logan’s investigating, but I do doubt we’re involved.

"I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’ve personally verified the status of all my recent clients, and I can assure you—"

"Can you?" He leans forward, his massive nose casting a shadow across his face. "Are you absolutely certain, Ms. d’Armand?"

The use of my surname doesn’t escape me. We’re back to formalities, it seems.

"Yes, I am." I meet his gaze, unflinching. "If there had been any issues, let alone deaths, I would know."

Mr. Fernsby’s lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Interesting. Very interesting indeed." He leans back in his chair, fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the armrest. "Tell me, how deeply have you looked into these matters?"

"As deeply as I could without violating client confidentiality," I reply, my tone clipped. "Mr. Fernsby, I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but I can assure you it’s inaccurate."

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that has goosebumps popping out of my skin. "Are you saying I’ve imagined dead bodies out of thin air, Ms. d’Armand?"