Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 68: At Work Again

By morning, we’ve talked a lot—kind of.

Among other things.

But Logan’s fully up to date on the not-a-shifter’s visit, and while he hasn’t said much about it, he doesn’t seem thrilled.

There’s other information to be had, too. Like those accounts disappearing from our database. Even when I approached IT, they couldn’t find any evidence they existed. Ever. Not even a whisper of deletion, no matter how far they dug.

Like those accounts and the printouts were a figment of my imagination.

It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t go to those houses in person myself. There were places where wards should have been, and they weren’t there. No trace at all.

Who would go through that much effort?

Faking files is one thing, but no one knew I would go to those homes on my own to investigate.

"Nicole?"

Mike’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I have to force my face to neutrality when I glance up. "Yes?"

"You doing okay?"

I plaster on a smile, hoping it doesn’t look as fake as it feels. "I’m fine, Mike. Thanks for asking."

The urge to plant my foot squarely between his legs flashes through my mind. I push it down, reminding myself that I need to play nice. For now.

"That’s good to hear." Mike shifts his weight, a nervous energy radiating off him. "Listen, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink after work? Just to, you know, clear the air between us."

My stomach churns at the thought. If I drink anything while looking at his face, I might just vomit. "Oh, I’m sorry. I actually have plans tonight." With Logan’s lawyer.

A flicker of annoyance crosses Mike’s face. "What about tomorrow night?"

I hesitate, searching for an excuse. "I’m not sure—"

"A bunch of us are going out," Mike interrupts. "It won’t be just me. Come on, it’ll be fun."

I bite back a sigh. As much as I’d rather gouge my eyes out than spend an evening with Mike, I need to stay connected to the office grapevine. Information is power, especially now.

"Alright," I concede, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. "Tomorrow night sounds great."

Mike’s face lights up. "Fantastic! We’ve missed having you around, Nicole."

His hand lands on my shoulder, lingering a moment too long. I resist the urge to shrug it off, reminding myself of the bigger picture.

Play nice, stay informed, solve mysteries.

"It’s good to be back," I lie through my teeth.

As Mike walks away, I take a deep breath and dive back into my emails.

There’s not actually much to do. With my forced "vacation", all my clients were handed off to other people. Of course, they’re not about to give my accounts back. But that’s fine by me.

I need a paycheck, but I have no interest in doing any real work lately. So I follow up on the occasional inquiry that lands in my inbox, but spend the rest of my time searching things on the internet. Things about supernatural factions, which does nothing except lead me down some interesting—but crazed—rabbitholes of conspiracies. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

I open a new tab and type "Marcus Ashby attorney" into the search bar. The results flood my screen, and my eyebrows shoot up. Holy shit. This guy’s not just good—he’s a legend.

Page after page of high-profile cases, all with outcomes that defy belief. Murderers walking free, corporate giants brought to their knees, impossible settlements won against insurmountable odds. And every single time, Marcus Ashby’s name is attached to the victory.

My stomach does a little flip. How the hell did Logan land representation like this? And more importantly, how is he paying for it?

A notification pops up on my phone, derailing my train of thought. It’s Penelope.

[PENELOPE: Spill, bitch. Hotel deets. Now.

NICOLE: Stop being a pervert.

PENELOPE: Never. I live vicariously through you.

NICOLE: Get your own life.

PENELOPE: Speaking of no life, I’m coming with you to see that lawyer.

NICOLE: Okay. I’ll send the hotel address & room number later. It’s at 7.

PENELOPE: Perfect. So, is the hotel for you and Logan to fuck in private after?

NICOLE: De-gutter your brain or I swear I’m going to block you. For real this time.

PENELOPE: You’re no fun. Virgin life is getting stale. Not a single decent prospect at the bar in two weeks.

NICOLE: Maybe if you actually slept with someone instead of just flirting, you’d have better luck.

PENELOPE: Rude. I’m saving myself for Mr. Right.

NICOLE: Yeah, yeah. See you at 7.]

I set my phone down and turn back to my computer, diving deeper into Marcus Ashby’s background. The more I read, the more impressed—and uneasy—I become.

This guy doesn’t just win cases. He obliterates the opposition. There are rumors of judges suddenly recusing themselves, key witnesses vanishing, crucial evidence mysteriously disappearing. Nothing ever sticks, of course. Ashby’s record is spotless.

They go way back. That’s what he said, right?

I lean back in my chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. My search for any connection between Marcus Ashby and Logan Everett comes up frustratingly empty. Not a single article, photo, or even a passing mention of them together. It’s as if they exist in completely separate universes.

Frowning, I refocus my efforts on Logan alone. Surely there must be something about him before he joined the SED here. But as I scroll through page after page of results, there’s nothing. Just recent headlines about his arrest and the upcoming trial.

"This can’t be right," I mutter, typing in variations of his name, adding keywords like "werewolf" or "alpha." Still nothing.

It’s like Logan materialized out of thin air the day he walked into our office. No background, no history, no digital footprint whatsoever. In this day and age, that’s not just unusual—it’s downright impossible. People have social media accounts, at the bare minimum.

Who is this man I’ve gotten myself tangled up with? How can someone simply not exist?

I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. One would probably tell me that I should be more cautious and skeptical of a man who doesn’t seem to exist anywhere.

But it’s pointless. It’s far too late for caution or skepticism. I’m already in deep with Logan, wise or not.

I close the browser tabs, erasing my search history for good measure. As I do, my eyes catch on the time displayed in the corner of my screen. Shit. I’ve wasted nearly two hours on this fruitless search.

Glancing around the office, I notice most of my coworkers have already left for the day. Only Mike remains, his gaze occasionally flicking in my direction. I suppress a shudder and start gathering my things. The last thing I need is to be cornered by him again.