Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 79: Tick Tock

"Come on, Princess Paws. Look at this shiny ball. Don’t you want to chase it?"

Penelope’s voice carries a hint of frustration as she rolls yet another toy across my living room floor. The fluffy white kitten nestled against my thigh doesn’t even twitch a whisker. Instead, she purrs contentedly, kneading my leg with her tiny paws.

I can’t help but chuckle at Penelope’s determined efforts. "Face it, Pippa. She’s not interested in the toys."

Penelope huffs, flopping back onto the carpet. "I don’t get it. Aren’t kittens supposed to be little balls of energy?"

"Maybe she’s just lazy." I scratch behind Princess Paws’ ears. The purring intensifies.

"That’s it." Penelope sits up, a gleam in her eye. "I need a cat. A playful one that will actually appreciate my efforts."

I laugh, picturing Penelope’s apartment overrun with feline-friendly obstacle courses and toy mice. "You’d spoil it rotten."

"Damn right I would." She grins, but it fades quickly. Her expression turns serious as she meets my gaze. "So, about that email..."

My stomach clenches. I’d been hoping to avoid this conversation. "What about it?"

"What do you think it means?"

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Not much to think, really. Whoever sent it already knows where I work, so they’re just trying to spook me. Let me know they’re lurking around."

"And you’re not worried?" Penelope’s eyebrows shoot up.

"Of course I am," I admit, my fingers absently stroking Princess Paws’ soft fur. "But I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me scared."

She’s unconvinced by my facade. "But why now? After everything that’s happened, why would they suddenly decide to contact you directly?"

That question is something I’ve been turning over in my mind since I first saw that cryptic message. "I don’t know," I confess. "Maybe they think I’m getting too close to... something. Or someone. But I don’t know how. I haven’t had a life since Scott died. I haven’t been doing anything. Just work."

And Logan.

"Logan?" Penelope suggests, as if she’s reading my mind.

"Maybe." freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

I glance at my phone for what feels like the hundredth time, hoping to see Logan’s name light up the screen. Nothing.

"Still radio silence?" she asks, her voice tinged with sympathy.

I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. "Yeah, no response yet."

Penelope rolls her eyes dramatically. "Ugh, men. I swear, your boyfriend is impossible to reach by phone. It’s like he lives in the Stone Age or something."

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising even me with its genuineness. "He’s not my boyfriend, Pippa."

"Right, right. Your werewolf boy toy, then," she says with a wink.

I toss a throw pillow at her, which she deftly catches. "He’s been pulling long hours with Marcus. You know, prepping for their first trial and all that."

"Ah yes, the thrilling world of supernatural law," Penelope quips. "Still, you’d think he could manage a quick text. It’s not like his paws are too big for the phone screen or anything."

I snort at the mental image. "Pretty sure that’s not how it works. Besides, I’m sure Marcus is keeping him on a tight leash."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wince. Penelope’s eyebrows shoot up, and I can see the retort forming on her lips. I hold up a hand to stop her. "Don’t. I walked right into that one."

She grins, looking far too pleased with herself. "You said it, not me."

I lean back against the couch, absently stroking Princess Paws. The kitten stretches languidly, completely oblivious to my inner turmoil. Part of me envies her simple, carefree existence.

"You know," Penelope says, her tone softening, "it’s okay to be worried about him."

I meet her gaze, seeing the concern etched in her features. "I’m not worried." The lie doesn’t sit right on my tongue. "I mean, I get it. He’s busy. This trial is a big deal."

Penelope gives me a look that says she’s not buying it for a second. "Uh-huh. And that’s why you’ve been checking your phone every thirty seconds?"

"I have not," I protest weakly.

"Nicole." She fixes me with a stern look. "Come on. This is me you’re talking to. You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine."

Groaning, I lean my head back, staring at the ceiling. "I don’t know. I’m just worried he’s overconfident about beating these charges. I want to help him, but there’s nothing I can do. It feels like I’m just trouble in his life, you know?"

"Yeah, I can see that. He’s on the hook for murdering your fiance. Lost his job because of you, too."

"He hasn’t lost his job," I say automatically. "He’s on administrative leave."

"Mhm."

A vibration catches me off guard and I lunge for my phone.

A text message. But the number is strange; it just reads 1234567890.

My stomach drops as I read the message:

I know you read my e-mail.

I swallow hard, trying to push down the rising panic in my chest.

"Is it Logan? What did he say?"

With trembling hands, I turn the phone towards Penelope, letting her see the message that’s made my blood run cold.

Penelope’s eyes widen as she reads, her usual carefree expression morphing into one of concern. "Shit," she breathes, her gaze meeting mine. "This just got a hell of a lot scarier."

I nod, unable to find my voice. My work e-mail isn’t hard to get. But my phone? And to fake a return number like that? I’m not sure how easy that is.

Maybe it’s super easy and not scary at all. But it feels scary. This feels far more invasive.

"Are you going to respond?"

I shake my head vehemently.

"Smart," Penelope agrees, her eyes darting around the room as if expecting to see the mysterious sender lurking in the shadows. "But what are you going to do?"

"I don’t know. I mean, what can I do? Go to the police? Hey, officer, I got a creepy text from a fake number. Oh, and by the way, I’ve been screwing your ex-coworker and favorite murder suspect. Think you could help me out?"

Penelope winces. "Okay, yeah, maybe not the best idea. You can just leave off the latter half and tell them about the message, though."

"I don’t think a creepy message is illegal."

Another text comes through then, and this one makes everything so much worse:

Aren’t you glad it was just food poisoning? Tick tock.