Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 86: Breaking News #3

There’s something strange about Jim.

The man’s weird as it is, but he also—apparently—doesn’t eat. In fact, he grimaces every time he hands me a meal.

Over the course of the next three days, we settle into a strange, amicable silence. I know. It’s weird.

I watch TV and play with my cat, and he pretends to be asleep in his armchair, pretty much only getting up to pick up whatever food’s been delivered to the door.

It’s usually a burger and fries, but sometimes they bring fried chicken. In the morning, it’s usually a cup of coffee and a breakfast sandwich.

It’s the only coffee I get over the course of the day.

There’s nothing to snack on and nothing to do. I’ve taken to showering three times a day, just to break up the monotony. And I sleep a lot.

"Hey, why didn’t you try to escape?" That’s the question I’m sure I’ll be asked when this is over. But it’s pointless. I don’t have any way to defend myself, much less fight off a captor who’s clearly in better physical shape, as well as armed.

Anyway.

The news is pretty silent on Logan’s trial, driving me half-mad. I want to know what’s going on, but I don’t have access to a cell phone or anything else to search the internet. Instead, I religiously tune into the news, keeping it on all hours of day, waiting for even a snippet of information regarding Logan.

Of course, that means I also have to listen to a lot of news about me. I’m the news media darling, their little soundbite that brings in viewers.

Everyone wants to talk about the cold-hearted cop killer, the woman who murdered a pregnant officer, the villain who’s escaped into thin air.

Reporters are apparently camping outside my apartment, which means I’m definitely going to have to move. They’ve tried to harass Penelope for interviews, but all they got was a clip of her throwing a microphone at a reporter and telling all of them to, and I quote, "Fuck off, you miserable vultures." I’m honestly surprised there hasn’t been a piece about her being charged with assault.

There’s a lot of speculation about my past, but that’s a dead end for most of them. I guess real journalism is dead. It isn’t impossible to find out the truth, but it isn’t easy, either. Instead, I hear what I’ve always told people: Born in Louisiana, Mom was a schoolteacher and Dad was a preacher, died in a car accident when I was fifteen, and I spent the rest of my childhood in and out of foster homes.

The real truth is much darker, but of course nobody wanted to hear about it back then. And no one knows about it now.

Maybe bad luck has followed me from birth.

It would kind of make sense, honestly. freewebnøvel.com

I run my fingers through my hair for the umpteenth time, wincing as they catch on tangles. Frustration bubbles up inside me as I attempt yet another French braid. My arms ache from holding them up so long, and I can feel the strands slipping through my fingers. With a sigh, I give up, letting the half-formed braid unravel.

"Screw it," I mutter, flopping back onto the bed.

The sheets are cool against my skin as I burrow beneath them, seeking comfort in their softness. My mind wanders, pondering how long this bizarre captivity will last. Days? Weeks? The uncertainty gnaws at me, but the boredom right now is what’s killing me.

Never thought being a kidnapping victim would be so tedious.

Terrifying, yes. But never boring.

I’ve already checked every inch of this place. There isn’t a single knife. Not even a fork. Nothing that can be used as a weapon. Even most of the drawers seem to be screwed shut. The best I can find is the plastic thingy that holds the toilet paper on the roll, and I’m pretty sure that’s not going to win against someone like Jim. The remote would be a better option, actually.

No, wait. There’s an ironing board in the closet. Of course, that’s so big and unwieldy I’m pretty sure I’d fall over trying to hit it on someone’s head. Even the one and only desk chair in the room is actually bolted to the floor, rendering it almost useless, if I had anything to do at the desk.

No lamps. No Bible in the nightstand. No pens or anything else.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. Maybe if I nap, time will pass more quickly. But my thoughts race, refusing to quiet down.

Suddenly, there’s a telltale jingle on the TV. "We interrupt this broadcast for breaking news."

My eyes snap open. I peek out from under the blanket, curiosity overriding my desire for sleep.

My heart nearly stops.

There, on the screen, is Logan. Next to him is Marcus Ashby. They’re emerging from the courthouse, already mobbed by the press. I bolt upright, blankets tangling around my legs as I scramble closer to the TV, frantically pushing the volume up button on the remote.

The news anchor’s voice fills the room. "In a surprising turn of events, all charges against Sergeant Logan Everett have been dropped. Details are scarce, as the proceedings took place in a closed courtroom."

I lean forward, drinking in every word. My pulse quickens as I watch Logan. He looks tired, but there’s a determined set to his jaw that sends a shiver down my spine.

He’s angry.

This isn’t a man who’s cocky about his charges being dismissed. He’s furious, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly why.

After all, no one steals a werewolf’s mate.

"Mr. Ashby," a reporter calls out, thrusting a microphone towards Marcus. "Can you comment on the sudden dismissal of charges?"

Marcus steps forward, his expression unreadable. "Justice has prevailed today. My client has been exonerated of all wrongdoing. We’re grateful to the court for recognizing the truth."

Then, just as he’s about to step away, Marcus adds something that makes my breath catch.

"To those still seeking answers, know that we haven’t forgotten. We’re coming for you, and we won’t rest until you’re safe."

It’s for me. It has to be. They’re looking for me.

The news anchors seem baffled by Marcus’s cryptic statement. They speculate wildly, but I tune them out, focusing on Logan’s face. His eyes scan the crowd of reporters, and for a moment, I swear he’s looking right at me through the screen.

Jim grunts, a surprising break in his everlasting sleep roleplay.

I can feel his eyes on me, burning into the side of my face, but I keep my gaze fixed on the TV. They’re replaying the footage now, and I drink in every detail of Logan’s appearance. He looks good in a suit, I note absently, then chide myself for the inappropriate thought.

I want to believe that Logan and Marcus have some brilliant plan to track me down, but reality crashes in. They have no idea where I am. Hell, I barely know where I am. This hotel room could be anywhere.

Still, hope flutters in my chest. They’re looking for me. They haven’t given up.

"Looks like we’re moving," Jim announces, and I jump a little.

When did he leave his armchair?

One moment he’s in his chair, the next he’s looming over me, his hand clamping down on my arm. My heart leaps into my throat.

It isn’t like I’m unaware of how dangerous my captivity is. I’ve just grown complacent, I guess, since he hasn’t done anything to me in days.

"What are you doing?" I demand, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice.

His grip tightens. "Don’t worry so much, Nicole. We’re just going on a little trip."

Panic surges through me, and I react without thinking it through. With a burst of adrenaline, I wrench my arm away and lunge for the door, even though I know damn good and well I need a passcode and a retina scan to open it. I’ve seen him do it enough times.

Jim’s reflexes are inhumanly fast. He grabs me around the waist, yanking me back. Twisting and clawing at his face, I’m a goddamn shrieking banshee, desperate for freedom. He grunts in pain but doesn’t let go.

We crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. I kick and thrash, desperate to break free. Jim’s weight pins me down, but I manage to turn my head. Without thinking, I sink my teeth into his forearm.

The taste hits me like a punch to the gut. It’s not the iron-rich, tongue-curling taste of human blood, but something else. Acrid, wrong, toxic. My mouth burns as if I’ve swallowed acid. I gag and cough, spitting frantically.

"Fuck!" Jim snarls, jerking his arm away.

My vision swims as nausea washes over me. The burning in my mouth intensifies, spreading down my throat. I try to crawl away, but my limbs feel leaden.

Jim’s hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back. The sharp pain barely registers through the haze of whatever his blood is doing to me. I catch a glimpse of his face, twisted and terrifying.

"You shouldn’t have done that," he growls.

Something damp presses against my face. The sickly sweet smell of chloroform fills my nostrils. When did he get that? Has he been carrying it this whole time?

I try to hold my breath, to fight, but my body betrays me. The world starts to fade, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. The last thing I see is Jim’s face, his expression unreadable as he watches me slip into unconsciousness.

Again.