Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 112

Chapter 112: Dr. Victoria Blackthorn

The bed beside me is cold. My hand shoots out, searching, finding nothing but empty space where Logan should be. The monitors shriek as my heart rate spikes, their electronic wails piercing through my skull.

Shit.

Shit, fuck, damn.

Not again.

I cannot lose control. The price is too high.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears, curling into myself until my knees press against my chest.

"James Cooper," I whisper, my voice trembling. I probably sound like some sort of horror movie voice-over, and my vocal cords feel as though they’re tearing apart, but I manage to say it.

The first name. The heaviest one.

The machines continue their frantic beeping.

"Dr. Maria Santos." Second name. My throat constricts, and I cough against the pain.

"Nurse Practitioner Robert Chen." Third. The sound barely escapes my lips, but even the air moving over my throat forces another spasm of hacking my lungs up.

"Nurse Danielle Walsh." Fourth. This time I just mouth the name. No more pain. My fingers dig deeper into my scalp.

"Nurse Jessica Martinez." The final name. Five lives snuffed out because I couldn’t control myself.

The names become my mantra. Over and over, I repeat them, forcing myself to acknowledge what happened. What could happen again if I don’t stay calm.

Cooper. Santos. Chen. Martinez. Walsh. Martinez.

The monitor’s rhythm slows. My breathing steadies.

Cooper. Santos. Chen. Martinez. Walsh. Martinez.

The tension in my muscles eases, degree by degree.

Logan wouldn’t leave without reason. He knows what his absence does to me. He won’t abandon me. Not now. Not ever.

The thought settles over me like a fuzzy blanket. Whatever pulled him away must be important. He’ll come back. He always comes back.

The monitors return to their steady beeping, my heartbeat finally calm and not an ocean of turbulent waves in my head. I uncurl slowly, muscles protesting the movement. My hands fall away from my ears, and I blink my eyes open.

Five names. Five reminders of why I must maintain control.

"Great job."

The unfamiliar voice has me flinching hard, and I roll over sharply to stare at the person I didn’t realize was here.

She’s not in the biohazard—magical hazard, whatever—suit that the doctor wore.

The woman’s smile never wavers as she stands at the foot of my bed. Her blonde hair falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, and her blue eyes pierce through me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. The crisp lines of her charcoal suit speak of power and money—lots of it.

Something’s off about her. The air around her seems to shift. A shimmer, like heat waves rising from hot asphalt, but colorless. I blink hard, wondering if it’s another side effect of whatever drugs they’ve pumped into my system.

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