Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 14

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.

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. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

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