Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 13: The Fernsby Mansion (I)

The next three days fly by with a shocking lack of drama.

No Logan at my door.

No Scott shenanigans in the office.

Nothing but peace.

It’s enough to make a girl’s skin crawl. Two rejected men, neither of them taking it well, and my days are peaceful?

Yeah. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Stop being so pessimistic," Penelope says, her words barely audible as my cell signal comes in and out of existence.

The Fernsby mansion isn’t too far now. It’s the kind of place that shouldn’t exist this close to civilization—a giant mansion and its manicured lawn, all hidden behind wrought iron gates that probably cost more than my yearly salary, somehow nestled into a mountain. Not a hill. A mountain. In a world where every inch of land near the city is prime real estate, the Fernsbys have managed to carve out their own private kingdom in the most impossible place.

My car winds up the road, each turn revealing another glimpse of the sprawling estate dominating the mountainside. "I’m not being pessimistic, Pippa. I’m being realistic."

"Same difference in your world," Penelope’s voice crackles through the speaker.

I roll my eyes. "When has assuming the worst ever steered me wrong?"

"Fair point." She sighs, a rush of static in my ear. "Look, I don’t disagree with your bad feelings. This whole situation stinks worse than week-old fish guts. But chin up, yeah? You’ve got this."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I navigate another hairpin turn. "At least one of us believes in me."

"Always." There’s a pause, then a whisper. "Shit, gotta go. I’ll call you after work."

The call cuts off, leaving me in sudden, eerie silence. My GPS flickers, the robotic voice stuttering as it tries to guide me through the twisting road. "In... five hun... dred... feet... turn..."

"Great," I mutter, tapping the screen. "Just great."

There aren’t too many roads out here (actually, this is the only one that’s made of asphalt and not packed dirt), so it isn’t like I’m going to get lost. Still, the unreliable directions leave me antsy and unsettled.

The silence presses in, broken only by the occasional static-filled direction from my unreliable GPS. Trees loom on either side of the road. In the rearview mirror, the city has long disappeared, swallowed by the encroaching wilderness.

The GPS flickers again, the screen going dark for a heart-stopping moment before sputtering back to life. "Recalcu... lating..."

"Oh, come on," I growl, resisting the urge to smack the device. "Don’t you dare fail me now."

As if in response, the road ahead splits into a fork. My GPS remains stubbornly silent, leaving me to make a snap decision. I veer left, hoping my memory of this road is better than this piece of technological trash.

But honestly, I don’t remember a fork in the road... Weird. Then again, my GPS was actually working during my last visit.The trees seem to close in, branches scraping against the sides of my car. I lean forward, squinting through the windshield. Surely the Fernsby mansion can’t be much further. I saw the damn estate further back on the road!

Just as I’m considering turning back, the trees part, revealing a clearing. And there, perched on its carved-in section of the mountain like some fairy tale castle, stands the Fernsby mansion in all its gothic glory.

I let out a low whistle. "Well, I’ll be damned." I’ve seen it before, but it’s just as awe-inspiring the second time, and pictures don’t do it justice.

The house is a monster of stone and wood, all sharp angles and towering spires. It probably has more secret passages than actual rooms, and I’d bet my last dollar that at least one of those towers houses a mad relative or two.

My phone has no signal, which is something I also don’t remember from my last visit. Damn. At least I still have access to the e-mails downloaded onto my phone.

Pulling up to the imposing gates, I take a moment to appreciate how wrought iron was made into such intricate patterns. The owner had mentioned they were supposed to resemble storm clouds. I don’t think they look like storm clouds, but they’re pretty cool, nonetheless.

Fumbling with my phone, I scroll through my e-mail.

"Come on, you piece of—" I bite back the curse as the email finally loads. There’s the security code.

The keypad’s buttons are worn from countless entries; we’re replacing that.

My fingers dance across the keypad. 7-2-9-4-1-8.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, a low groan. The gates shudder, ancient mechanisms grinding to life. Slowly, painfully, they part.

The sound sends a shiver down my spine. It’s not just the age of the metal or the need for oil. There’s something... off about it. Like the gates themselves are reluctant to allow entry.

Silly thought.

I’m not usually prone to flights of fancy, but this place is creepy when the sun’s setting. Next time I’ll have to insist on a morning appointment.

Manicured lawns stretch as far as the eye can see, dotted with topiaries cut into fantastic shapes. They’ve carved their existence into the side of the mountain, permanently altering its structure.

My sedan inches forward, crossing the threshold. The moment my tires touch the other side, the gates close behind me with the same agonizing slowness.

For such a gorgeous place, it’s creepy as fuck.

I park in front of the grand entrance, a pair of massive oak doors. The silence is oppressive as I step out of my car. No birds singing, no insects buzzing. Just the whisper of a breeze through perfectly manicured trees.

Again, I don’t really remember it being like this when I visited last time.

Before, it was just a cool mansion in the mountains.

Today, I feel like Belle sneaking into the Beast’s castle.

Weird.

My heels click against stone as I approach the entrance. Each sound feels like an intrusion, a disturbance in this too-perfect world. I raise my hand to knock, but before my knuckles can touch the wood, the door swings open.

A man stands in the doorway, tall and lean, with silver hair and piercing blue eyes. He wears an impeccable suit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. His smile is polite, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

"Ms. d’Armand," he says, his voice smooth as silk. "We’ve been expecting you."