Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha-Chapter 41: You Killed Him

Walking through the lobby with a stack of papers under my arm and a bulging purse is like a beacon of shame.

Or maybe it’s just my face.

Either way, it’s hard to keep heat from flushing my cheeks red and letting everyone know I’m affected by their stares.

I tap the "Confirm Ride" button on my phone, already anticipating the sweet relief of escaping this suffocating place. My gaze lifts from the screen, and I nearly collide with a figure blocking my path. My breath catches as recognition hits me like a punch to the gut.

Blonde hair. Fit body. All black attire. Red-rimmed eyes that bore into me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.

It’s her.

Before I can even open my mouth to speak—not that I have a single clue what to say—she unleashes a primal scream that stops me cold.

"You killed him! You killed my mate!"

The stack of papers under my arm suddenly feels like lead weights, and my purse threatens to slip from my trembling fingers. I’m not even sure how to feel. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Mortified, for one. Too many eyes on me. Don’t like that.

Enraged, number two. How dare this bitch come up to me like this? Her mate? She’s the homewrecker in this scenario. I’d given her a little grace thinking Scott lied to her, but now...

Was he groveling for us to get back together while still fucking his little CrossFit bunny?

Her chest heaves with ragged breaths, her eyes wild with grief and rage. "How could you? He loved you!"

A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. "Didn’t you say he’s your mate?" How can she say he loved me with such an outraged face?

Her face contorts into something truly ugly. "You don’t understand anything! We were meant to be together. Scott was my true mate, and you took him from me!"

The lobby seems to shrink around us, the curious stares of onlookers fading into a hazy backdrop. All I can focus on is this woman—this stranger who shared my fiancé’s bed and now claims a bond deeper than I ever had with him.

"I didn’t kill Scott," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I found him dead in my apartment. I have no idea what happened."

She lunges forward, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "Liar! You couldn’t stand the thought of him being happy without you, could you? You’re nothing but a selfish, murderous bitch!"

I wrench my arm free, anger flaring hot in my chest. "Get your hands off me! You have no right to accuse me of anything. You’re the one who was screwing my fiancé behind my back!"

"Ex-fiancé," she spits. "He was going to leave you for me. We were going to start a life together, have a family. And you stole that from us!"

"I didn’t kill him," I say again. Keeping calm feels impossible, my composure shaking and cracking under her fury. "Please keep your hands to yourself."

There’s no way I can take an athletic woman on in any normal circumstance, but I’ve at least taken enough self-defense classes to know I can defend myself for a while.

Maybe.

I don’t know. I’ve never fought another woman before. Is she going to grab my hair? Go for some sort of jujitsu move? Since she claims to be Scott’s mate, is she a shifter? Am I about to get my throat torn out by a wolf?

So many questions, and yet it’s only an instant that passes by.

The blonde banshee lunges at me, her perfectly manicured claws aimed straight for my hair. Time slows, my body reacting on pure instinct. The stack of papers slips from my grasp, scattering across the polished lobby floor like oversized confetti.

I pivot, blocking her grip with a move I’ve practiced countless times. My hands find purchase on her arm, and before she can blink, I’m using her momentum against her. The world tilts as I execute the throw, my muscles singing with the perfect harmony of training and adrenaline.

She hits the ground with a satisfying thud, the air whooshing from her lungs. For a split second, a spark of pride ignites in my chest. All those hours in self-defense class weren’t wasted after all.

But the feeling is short-lived.

Her shriek pierces the air. It’s a sound of pain, yes, but also of pure, unadulterated rage. The lobby, once a bustling hive of activity, falls eerily silent save for her wails.

Then, the murmurs start.

"Did you see that?"

"She just attacked that poor woman!"

"Isn’t she the one who killed her fiance?"

"Looks like killed him out of jealousy. What a vicious Medusa."

The whispers slither through the crowd, poisonous and accusing. I can feel their eyes on me, no longer curious but condemning. Heat flushes my cheeks.

I wasn’t the one to attack first, okay? Why am I the one being slandered?

"Stay away from me," I tell her, raising my voice to be heard over her screams.

The blonde is already scrambling to her feet, mascara streaking down her face in inky rivers. I turn away, desperate to gather my scattered belongings and escape this nightmare.

My hands shake as I try to collect the papers strewn across the floor. Each sheet feels like it weighs a ton, my fingers clumsy and uncooperative. The world narrows to this singular task—gather the papers, stuff them in my bag, and get the hell out of here.

I don’t have social anxiety, but I do have attention anxiety. If it’s for something like work, I’m fine; having a job and expected performance is like armor for my introverted self.

Something like this, though? It’s a little too much.

I’m so focused on my frantic collection that I don’t notice her approach. Suddenly, a hand clamps down on my shoulder, yanking me backward with surprising strength. Those perfect nails dig into my skin, and I can smell the cloying scent of her perfume. Floral and familiar. It’s definitely what I smelled on Scott before.

"You bitch!" she snarls, her face inches from mine. "You think you can just walk away?"

My body moves before my brain can catch up. I twist, breaking her grip and shoving her away in one fluid motion. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance on her ridiculous heels.

"I said, stay away from me!" I shout, my voice echoing through the lobby. The crowd presses closer, a suffocating ring of judgment closing in around us.

Just as I brace myself for another attack, a booming voice cuts through the chaos.

"Police! Break it up!"

Two uniformed officers push through the throng, their presence parting the sea of onlookers like magic. One of them positions himself between me and the blonde hellcat, while the other gently but firmly guides her away.

"Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down," the officer near me says, his voice steady and authoritative. "Can you tell me what happened here?"

The blonde’s shrieks grow fainter as she’s led away, but I can still hear snippets of her tirade. "Murderer" and "She killed him" echo in my ears, each word a dagger to my already battered psyche.

I just wanted to go home.

That’s clearly not going to happen now.