Lenaleia

Nicole d'Armand never expected to walk into her apartment and find her fiancé *bleep*-deep in another woman's lady bits. What's a girl to do?

Well, after obliterating an 18th-century Meissen vase, delivering a punch that would make a heavyweight boxer proud, and embarking on a night of raucous drinking, Nicole figures she might as well embrace the chaos.

But when alcohol and pheromones collide, her wild night spins into something unexpected... Like a ride on the Logan Everett express.

Which, naturally, leads to a whirlwind of its own: She's his fated mate. Because of course she is.

And he rejects her. Because of course he does.

Now embroiled in a mystery bigger than her post-breakup hangover, Nicole finds herself the prime suspect in a murder she didn't commit—no matter how tempting the thought might have been. And the only person who believes her innocence? The same guy who shot down the idea of being her fated mate. 

Great. Just what she needed: her love life is a crime scene, and the man stupid enough to let her go is holding her freedom in his hands.

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Update schedule: 3-4x a week

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This is a fated/rejected mates urban fantasy romance.

Content warning for: Nudity, more nudity, swear words, inappropriate humor, dead people, undead people, incomprehensible amounts of magic, too much supernatural whosits and whatsits, werewolves and all the fetishes that come with them, did I mention the nudity?, and a questionable level of sanity at times.

Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha

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.

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 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.

Dr. Victoria Blackthorn