Fated to a Human

Chapter 13

The room still reeked of Garrett Grey.

His scent clung to the mahogany shelves, the leather-bound books, the ancient oak desk that had once symbolized authority, wisdom… power.

Now, it was just another throne to claim.

Jack Carson leaned back in the high-backed chair in Garrett’s old study, his boots resting boldly on top of the desk. He slowly thumbed through a stack of papers and yellowed documents—old maps of territory, alpha decrees, and thick-bound ledgers that chronicled decades of pack history. All of it meaningless now.

Across from him, the pack elders sat in tense silence. Blood smeared across their brows and jaws. One cradled a broken arm; another was breathing heavily, likely nursing cracked ribs. But none of them bowed.

Not yet.

“You’ve got two options,” Jack said, his voice a slow, deadly drawl as he closed the book with a sharp thump. “You either recognize me as your new Alpha… or I take your silence as a challenge.”

One of the elders—a silver-haired man named Elias who had once served as Garrett’s right hand—gritted his teeth. “We can’t accept you,” he rasped.

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“Why not?” he asked, almost playfully.

“Because as long as Nathan Grey lives,” Elias spat, “you are nothing but a usurper. That boy carries the blood of the true Alpha. He’s the rightful heir.”

A heavy silence fell.

Jack stood, slow and deliberate. His towering frame cast a long shadow over the kneeling elders as he moved around the desk. He crouched before Elias and reached out—gripping his jaw in one hand and forcing him to look up.

“Let me tell you something, old man,” Jack growled, his eyes flashing gold. “Garrett Grey was weak. And his boy? He ran. Left his pack behind. Abandoned his birthright. A real Alpha doesn't run—he conquers.”

Elias’s lips quivered, but he didn’t respond.

Just then, the door creaked open.

Jack’s beta—Damien, a broad, sharp-eyed wolf with a ragged scar down his cheek—strode into the room.

Jack stood and turned to him, releasing Elias with a flick of his wrist.

“Well?” Jack asked.

Damien nodded, his voice a mix of triumph and venom. “We found him. San Francisco. California. Lives off the radar. Real low-key.”

Jack smiled slowly, wickedly.

“California…” he mused. “Sun. Surf. Skinny little humans running around half-naked.”

He turned back to the elders, who were watching him in horrified silence.

“Tell the pack I’ll be gone for a bit,” Jack said to Damien. “But when I return... the last Grey will be dead.”

Damien smirked. “Shall I prep the team?”

“Sure,” Jack said, already walking toward the exit. “And pack my swim shorts. And sunscreen.”

He glanced over his shoulder with a sharp grin.

“We’re taking a little vacation.”

---

Nathan stood at the edge of the woods, staring at the crooked path that led to Madame Lucy’s cottage.

The small, ivy-covered house was tucked far away from town—hidden among ancient oaks and veiled by enchantments only a wolf could sense. It felt older than time itself, cloaked in stories, forgotten rituals, and the quiet hum of magic that vibrated through the soil.

Nathan stepped carefully, every boot-crunch on the moss-covered stone path echoing like a warning. He passed the crumbling stone archway and approached the front door—dark wood, carved with runes and symbols of protection.

Before he could knock, the door creaked open with a low groan.

“I was wondering when you’d come,” came a soft, melodic voice with a thick French accent.

Madame Lucy stood in the doorway, tall and regal despite her age. Her long white hair flowed over her shoulders in thick waves, her golden eyes sharp and knowing. She wore a long velvet shawl, deep wine red, draped over a dark green dress that swept the floor.

Even in her elder years, there was no denying it—she was beautiful. Timeless.

Nathan stepped inside without a word. The scent of dried herbs, burning sage, and pine sap filled the air.

“I need your help,” he said quietly.

Madame Lucy closed the door behind him, then moved with graceful silence to her cluttered wooden table, covered in vials, feathers, bones, and dried plants. “Sit,” she said gently, gesturing to the chair across from her.

Nathan sat, then ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “There’s this girl… Rory. She’s—” he hesitated, “—she’s human. But she’s my mate.”

Madame Lucy’s golden eyes widened slightly. “A human mate?” she repeated, intrigued. “Rare. Powerful. Dangerous.”

“Tell me about it,” Nathan muttered, leaning forward. “I can’t control my wolf around her. Just being near her… it’s like everything in me wants to claim her. My control slips every time she touches me. It’s getting worse.”

He paused, his voice dropping low.

“I almost shifted in front of her. Twice.”

Lucy tilted her head, studying him carefully. “You’ve been marked by fate,” she said. “The bond between mates is sacred. Your wolf… he’s not wrong to want her. It is nature. Destiny. But yes…” she trailed off, her voice quiet, “until you claim her, it will only grow stronger.”

Nathan’s fists clenched on the table. “But she doesn’t know. I haven’t told her. I can’t just throw that on her—‘Hey, I’m a werewolf, and fate decided your soul belongs to mine.’ That’s insane.”

Madame Lucy chuckled softly. “You speak like a pup afraid of his own howl.”

Nathan looked up at her, frustration and desperation in his eyes. “There has to be something I can do. A way to… dial it back. I can’t keep losing control like this. Especially not on full moons.”

At that, Madame Lucy sighed and moved to one of the many dusty drawers lining her wall. She opened it and pulled out a small wooden box. From inside, she withdrew a medium-sized glass vial filled with dark, thick liquid that swirled like ink when she held it to the light.

She returned to the table and placed it in front of Nathan.

“This,” she said. “Take one drop each morning. It will sedate the wolf inside you—keep his hunger dull, his instincts quiet.”

Nathan reached for the vial—but before he could grab it, Madame Lucy snapped her wrist back, pulling it away.

“But be warned,” she said sternly, eyes narrowing. “If you are attacked—if danger finds you—you will not be able to shift. Your wolf will sleep. You will be vulnerable.”

Nathan’s jaw tightened. Deep inside, he felt his wolf growl softly in protest, uneasy at the thought of being silenced.

“I understand,” Nathan said, voice hard.

Madame Lucy studied him for another long moment. Then, finally, she extended the vial.

“Don’t use it unless you must,” she added softly. “Love and fear often share the same heartbeat. Do not confuse them.”

Nathan nodded and took the vial, the cool glass heavy in his palm.

As he stood, Madame Lucy placed a hand over his.

“Fate gives us many things,” she said, her voice softer now. “But love… love must be chosen. Don’t wait too long to tell her who you are, Nathan. The bond is not patient.”

Nathan looked at her—into those deep golden eyes that had seen too much and lost more.

“I won’t,” he said, turning toward the door.

As he left the cottage and stepped into the sunlight, the weight of the bond still pressed against his chest… but for now, at least, he had a way to endure it.

The gym was already stuffy and filled with the heavy scent of sweat, metal, and overpriced protein powder when Nathan arrived.

It was a decent place—new equipment, beachfront view, air conditioning that half-worked—but most importantly, it catered to the town’s elite. And on weekends, that meant one thing: entitled rich men desperately trying to lose just enough weight to keep their younger girlfriends from upgrading to someone even richer.

Nathan’s current client was one of his favorites to suffer through.

“Let’s go, Mr. Kline,” Nathan said, trying to sound upbeat. “Three more reps.”

Wheezing and flushed red, Mr. Kline sat slumped on the weight bench, his designer workout gear drenched in sweat. “I’m telling you, Nathan,” he puffed, “I think my arm is broken. I can feel my soul leaving my body.”

“You lifted fifteen-pound dumbbells for a total of twenty seconds,” Nathan replied dryly.

Mr. Kline opened his mouth to argue when his gaze suddenly shifted over Nathan’s shoulder—and his eyebrows shot up. “Now that’s cardio I could get behind…”

Nathan turned to look—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Rory had just walked through the gym entrance like a goddamn thunderstorm in yoga pants.

Her black leggings hugged her curves like a second skin, seamless and smooth, showcasing every dip, every line, every beautiful, infuriating inch of her long legs and perfect hips. Her sports bra was red, tight, and barely containing the generous swell of her breasts. Her hair was up in a high ponytail that swayed with every step, earbuds in, eyes focused.

She didn’t see him—but he saw her.

And his wolf roared inside him.

Nathan cursed under his breath, excused himself with a clipped “Be right back,” and bolted toward the locker rooms like the place was on fire.

He yanked open his locker and ripped the small cork vial from the pocket of his duffel bag. His hands were already shaking as the wolf surged forward, clawing against the inside of his skin. He could feel the heat rising—his heartbeat in his ears, his pupils dilating, the bones in his shoulders twitching.

If he didn’t calm down, he was going to shift. Right here. In a gym full of humans.

He yanked the cork off and tipped the vial back.

Just one drop.

The liquid hit his tongue like a punch to the mouth. Bitter. Thick. Sour. Like sucking on a fermented lemon that had been boiled in regret.

He gagged and slammed the cork back in place.

Almost instantly, the tension drained from his muscles. His wolf backed down, curling somewhere deep inside him like a sedated dog. His mind felt clearer. His heartbeat slowed. He took a deep breath—and exhaled.

Still there… that bond. That maddening, magnetic pull toward her. But now it was a soft thrum in his chest, not a scream in his blood.

Nathan walked back out into the gym, cool-headed for once.

Mr. Kline was struggling his way through another set, but Nathan barely noticed. His eyes found Rory immediately.

She was across the floor, standing in front of one of the hanging sandbags. She’d traded her earbuds for boxing gloves, and she was already working the bag hard—quick, solid jabs followed by cross punches that snapped with clean precision.

Nathan was impressed.

Then she pivoted, dropped low, and launched a roundhouse kick into the side of the bag that made it sway like a drunk sailor.

Nathan tilted his head.

That wasn’t just boxing. That was MMA.

She threw in a knee strike, then a spinning back elbow.

Yup. Definitely MMA.

Nathan smiled and walked toward her, dodging a trainer and sidestepping around a yoga mat.

“Didn’t know you were into MMA,” he said casually once he was behind her.

Rory gasped, jerking her head around. Her ponytail whipped with the motion and her eyes widened, chest rising and falling with quick, startled breaths.

The sound of her gasp still sent chills down Nathan’s spine—but his wolf remained calm, subdued beneath the potion. For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like he was about to lose it.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” she said, exhaling with a half-smile. “You… surprised me.”

Nathan chuckled. “Fair enough.”

Rory turned back to the bag and wiped her brow with the back of her glove. “You always sneak up on girls like that?”

“Only the ones who try to punch the bag like it owes them money.”

Rory snorted, her cheeks turning a little pink. “I hate therapy. A punching bag is so much better.”

Nathan leaned casually against the steel beam beside the bag. “So how much MMA do you actually know?”

Rory lowered her gloves and gave him a slow, smug smirk.

“Why don’t you come over here,” she said, her voice low and teasing, “and find out?”

Nathan blinked.

Oh s**t.