Fated to a Human

Chapter 15

The sun was low behind the rocky ridges of the Nevada desert, painting the sky in blood-orange hues. A layer of dust covered the windows of the rundown cabin Jack had chosen to hole up in for now. It was remote—barely visible from the highway and surrounded by empty land for miles. A perfect place for wolves to wait, to watch, and to plan.

Inside the cabin, Jack sat at an old wooden desk in what used to be a hunter’s den. He had claimed it as his own—Garrett Grey’s old maps and legacy tossed aside. The desk was now scattered with photos, documents, and a burner phone. Most of it centered around one name—Nathan Grey.

Jack leaned back in the creaky leather chair, the wood groaning under his weight. His piercing yellow eyes studied a photo of Nathan, snapped from a distance, mid-practice on the football field.

He was taller now. Muscular. Controlled. But there was something else in that photo… something raw and unfinished.

Jack smirked.

“Damien,” he said, not looking up.

His beta stepped into the room from the hallway, wiping his hands with a towel. “Yeah?”

“We’re close now. I can smell him… We’ll stay here for a while—let the boy get comfortable. Think he’s safe.”

Damien raised a brow. “You want to sit around again? Jack, we’re a few hours out. Just go in and snap his neck. He’s a rogue. Barely trained. He’s no Alpha.”

Jack’s jaw twitched. Slowly, he turned his chair to face Damien.

“You still don’t see it, do you?” His voice dropped, low and cold. “That ‘pup’ survived the Wildlands on his own for years. He’s got the eyes of a killer. The instincts of a born Alpha. And more power than you or I had at his age.”

Damien crossed his arms. “So what? You afraid of him?”

Jack growled under his breath and stood, eyes glowing faintly gold. The energy in the room shifted, darker and heavier. “I’m not afraid. I’m smart. I want to win. You remember what the Elders used to say?”

Damien scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You mean that fairytale about the Alpha King?”

Jack stepped forward, voice low and dangerous. “The prophecy.”

Damien raised a brow, mocking. “The one that says a wolf with bright blue eyes will rise. Born of two bloodlines, destined to unite humans and wolves, and rule as Alpha King?” He snorted. “Yeah, I remember. And I remember how the Elders got slaughtered in the war. Their prophecy didn’t save them.”

Jack didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled. Slowly. Coldly.

“He’s got the eyes, Damien.”

That made the beta go quiet for a beat.

Jack turned back to the desk, laying a single photo down—one close-up of Nathan in wolf form. Pitch black fur. And those electric blue eyes.

“Stronger than average. Bigger. Faster. He’s different. And if that prophecy’s real…” Jack’s grin widened, “then when I kill him, I become Alpha King. I take his destiny. I claim the throne.”

Damien didn’t speak. His eyes flicked to the photo, and for a moment—just a moment—uncertainty clouded his face.

Jack glanced back at him. “But I’m not walking into that fight blind. I want the Zeta on him.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed. “You serious? You want to use her?”

“She’s perfect for this. No one sees her coming. I want her watching him—up close. Study his habits. His flaws. His connections. Learn what makes him tick. Who he’d die for.”

Jack stepped close again, his voice lowering with intensity. “Find his weakness. Because everyone has one.”

Damien nodded reluctantly. “Fine. I’ll make the call.”

Jack’s lips curled into a predator’s smile. “Good. Let’s see what the future Alpha King bleeds like.”

---

The weekend passed in a blur.

Between working extra hours at the gym, trying to avoid thinking about Rory in leggings and sports bras, and taking that foul, thick drop of Madame Lucy’s sedative each morning, Nathan barely slept. The concoction dulled his wolf’s instincts, sure—but it also made everything feel muted. Like living behind a foggy pane of glass.

By Monday, the fog hadn’t lifted.

But that didn’t matter. Practice was practice. And football? Football was one of the few things Nathan could still do on autopilot.

The sun beat down hard on the field as cleats slammed against turf, whistles shrilled, and helmets cracked. Nathan darted between cones, launching a perfect spiral into the chest of the receiver sprinting downfield. Another play, another clean cut, another touchdown.

He didn’t miss a beat.

Tony, the team’s loudmouth wide receiver, jogged past and clapped him on the back.

“Damn, Grey,” he laughed, “you on some kind of superhero serum or something? That was clean as hell.”

Nathan gave a nonchalant shrug, catching his breath as sweat rolled down his temples. “Just focused.”

Tony smirked. “Focused? You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been ice-cold all morning. I’ve been trash talking you for thirty minutes and you ain’t even twitched.”

Nathan finally cracked a grin. “Maybe you’re losing your touch, Tony.”

Tony scoffed and jogged off.

Nathan peeled off his helmet, letting the breeze cool his sweat-soaked hair. He made his way to the sideline and grabbed a bottle of water, gulping it down greedily.

And then he looked up.

His eyes instantly locked on the bleachers.

Sitting there, under the shade of a wide-brimmed straw hat, was Peter—sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand, dramatically fanning himself like the rich housewife he pretended to be.

But next to him…

Rory.

Nathan’s heart slammed in his chest. She wore a black crop top and a plaid skirt, her long dark hair falling down her back in loose waves. She was clapping—laughing at something Peter whispered. And when she glanced down and met Nathan’s gaze, her smile widened.

His breath hitched.

For a moment, it felt like time stilled.

Then—

“Yo,” Tony’s voice snapped through the haze. “That your new girl?”

Nathan turned slowly. Tony stood beside him, still panting from the last run, his eyes fixed on Rory like a dog eyeing a bone. “Damn, she’s hot,” he whistled. “Total upgrade from Skylar. What’s her name?”

Nathan’s blood turned molten.

His wolf, dulled but not dead, stirred violently under his skin. A low growl tried to push its way up his throat. His muscles tightened. His hands curled into fists.

Mine.

The word wasn’t spoken, but it was there—loud and primal in his head. A pulse of possession. A surge of heat that made his jaw clench so hard it ached.

“She’s just a friend,” Nathan forced out, trying to keep his tone flat, casual. But his voice came out low. Tense.

Tony raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “Damn. If I had a friend like that, I’d make her a lot more than a friend. Friends with benefits.”

Nathan’s grip tightened on the water bottle. It crinkled in his hand.

“Drop it,” he said, sharp.

Tony blinked at the tone and backed off, hands raised. “Hey, chill, man. Just messin’ with you.”

Nathan didn’t respond.

His wolf thrashed inside his chest, claws dragging against his ribs. Even sedated, it didn’t like the idea of another male talking about his mate. Didn’t like the scent of someone else’s interest in her.

It was a reminder. A warning.

The bond is growing.

And the sedative… won’t hold forever.

Nathan took a deep breath, forcing himself to look back at Rory. She tilted her head, as if sensing something, concern flashing in her eyes.

He gave her a small smile. Forced. Tight.

And then he pulled his helmet back on and walked back onto the field—before he lost control.

Rory watched Nathan jog back onto the field, his helmet now hiding his face—but not the tension in his shoulders.

She frowned. “Did you see that?”

Peter, lounging dramatically next to her with his iced coffee, didn’t look up from his phone. “See what, darling? Besides the glorious display of testosterone and sweat happening right in front of me?”

She nudged him with her elbow. “I’m serious, Peter. He looked… off. Just for a second.”

Peter sighed, setting his phone on his thigh and finally giving her his attention. “Off how?”

“I don’t know,” Rory admitted, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “Like, he looked mad for a second. Not just mad—furious. But he was fine a moment ago. He smiled at me.”

Peter tilted his sunglasses down slightly and peered over the rim. “Did someone say something to him?”

She followed his gaze to the field, spotting Tony now laughing with another player, completely oblivious.

“That guy—Tony or whatever—he said something right before Nathan reacted.”

Peter squinted. “He’s a meathead. Probably said something dumb.”

Rory didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on Nathan, watching how his movements were just a little too sharp, a little too fast. He was still nailing every throw, every play. But something under the surface was cracking.

Peter leaned over and whispered, “I know that look.”

Rory turned to him. “What look?”

Peter smirked knowingly. “That’s the look of a man trying very hard not to act like a caveman in front of his crush.”

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, girl. I’ve seen Nathan charm the pants off half the cheer squad with that dumb smirk of his—and now suddenly he’s stuttering and blushing when you walk into a gym wearing leggings and a ponytail?” He gave a pointed look. “Don’t play innocent.”

Rory smirked but said nothing.

Then Peter leaned closer, his voice softer. “Has he told you anything yet?”

Rory blinked. “About what?”

Peter hesitated. “Never mind.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Peter…”

But he just smiled, waving her off with his hand and sipping his iced coffee like it held state secrets. “Forget I said anything.”

Back on the field, Nathan finished another perfect pass before the coach blew the whistle.

“Alright, hit the showers!” the coach barked.

Nathan jogged to the sidelines, chest heaving, dripping sweat. He looked up at the bleachers again—and this time, he smiled fully.

Rory smiled back, her heart skipping just a little.