Rejected to Fated

I’m getting ready for my session with Eldin when the new kitchen girl slips into the doorway, wringing her hands like she’s not sure she’s allowed to take up space here. “Hi,” she says softly. “I’m new. I’m supposed to help in the kitchen today.” I offer her a small smile and step forward, keeping my voice gentle. I shake her hand. “I’m Eleanor Chase, but most people call me El.” After she heads down the hall, I turn back to the mirror. I steady my breath and fix my hair. My reflection reminds me of my parents: wild brown hair like my mom’s, brown eyes like my dad’s. As a wolf, I’m lean, muscular, and built for speed and strength. But survival isn’t just muscle and speed. Not in pack territory. Since I was a child, they drilled it into us: being a rogue is worse than death. Death is quick and final. Being rogue is slow and usually still leads to death. It’s cold nights with no home and no borders to protect you. Empty stomachs. Infected wounds you have to lick clean because there’s no healer. Human doctors can find out about our anatomy. The constant ache of being hunted — by predators, by other packs, sometimes even by your own if you stray too close. Pups without families become rogues by default. Most don’t last long enough to grow up. Adults become rogues as punishment — one wrong choice, one public mistake, one moment that displeases the Alpha, and you’re cast out like you never mattered. They like to tell stories about the old days — when Alphas were chosen by the strongest wolves. When some were “marked” by the Moon Goddess herself, like power and fate agreed on who should lead. But now? It feels more like human politics. Favors. Bloodlines. Alliances. The right last name matters more than the right instincts. And when leadership becomes politics, “justice” becomes whatever keeps the powerful comfortable. After my parents died, I should’ve been a rogue. That’s what the rules said. No parents meant no claim. No claim meant no pack. I remember standing in the hall with my bag packed, listening to the whispers. People looked at me like grief was contagious — like taking me in would make my bad luck their problem. No one stepped forward. Not at first. And I learned, in a way I’ll never forget, that “family” in a pack can be conditional. It can be decided in meetings and murmured in corners. So, when I tell myself to be grateful. When I remind myself, I’m still here. It’s because I know exactly what the other path looks like. Losing them left a hole nothing could fill, and Alpha Marcus was the one who decided I wouldn’t fall into it. Marcus always said weakness destroys packs. His own father died because he wasn’t strong enough to protect their territory. Marcus swore he’d never repeat that mistake. He built his entire life around making sure no one ever saw him as weak. He brought me into his home, and just like that, the whispers stopped. I had a place again — one with rules, expectations, and a roof over my head. Crescent Ridge is average‑sized and owns a lumber yard where most of the wolves work. However, I help Marcus by making meals for anyone working in the Alpha House. By the time I was ten, I knew I was different. When I was upset, it rained. When I was happy, the clouds parted. When I was angry, the ground shook. The first time I accidentally set the living room couch on fire, Marcus sent me to our shaman, Eldin. Eldin confirmed what no one wanted to believe: I was an Alpha Luna — the rarest and most powerful form of Luna in werewolf society. A Luna born with one element is already legendary. Two is nearly unheard of. Three hasn’t been recorded in living memory. And all four — Fire, Earth, Water, and Wind — are considered impossible. And yet, I exist. I control all of the elements. The more my power grew, the more people pulled away. Kids stopped wanting to play with me. Adults whispered when they thought I couldn’t hear. Marcus was always so interested in my abilities — cheering me on, eager to see what I could do. Back then, I thought it meant he cared. Now I’m not so sure. Eldin is one of the few steady, safe connections I’ve had in my life. He knew me before my parents died. He has never treated me as something to be coveted, feared, or burdened. He taught me the basics of my magic — grounding, control, and discipline. I’m sitting with Eldin now, practicing my meditation, when the air shifts. A moment later, Alpha Marcus walks in. “The date has been set. Two weeks from today, you will marry Tyler,” he says. Tyler is Alpha Marcus’s only son — blond hair, blue eyes, and a tall build that should’ve made him impressive, but somehow doesn’t. He’s painfully average, the kind of wolf you forget the moment you look away. What he lacks in presence, he makes up for in entitlement. Tyler does whatever he wants in the pack, drifting through life without consequence, because Marcus always turns away. Rules bend for him. Responsibilities slide off him. And everyone else is left to clean up after him. “I can’t marry Tyler. He’s not my fated mate,” I say, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. Marcus laughs. “You are of marrying age at twenty‑three. Tyler is twenty‑five. I betrothed you the day you came to live with us at seven. Fated mates are fictional. This is real life. You will do this by order of your Alpha.” “Yes, Alpha,” I concede. And just like that, I am betrothed to the Alpha’s son — my duty, whether I want it or not.