All Chapters of Fated to my Alpha nemesis : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

153 Chapters

A disruption

“I thought at first it was fear," The female continues, softer—almost contemplative. “But it isn’t only fear, is it?” My throat tightens. What is she talking about? She tilts her head slightly, as though studying something just beyond my skin. I shiver slightly. “Mmm,” she hums, like she’s confirming a thought. “That’s interesting.” My fingers curl against my palms. “What is?” I force out. Suddenly I didn't want to talk to this strange female again. The silence that follows is too deliberate. It's not hesitation, it's selection. “The change,” she says finally. My stomach dips. “What change?” I ask. A faint exhale—almost amused, almost pitying. “The way one's body begins to change when they meet their mate.” I stiffen. The word hits the cell differently. Heavier than before. Sharper. My pulse stutters once. I force my voice to stay steady. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A quiet sound from her side. Not laughter. Something closer to acknowledgement. “Y

Captain Commentary & the Creepy Psychic

“I don’t understand,” I say, looking between the two shapes bathed in shadow. “You guys were here the entire time?”“Yep,” the male answers.“Why didn’t you say anything when I was yelling my lungs out?”“We figured you were still getting settled. Didn’t want to disturb you.”I glare at his cell, even though I know he probably can’t see me through the darkness.The female, who I’m now mentally calling Creepy Psychic, doesn’t say anything. She’s been quiet the entire time I’ve been talking to Captain Commentary. I get the feeling she doesn’t like talking much. Except when it’s to terrorize unsuspecting souls.“Are we the only ones in this aisle?” I ask, noting that no other presence has made itself known since Captain Commentary started narrating my existence.“No. Just us. This aisle’s for the really, really bad guys.” He pauses thoughtfully. “I guess trying to murder an Alpha counts as really, really bad.”“Can you stop bringing that up?”“Nope.”I sigh.“I’m curious. It’s the most i

A room fit for a prisoner

I have no idea what to expect. However, I don’t let myself cower as they lead me away. Up from the underground level of the establishment. My prison mates don’t say anything more, and the guards don’t acknowledge them either. In fact, they seem to avoid their cells entirely. When the warm breeze of the compound hits my skin, I close my eyes and savor the sensation. I breathe in deeply, letting the fresh air fill my lungs. It contrasts sharply with the damp, mold-ridden air of the cells. I wonder how I’ll survive another second down there if they take me back. They lead me to a black car, my hands cuffed behind my back. I’m still wearing the clothes I changed into at Cole’s place before we headed to the border. A black T-shirt and a pair of slacks that barely fit around my waist. Now they’re smeared with dirt and whatever filth lived in that cell. Buildings and trees blur past as one of the pack guards drives us toward the pack house. At least, I assume that’s where we’re going

A black dress

“Why?” I ask, looking at the female with total confusion. She scowls. “Because you are filthy.” She gives me a slow once-over. “But… why?” I gape at her. What she’s saying is beyond reason. Does she not know who I am? Has she mistaken me for someone else? Nothing about this makes sense. “Because you have come in contact with dirt, mold, and goddess knows what else,” she says, clearly fed up. “Hence your terrible state.” But I’m not done. I will not willingly step into that bathtub, no matter how nice or entrancing it smells, until I understand the full ramifications of doing so. I say nothing. I just stare at her, my expression unchanged. She sighs and presses her thumb and forefinger to her temples. “Please. Just get into the tub so I can get you ready.” Her tone is almost pleading. I don’t let it soften me. “Get me ready for what?” I snap. She shakes her head as if she’s dealing with a petulant child. I almost snort. She looks barely older than me, with chestnut br

The Illusion of Surrender

I don’t realize how short the walk from my room to this new location is. My mind is running a mile a minute, racing ahead of my body, stumbling over possibilities I refuse to fully form. I smooth my palms down my dress so many times I lose count. The fabric is cool beneath my fingers. Smooth. Expensive. The dress is perfect. Not too tight. Not too loose. It fits as though it was made with me in mind, as though measurements had been taken. That thought unsettles me more than the guards do. The woman who led me from the entrance to the not-torture room walks ahead of me and the red-haired Pack guard. She is tall, around five foot eight, elderly in a way that has nothing to do with a hunched back or crooked teeth. It’s in her eyes. Wise. Knowing. Experienced. She does not shuffle. She glides. Her back is straight. Her steps measured. There is no hesitation in her movements, no doubt. She moves with a kind of grace uncommon among servants. Yet she must be one. Her attire suggest

The Length of the Table

I smile. Saccharine. “I’ll stand, thank you.” He watches me for a second. Then another. He nods. “The seat will be there whenever you’re done standing.” His gaze flicks to the side. He gestures to the servants, and they begin bringing in trays. And more trays. And then even more. The smell arrives first. It slides into the room before the food fully does. Warm. Layered. Roasted meat glazed in something sweet and smoky, the scent curling through the air like a deliberate temptation. Fresh bread, still breathing heat, buttery and soft. Fruits carved with precision, their brightness slicing cleanly through the heavier aromas. Sauces I cannot even begin to name, rich and fragrant, drifting in slow waves that make the room feel less like stone and more like surrender. My mouth reacts before I can stop it. My throat tightens. I swallow. Once. Then again. I cannot remember the last time I ate something that wasn’t stale. Cold. Swallowed too fast. Eaten wi

I Would Rather Be Rejected

He doesn’t speak for so long that I begin to fear he will deny me this information altogether and I will have no idea how to get answers.But at the last second, he surprises me.He answers.“The Gamma is in one of the holding cells underneath this building.”For a second, I do not understand the words.They hang in the air between us, fragile. Impossible.Underneath this building.Not dead.Not gone.Underneath.My lungs forget how to function.I stare at him, searching for the trap hidden inside the sentence.There has to be one.He would not hand me something this valuable without threading a hook through it.“He’s alive?” I hear myself ask, my voice almost breaking.Damon’s gaze does not waver.“Yes.”The single word lands heavier than the feast between us ever did.Relief crashes through me, stealing the strength from my spine. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, nails pressing into polished wood.He is okay.Cole is okay.The image of him as I last saw him flickers in

Heat and Humiliation

After drawing all these conclusions, I had already rehearsed his next words in my head. Prepared what I'd say even.That is why I never expected him to say what he said next.“You can’t be serious,” I say, incredulous. “You can’t possibly mean that.”“I do.”I laugh, dry and sharp. “Is this a joke? It has to be a joke.”“You know you can just reject me, right?” My voice rises, edging toward something unsteady. “No one would fault you for it. I’m weak. I’m human. You don’t gain anything from me.”A faint crease forms between his brows.“My decision is final,” he says simply.Something in my chest tightens.“What if I don’t want to be your mate?” I press on, faster now. “What if I reject you instead? I will reject you. In fact, I’ll do it now.”My breathing turns uneven. My head feels too loud, too full.He can't do this to me. I won't let him.“I… I Michaela Caldara—” I start, forcing the words out. “Of the Eastern Pack—”I break off with a sharp sound.A yelp.Damon has my left hand p

Why?

The door shuts behind me.The sound is soft.I don’t know how I stop myself from slamming it.I also don’t know how my feet found the strength to manage to carry me from the dining room to this glorified prison cell without collapsing.A few minutes after Damon left the dinning room, the red-haired lackey guard escorted me back here. As usual, he took position outside my door.I was far too distracted to comment on what is becoming a disturbing tradition.I tip my head back against the wood and close my eyes.For a long moment, I don’t move.My hand is still half-curled. My breathing uneven. My skin still burning where his mouth had been.It takes effort to remember how to breathe properly.In.Out.Slow.The silence thickens.And then my memory decides it is the perfect time to punish me.Not with the memory of heat.Not with the memory of his proximity.With precision.“You misunderstand what position you’re in,” he had said.My jaw tightens.I push away from the door so abruptly I

For the good of the pack

Somehow I found the strength, despite my food-deprived body, to take a bath. I put on the clothes I’d taken off yesterday. Emory must have had them washed. They lie neatly folded in the armoire, the only item of clothing I’ve allowed myself to touch. When I’m done, I move to the window to study how far the room is from the ground. Four floors. Nothing to climb down with. I checked yesterday. I just needed to confirm it in daylight. Below the window, a garden stretches like something painted for royalty. Curved stone paths wind through manicured hedges trimmed with obsessive precision. White roses spill over trellises in controlled abundance, their petals too perfect to be accidental. A fountain sits at the center, water cascading in soft tiers, catching sunlight like liquid glass. Tall cypress trees stand sentry along the perimeter wall, their shadows long and deliberate. Even from here, I can almost smell it. Jasmine. Fresh soil. Blooming citrus. Alive. Thriv

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