Fated Magic (Claimed by Wolves 1)

It’s hard to believe how quickly these men have become a huge part of my life. I can barely remember when they weren’t in my life, even though it was barely two weeks ago that Ridge found me in that ravine. There are still plenty of things I don’t know about them and things they don’t know about me. But I’ve stopped holding myself back as much, letting down little pieces of the barrier around my heart.

It meant more than I thought it would to tell my story out loud and have these four beautiful, protective men look at me the same way they did before they knew how fucked up my life has been.

I kno

w they all hate my uncle, and I know they all hurt for me.

But they don’t look at me like I’m broken.

Damaged.

Ruined.

They look at me like they always have, since pretty much the first moment I met them.

Like I’m special.

Like I’m perfect—just the way I am.

It’s a balm to my soul, and their acceptance of even my broken parts makes it easier to trust them with more of myself. So I do.

We take more walks together, never venturing too far from the cabin and always as a group. But I move between the men, finding time to talk to each of them, getting to know them better in small increments. Thankfully, my newfound level of comfort with them makes me a slightly less awkward conversationalist than before, and the low-level panic that was my constant companion for so long bleeds away slowly. Even my nightmares are growing less intense.

I’m not the only one who’s growing more relaxed either. The men seem to have buried the hatchet, at least somewhat. They’re no longer always tense and glaring at one another as if they’re in competition. They’ve come to a truce, with me at the center of it.

On the sixth day after Dare’s addition to our little group, Ridge walks into the living room after dinner. The sun is setting, its last rays filling the cabin with a soft orange light, and it catches his silhouette perfectly as he stands near the couch, waggling something in his hand.

“Look what I found.”

I have to force my attention away from his handsome face, and when I get a look at what he’s holding, my brows scrunch up. “Cards?”

“Yup.” His gaze darts to the men who are gathered around me on the couch and chair. “What do you say? Poker?”

“Fuck, yes.” Trystan gives a cocky smile, looking pleased.

Uncle Clint used to have his buddies over for poker sometimes, and I had a love/hate relationship with those game nights. I liked them because they usually gave me an evening of respite from my uncle. But most of his friends were creepy and gross, and on nights when Clint drank too much or lost too much money, he’d take it out on me after they left.

And it was only ever men he invited over to play, so for some reason I assume Ridge is only talking to the guys—until all four of them turn to me expectantly.

“You in?” Archer asks.

Oh. Right. Of course.

These men aren’t my uncle or any of his friends. They actually want to spend time with me, and they care about what I want.

That simple truth hits me in the chest like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, I’m too overwhelmed by emotion to answer.

I really don’t want to start crying just because they asked me to play cards with them though; they already know I’m an emotional mess, but at some point, they’re gonna start thinking I’m straight-up crazy.

So I clear my throat to buy an extra second to collect myself, then glance at Ridge. “I don’t know how to play.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to fix.” He smiles down at me, then jerks his head toward the back of the cabin. “Come on. We can use the table in the kitchen.”

I get up and follow the guys into the little kitchen, a little thrill of excitement running through me. Ridge and Trystan light a few candles to keep the gathering darkness at bay while Dare and Archer give me a run-down on how poker works.

To be honest, nothing they say makes any sense to me. Archer tries to break it down into manageable pieces, but Dare keeps throwing in his own two cents, and they’re using words like “big blind,” “flop,” and “river,” none of which make any sense to me.

When they finish their explanation and find me staring at them like I’m still waiting for them to start, Archer chuckles. “Maybe we should play a few rounds open-handed. We can guide you through it and you can see what we’re talking about.”