Fated Magic (Claimed by Wolves 1)

Since I won out over him in the fight for alpha status, he’s been waiting for his chance to prove he’s smarter, stronger, and better. To prove that my winning was some kind of fluke.

The escalation of witch violence in recent weeks has left all three packs in a constant state of vigilance and worry. Just last week, the East Pack lost three wolves in a coordinated attack that decimated a couple acres of their territory and left them nothing to bury but pieces. It’s more imperative than ever that we band together to defeat the witch threat, which means I’ve got to get my head in the game and forget about Sable. For the next hour, at least.

Beyond that? I’m not sure it’ll be possible.

I hear a crunch of feet behind me before Grady O’Connell steps into view beside me, falling into step with my long strides. Grady reminds me of Mr. Clean, with a bald head that reflects the sunlight and deeply tanned skin. He’s as big as the cleaning mascot, too, six-foot-four at least with muscles that are at odds with his beer habit. He has one hand up to shield his eyes from the sun, and the other wrapped around a Coors Light that’s condensing in the late morning warmth.

“Ridge.” He grins at me, a knowing smirk that lets me know he probably saw the entire fucking debacle with Sable earlier. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Fuck off,” I growl, but I smile anyway. Grady’s a nice guy—two decades older than me and once a good friend of my father’s. He’s a little on the eccentric side, but he’s a good man who’s never once questioned my authority since I won alpha status after my father’s death five years ago.

“Never figured you for the kinda man who’d have to drag a woman home. She’s cute though,” Grady goes on, clucking his teeth as if to punctuate his statement. “Nice ass.”

I shoot a glare in his direction, my head turning toward him sharply. I know he’s kidding. He’s a happily mated man, and he’s more interested in giving me shit than in checking out a girl’s ass.

Still, it doesn’t change the warning in my tone. “Keep your paws off her.”

He laughs. “Oh, I plan to. You know we’ve got some eligible bachelorettes of our own though, right? You don’t have to go pickin’ up strange women and bringin’ them back—”

I pause and kick a cloud of dirt in his direction, earning a laugh in return. “Thought I told you to fuck off?”

“All right, all right,” he says, holding up both hands in surrender. Then his smile fades. “But in all seriousness, I wanted to let you know I found evidence of campfires out on the Rim this morning during patrol.”

“Shit.” I stop, gravel shifting beneath my boots as I turn to face him. “New?”

“Fresh,” Grady says grimly. “Still smoking.”

“They’re getting braver.”

“Or stupider,” he points out.

“Either way, that’s the closest they’ve come on our lands in a while.” I stare off at the trees, at the sun riding high over the mountains. What would my father have done if he’d lived long enough to see the witches grow this bold in their war on us? “What are our options here?” I say under my breath, avoiding Grady’s concerned gaze. “We’re fighting an entire race of supernatural beings that wants to eradicate us because we’re ‘aberrations’ of magic.”

“In their opinion,” the older man grumbles.

“In their opinion alone,” I agree. “So what do we do? Wipe them out before they can wipe us out? Try to bridge the gap? Prove to them that the fact we use magic to shift doesn’t make us anything less than them?”

Grady knocks back a swig of his Coors before he says, “You can’t use logic with people who’re talking genocide. The only thing you can do is fight fire with fire.”

“Magic with magic.” I sigh and look back at the old man. “Nice talk. Now fuck off.”

“You’ve always been so eloquent. You didn’t get that from your dad,” Grady chuckles. Then he gives me a clap on the shoulder and heads off toward home.

The council meets in the largest building in town—a long, low, corrugated metal barn that’s blisteringly hot in summer and icy in winter.

Several members of the East Pack are milling around outside the barn with a few of my own wolves, and they all greet me with brief nods before continuing their conversations. Each of the packs send their alpha plus a handful of council members to each meeting, and they’re typically familiar faces—like Archer, the quiet golden boy of the East Pack who’s been standing in for his ailing father, the alpha. Our gazes meet, and I acknowledge him with a polite nod but keep walking.

I’m barely through the door into the dim interior before Amora appears from the shadows and latches on to my arm, dragging me right back outside. You wouldn’t know it by looking at her long, lean figure, but the woman’s got a grip like a fucking vise.

The sunlight reflects off a hard glint in her vivid green eyes as she releases me and hisses quietly, “All right, what the fuck is going on? Lawson damn near busted down your door, and now he’s telling anybody who’ll listen that you have a witch holed up in your house.”

Amora’s been my closest friend and confidante since we were kids, and even more so since I took over the pack. She balances the rage inside of me, dishing out her no-nonsense logic wh

en I need it most.

I shake my arm free of her clutches and snort. “A witch? Really?”

Her long, dark ponytail swishes as she shrugs. “That’s what he’s saying. Most of us don’t believe him, but you know he has his fanboys.”