Fated Magic (Claimed by Wolves 1)

This cabin is a lot smaller than Ridge’s house, and although it looks like there’s a small kitchen as well as the living room, there are definitely no more bedrooms.

“Um, one bed?” I ask, tentatively moving into the room. Trystan has laid my bag on the bed atop the colorful quilt, and I squeeze around Archer to get to it.

Ridge tugs the hem of his shirt down and replies, “We’ll sleep in the living room. You can have the bed.”

Thank goodness for small mercies. I can’t even imagine trying to sleep next to all that… man.

Trystan makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like distaste, but Ridge shoves him toward the door. “Let’s make sure the cabin is stocked.”

As Archer passes me, he offers me a small, shy smile. “Take your time. We’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

I spend an inordinately long time beneath a cold shower, wondering where the water came from this deep in the wild, and if the water could go even colder to wash away the desire that still burns through me with a vengeance.

Ridge’s friend Amora gave me a bag full of clothes, including comfy sweats and nightshirts. Right now, baggy cotton pants thick enough to hide all my curves seem like the safest bet, and I top them off with a long-sleeved nightshirt that hangs off me like a potato sack. I know I probably look ridiculous, but the less skin I have showing in their presence, the better.

For all of us.

The more I have to take off, the more likely I won’t give in to the insane desire to press my bare skin against theirs the way my palms pressed against Ridge’s chest.

When I walk into the small kitchen at the back of the house, my three companions are seated at a wooden table barely large enough for them with an array of food waiting. It’s more than I saw Ridge pack in one of the bags, which I guess isn’t that surprising. I recall him saying something about the cabin being stocked.

It appears to be a do-it-yourself sandwich assembly line. Though each man has an open soda sitting before them, none of them have helped themselves to the food yet. I can’t help but feel a little touched that they waited for me.

“Ladies first,” Trystan teases, motioning to the only empty chair.

After I pile my bread with cold cuts, cheese, and condiments, the guys dive in with gusto. My sandwich looks like a single bite compared to the towering monstrosities they make, and it occurs to me it probably takes a lot of fuel to power a shifter’s metabolism.

Spurred by the thought, I ask, “Do you guys have to eat more than regular people?”

It doesn’t occur to me until after the question is out of my mouth that it might be a little too intimate. Though we are in what amounts to a private sex cabin in the woods, so no question is likely off the table.

“We do.” Archer teeth flash white as he smiles. “Our bodies run hotter and faster, so we need more fuel than the average human.”

Their bodies certainly do run hotter, I can’t deny that. My cheeks flush again as I try desperately not to conjure up images of them without any clothes. It’s not really working, so I bl

urt out another question to distract myself.

“I never knew shifters even existed, but to be honest, my life was kinda… Well, I was shielded from a lot. Does the world know about you at all?”

Ridge sets his soda can down on the table with a clank. “No. They can’t know. For good reason.”

“What reason is that?”

Trystan shoves his hand into the bag of chips in the center of the table as he replies. “Shifters have existed for thousands of years. We learned early on that if humans find out about us, they inevitably try to hunt us to extinction.”

I gasp, horrified. “Hunt you?”

Ridge shoots a look of irritation at Trystan before turning to me. “Humans have a tendency to be fearful of things they can’t explain. Magic, shifters, the lot of it.”

“And where humans are fearful, there follows destruction,” Archer murmurs with a shake of his head.

Trystan snorts. “Ha. Humans are nothing compared to witches. Humans may hunt us because they fear us. Witches hunt us because they hate us.”

That statement brings forth a whole new slew of questions. I have a million to ask—if I’m stuck with these men for an indefinite amount of time, I would do well to learn about them and their culture. The good news is, they seem to like hearing me talk. Already, Ridge is looking at me expectantly, as if waiting for my next query.

“Archer told me a little bit about the witch problem. But could you tell me more?” I ask. “Why do they hate you so much?”

Trystan slouches in his chair, cradling his soda against his abdomen. “Don’t let the word fool you. Witches can be women and men. They use magic. To them, we’re an aberration.”