Temptations of The Coven

The mutt was back.He sprawled across my front rug like he owned the place, head on his paws, tail twitching lazily. His fur was a mess of dirt-caked black and grey, the kind of scruffy that made him look more like a cursed shadow than a proper wolf. I didn’t need a second coffee to recognize the glint in his eyes—calculating, waiting. He’d been lurking around all week, but today, he planted himself right at my doorstep like a doorstop with an attitude problem.I waved a hand. "Go on. Get lost." He blinked slowly, unbothered. "Go home," I added, flicking my wrist like I was dismissing a stubborn ghost. The beast yawned.With a scoff, I stepped over his shaggy bulk and dropped into my favorite rocking chair—old, creaky, and painted the color of rusted sage. My coffee had cooled to that regrettable stage between drinkable and insulting, but I sipped it anyway, running my thumb along the ridges of the ceramic mug. The pattern reminded me of waves or maybe vines, depending on the angle.My

The council house buzzed with the clashing energies of twenty-some witches stuffed into one poorly ventilated room. The ancient ceiling fan overhead spun slowly, more decorative than functional, like the kind of spell that technically worked—but only if you squinted and believed hard enough.I eyed the oak table warily, already regretting my life choices.Darcy took her seat with the groan of old bones and an exaggerated sigh, as if the mere act of sitting down after storming into my cottage was heroic. Tonya nudged my shoulder, eyes wide with anticipation. Around us, familiar faces shifted restlessly: Rowan and her permanently arched eyebrow, Mira with her herbs braided into her color-laced hair, and Ursula—who still dressed like she’d just emerged from a Victorian funeral.Marlene, all robes and wrath, called the meeting to order with a pointed bang of her cane on the floor.“Silence,” she snapped. “Unless someone here can conjure a miracle, we’ve got a political circus to plan.”A f

That night, I didn’t sleep.Not from fear. Not really.More like the kind of restless anticipation that curls up at the base of your spine and whispers everything might unravel tomorrow. My room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a spellstone in the corner. I lay on my side, eyes fixed on the shadows that danced across the ceiling as the moonlight slipped through the slats in the shutters.The pack would come for him. That was the plan. Formal invitation. Proper introduction. Set him on the path he never asked to walk.It made sense. It was the smart thing. The right thing.So why did it feel like I’d just agreed to hand over a bird with wet wings and no clue how high he could fly?I stared at the wall. What if the pack rejected him? What if they saw him as weak—feral—and chose punishment over patience? What if they didn’t explain the laws so much as beat them into him? He didn’t know the rituals. The expectations. The history. I didn't even know if he could hide his claws when angr

The teleportation spell landed with a satisfying thump against my floorboards, my boots scuffing the worn wood as I stepped into my quiet, sun-drenched cottage.Home.My garden boots were muddy. My cardigan smelled faintly of damp moss and rosemary. I was half sure my braid contained at least one dried leaf from the plants I’d just harvested. And honestly? I loved it.The coven had sent word for more herbs—again—despite half the council pretending they didn’t use my supply. I’d harvested bundles of mugwort, moon lavender, and a small clutch of feverfew (because Darcy had been getting headaches and absolutely refused to admit it).I’d strung the bundles upside down on the overhead drying lines. They danced gently in the breeze through the open windows like they were part of some secret forest ballet.I even threw vegetables and fresh herbs into a large pot inside my fireplace for dinner. Dylan disappeared before sunrise with a messenger wolf. It was...weird to drink coffee on the porch

Teleporting home after a good hex was like stretching out in sun-warmed sheets with a glass of wine and no responsibilities. I landed dead center in my living room, boots hitting the pentagram with a soft thump, still riding the high of victorious chaos. The cottage welcomed me like a satisfied co-conspirator—smelling faintly of dried herbs, lavender, wet dog, and smug satisfaction.The smile on my face could’ve powered a small village.“Oh, that was glorious,” I sighed in a whisper, spinning once on my heel like a tipsy dancer.I still reeked of vinegar and supernatural disobedience. One of the jars had broken in my satchel—oops—but it was worth every drop of rot. The look on Niklaus’ face? Priceless. The faint vampire shrieking in the distance? Music to my ears. I had probably started a fashion crisis. Maybe even a furniture-burning. Perfection.“You smell like war crimes.”A gruff voice came from the couch.I blinked toward the shadows—and there he was, wide awake.Dylan.Sitting