All Chapters of Temptations of The Coven: Chapter 1 - Chapter 9

"Go on. Get lost." I shooed impatiently at the mutt that has been lingering on my doorstep. Today, he decided to make himself right at home on my handmade rug. "Go home," I tutted with another flick of my wrist.With a huff and yawn, the stubborn thing just laid itself on my slightly tattered rug perfectly content. Scoffing, I stepped over the damn thing to sit in my favorite rocket chair to sip on my cooling coffee. Rocking slightly, I ran my fingers along the mug's soothing, wavy pattern as I overlooked my garden. My basil and mint needed to be pruned, then rinsed and hung it to dry. The grape vines lined on the side of my cottage were due for fertilizer as well. Afterwards, I had a few orders to harvest and fulfill as the coven's witch doctor (that I personally named myself for a hoot).I made sure to slurp loudly after catching the eye of the parasite that decided my porch was its' own personal vacation hotspot. "Oi. Quit complainin' or find someone else to keep you company." I ra

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 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 few groans e

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. He didn’t even know how to hide his claws when angry.

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