Page 17 of Accidentally Vacationed with an Incubus

My parents were progressive, sure—with my dad being an incubus demon and my mom part succubus, they were probably more open-minded than most—but they really didn’t need to know that their teenage daughter had been reading stories featuring the wordknotin the title since she was sixteen.

A softthudechoed through the room, and I turned toward my desk. Glowing skull fairy lights pulsed merrily from their place draped across the mirror, casting their light upon the tattered notebook beneath them.

I practically squealed, lunging for it and clutching it to my chest as I fell back onto the bed.

Since I was a teen, I’d known there was only one job I ever wanted—to be an author. I had spent years writing stories for my friends, never thinking much of it, never imagining it would be anything more than a bit of fun. But that last summer, before everything fell apart, I had finally started taking it seriously.

Fueled by my forbidden bookshelf, I had tried my hand at writing a spicy romance novel of my own.

And honestly?

It had gone pretty well.

The plot was solid, it had all my favorite tropes—enemies to lovers. One bed. He falls first and hard.

Swoon.

My FMC was a petite, curvy, dark-haired witch, loosely based on myself.

My MMC was tall, broad, and gruff, an absolute Hemsworth-level heartthrob. I had thought about making him an incubus, but the market was more open to wolf shifters, so I had pivoted.

Everything had been going smoothly, except for one tiny problem.

The sex scenes.

I’d tried my best, but despite having read dozens of spicy books, it was hard for my eighteen-year-old virgin self to imagine the logistics of a good, detailed sex scene. I had half hoped that when I summoned my mate, he’d be able to provide some inspiration on that front.

I sighed, flipping open the notebook to the first page.

When I finally got my magic back, I would have to face the coven. And when they inevitably exiled me, I might have to rely on writing as a way to support myself in the real world.

I was now twenty-seven years old. Still a virgin. Still unable to write a decent sex scene. And still one year away from being able to summon my mate to help me out.

Not that you want to summon him at all, remember? Not that you think you deserve happiness.

I took a deep breath, willing my inner voice to quiet down.

You need to forgive yourself at some point, Jen, Lobato’s voice echoed.

I could still fix this. I could get my life back on track. I would spend however long it took to regain my magic. I would return to my coven and accept whatever punishment they deemed necessary. And then, I would finish my book.

And by this time next year, I would be a new witch. One ready to summon and support her fated mate.

Maybe, by then, I would have finally found the strength to forgive myself for what I had done.

Chapter 5. Devlin

Headless Hollow—a name that sounded like it belonged to a horror story—was, ironically, one of the coziest villages I had ever set foot in. The cobblestone streets wound lazily through clusters of charming, lopsided cottages, their chimneys puffing out oddly colored smoke that smelled of cinnamon and brimstone.

It wasn’t hard to tell the locals from the tourists. The tourists, still rigidly clinging to their human forms, shuffled about in wide-eyed wonder, cameras poised and mouths agape. Meanwhile, the residents embraced their monstrous selves without an ounce of hesitation, not the slightest bit worried about a human accidentally wandering in and rallying the nearest pitchfork-wielding mob.

I spent the morning in a constant state of awe. A nearly nine-foot-tall sasquatch, her mahogany fur so silky she could have starred in a luxury shampoo ad, handed me a cup of coffee with a nonchalant, “Careful, it’s hot, hon.” A dazzling water nymph, her skin shifting between hues of blue and silver depending on how the sunlight kissed her, flashed me a radiant smile as she pointed me toward the nearest tourist shop?I hoped the ghost would accept a Samhain-themed trinket as an apology.

Even the law enforcement had its own peculiar flair. A hulking ogre was crammed into a comically undersized patrol car, his beefy hands gripping the wheel like he was about to tear it off. His eyes narrowed in on the newcomers, a silent warning that he saweverything.

But as much as I could explore the town for days, I had some groveling to do. And so, just as the sun was setting over the lake, I found myself once again standing in front of the haunted cabin.

Nothing stirred as I approached. No angry slamming of shutters. No banging of doors. Not even a single flicker of candlelight from beyond the windows. The silence was unnerving.

---