Cara Ravelli

Forget “Little House on the Prairie.”

This witch’s house is in New Orleans, and it’s haunted by questionable hookups, magical curses, and a demon or two with a Motown playlist. Kira Sinclair hexes her exes and gets off on revenge—literally, sometimes with the help of enchanted toys and one questionable demon under the bedsheets.

But spark a curse in post-industrial Detroit and you’ll wake up some shit best left sleeping: the city’s full of spirits and old gods who hate getting involved, and Kira? She’s cursed herself into the crosshairs of every supernatural hottie with a grudge and a contract. 

There’s a vampire landlord (he likes it rough), a wolf shifter who thinks he can outgrowl her, and a witch-hunter who could ruin her with one look—if she isn’t doing the ruining first.

In Detroit, there’s only one rule: don’t do anything you can’t hex your way out of. 

And Kira? She does it all.

I swiped right on the devil. He didn’t let me leave.

After a catastrophic Tinder date and three glasses of the cheapest Merlot her liver can tolerate, Chloe swears off men. Five minutes later, she signs a contract with the devil.

Yes, literally. No, she wasn’t sober.

Now she is trapped in a supernatural dating game where every match comes with a catch, every kiss feels like a bad idea, and walking away might not be an option.

Her checklist is simple: don’t fall in love, don’t get possessed, and definitely don’t swipe right on Satan… but have you seen his profile pic?

Between dangerously seductive strangers, rules that keep changing, and one very powerful man pulling the strings, Chloe is about to learn that some dates are unforgettable, some are deadly, and some don’t end when the date is over.

THIS YEAR, LOVE IS THE DEADLIEST MAGIC OF ALL.

Every year, thirteen black-sealed invitations slip through Geneva’s shadows, summoning strangers, lovers, and liars to the legendary Villa Diodati. The rules? Thirteen guests. Thirteen stories. Every tale must be true or the Villa takes a piece of your soul as payment.

But this isn’t some bougie masquerade with overpriced wine and moody lighting. The masked host is none other than George Byron himself. Yes, that Byron: poet, scandal-magnet, and, thanks to a two-hundred-year-old curse, the Villa’s immortal master of ceremonies. For centuries, he’s seduced and discarded, desired without memory, lusted without love. Just the way the curse likes it.