But it was more than a place where human vices were openly enjoyed, more than a place where humans who didn’t fit into the daylight landscapes and demons like the incubi and succubi could live. The Den was at the center of a cluster of dark landscapes some of Ephemera’s demon races claimed as their own. It was a place where those demons could purchase supplies or buy a drink in a tavern without being hated or driven away because they weren’t human.

It was also a place that had its roots in the darker side of the human heart, a place where the sun never rose.

He’d been a bitter fifteen-year-old boy when he’d stumbled into the Den. Having escaped his father’s control two years before, he’d disappeared into the landscapes and struggled to survive. The dark human landscapes were too desperate and frightening even for a boy whose demon nature eclipsed whatever human blood might flow through his veins, but the people in the daylight landscapes didn’t want something like him living among them, and he’d been driven out of village after village as soon as the people realized he was an incubus—and that hunger for the emotions that were produced by sex was something that couldn’t be hidden or denied for long.

So when he found the Den and felt the dark, edgy, carnival tone of the place, he’d embraced it with all his heart because he’d finally found a place where being an incubus didn’t make him an outcast, a place where the never-ending night suited who and what he was—a place where he could belong.

And he still belonged here. The Den was his home. But now, as a man who had recently turned thirty . . .

I’m so tired of the night.

A sudden yearning for something washed through him, making his heart ache, filling him with a need and a longing so powerful it staggered him. He braced his hands on the counter and waited for the feeling to pass. It always did.

But the yearning had never been this powerful before, had never swept through him like this. Didn’t matter. Those feelings came and went—and nothing changed.

Disgusted with himself for not being content with what he had, he plucked a mug off the wooden stand—and almost dropped it when someone knocked on the cottage’s front door. He never brought anyone to his home, never invited anyone to visit. The only two people who ignored that demand for privacy were his human cousins, Glorianna and Lee, and neither of them would sound so hesitant about applying knuckles to wood.

He’d just ignore it; that’s what he’d do. He’d ignore it, and whoever—whatever—was on the other side of the door would go away.