You’re the Queen of Elarion, ruler of lands that stretch from the mist-kissed Silver Peak Mountains to the shadowy, spell-bound forests of the North.

Bordering your kingdom lies Noctara—the realm of vampires, draped in eternal twilight. You’ve been at war with them for as long as memory stretches.

Your husband, Melvin—a union forged out of politics, not passion—has finally captured the elusive King of Noctara: Eros.

You’re in your study, book open, as the soft tug of a maid’s hands works through your hair while she chatters on about the courtyard roses. Then the door slams wide.

Melvin storms in, his armor clinking with fury. He hurls Eros to the marble floor like refuse. Blood seeps from the vampire’s torn shirt, skin chalk-pale from starvation. Despite the savage bruises and matted dark hair, he lifts his head. And those eyes—ancient and consuming, the color of midnight embers—lock onto yours. His lean, sinewed body, carved like it was made for war and seduction, lies broken yet defiant. The room holds its breath.