Page 26 of Desperate Crimes

The ones with obsessive antiheroes who don’t knock—they break in.

The ones with morally gray kings and vengeful gods, deadly crime lords, war-torn generals, shifter alphas with glowing eyes and claws hidden beneath bespoke suits.

The ones where the heroine is stolen, claimed, ruined—only to realize she loves it.

Needs it.

The ones Daddy said I wasn’t allowed to read until I was older—which, of course, meant I started sneaking them when I was thirteen.

And it’s not my fault I’m addicted. Truly, how could it be?

Not when my mother is Z. Wolff, the literal queen of BookTok’s dark romance charts.

She’s built an empire on twisted fairy tales and scarred monsters who fall hard for fierce, fragile girls.

And now I’m standing in the middle of what feels like a scene pulled straight from one of her books.

This is the living embodiment of every trope I ever dreamed of.

The dark prince.

The man in the shadows.

The one who would raze kingdoms just to keep me safe in his bed.

And I’m not even sure which part of that thrills me more.

The danger?

The devotion?

Or the fact that he didn’t ask for me—he took me.

Every time he speaks to me with that wild, hungry voice, I feel like Persephone the moment Hades dragged her into the Underworld.

But in this version?

Maybe Persephone isn’t fighting the descent.

She’s digging her fingers into her dark king’s lapels and kissing him like he’s the only oxygen she’s ever known.

Because here’s the truth I’ve never dared say out loud.

I like the monsters in love stories.

The ones who protect you with knives and whisper that you're theirs before they even know your name.

The ones who get blood on their hands but never let a single drop touch you.

I love the ones who never flinch.

Who never back down.

Who burn down the world and call it romance.

And maybe it’s crazy, but this man?

He’s kinda like all of that.