Blood Typed

Being a dark romance author hiding my identity behind a pen name was lonely. But as long as I had him, I would be okay. Haides Anastos was the perfect man, my perfect man—even though he was a cold, stoic serial killer and a product of my imagination. I created him to be the grumpy match to my latest novel's sunshine female main character but fell for him with every keystroke.

At least, I thought he was fictional until I woke up in his clutches and under his knife as he demanded to know how I knew his secrets.

What a weird way to propose, but I accept.