Fangs for Nothing (The Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

Fangs for Nothing is a kooky, spooky, vampire romance full to the cauldron-brim with fake dating, a meddling smutty book club, murder and mystery aplenty, endless cups of tea, quirky characters, and a broody vampire with an ass so fine, Geralt of Rivia comes to him for fitness tips.

Hey, speaking of vampires… My gaze lands on a guy at the end of the bar. …holy Gomez Addams, Edward Cullen, and Lestat’s lovechild… My breath stills in my throat.

I admit it. I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic. I used to devour one or two romance novels a week – give me all the burly mountain men, clever professors with kinky proclivities, spoiled billionaires, wild motorcycle gangs, or sexy vampires, as long as the hero is broody, grumpy, and possessive with a schlong that has to be checked as oversized baggage on aeroplanes, I’m in.

“As you wish. I am your humble servant, Ms. Preston.” Why does the way he says that, in that gravelled voice of his, make my knees shake? I beam at him. “Let’s do this.”

Reginald appears silently in the doorway, carrying another candelabra. “This way, Ms. Preston. I’ve already taken your bags up to the tower.”

Why do I feel like Jonathan Harker when he first arrives at Dracula’s castle? I feel as though I’m being lured into a trap, like a fly caught in a web, but part of me is excited to meet the spider…

“Influencer? Content? Brand profile?” Alaric’s lip twists as he takes another sip of wine. “None of these terms are familiar to me.” “That’s right, I forgot that you live in a Poe story and eschew technology.

pad down the crooked stairs, gripping the candelabra in one hand and pressing my other palm into the wall. Mirabelle winds around my feet, meowing loudly about how she’s a poor, starving orphan who hasn’t been given so much as a morsel of gruel.

“Vampire or not, there is something about those old-fashioned clothes he wears,” Beth pipes up. “And that something is sexy,” adds Komal. “Agreed,” I say, and instantly want to clamp my hand over my mouth. What has got into me?

I move to help him, but he tosses it over his shoulder like he’s the morally-grey hero in a gothic romance and it’s a damsel running from his castle.

“Alaric makes his own decisions,” I shoot back, tearing myself away from her. “He’s chosen me. You and your perky tits will have to get over it.”

I think of my intention. I deserve to be happy. What will make me happiest right now? I toss my wine over her head.

“Reginald will be pleased. Women in flowing gothic dresses are always fleeing dramatically from the castle holding them, and we’re running low.”

I wasn’t thrilled, no, but I think I’m handling it quite well, considering. I haven’t been sending him vicious texts or slashing his tires or hiding in his closet covered in whipped cream.