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January 11 - January 17, 2025
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.
This is a castle that has seen some shit.
If Dracula visited Black Crag, the infamous vampire would step back in disgust and tell the owner; ‘Cool it with the gargoyles, dude. No one’s that goth.’
It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloom. The entrance hall is decorated in what I’ll now forever refer to as, ‘Medieval Stabby Chic.’
Even though this place looks like a junk store had a drunken hate fuck with an Andy Warhol painting, it has a personality, a vibe, a presence.
Gideon Blake will fall on a sword for me, as I would for him. (Although only if the sword is made by a master smith. I don’t eviscerate myself on inferior craftsmanship.)
“But control is an illusion. All that stuff won’t keep you safe. Only you can do that. You are enough.”
“Are you telling me that if I talk about the benefits of clear storage containers over opaque, I will finally see what you’ve been hiding under your blouse?” His hands skim the hem of my shirt. “Lord Valerian, you don’t need to talk that dirty to me.”
“Reginald will be pleased. Women in flowing gothic dresses are always fleeing dramatically from the castle holding them, and we’re running low.”
“What if I get cold in the night and need snuggles?” “Vampires don’t feel the cold.” I snatch the blanket and jerk it over to my side. “And they definitely don’t need snuggles.”
Loving her will destroy me utterly. But I am more than ready to be ruined.