Chapter 1 - Kate
“Who’s ready for dick?” I call to action the Dark Romance Book Club, alerting my TikTok followers who read along with us on our live reading sprints every Thursday.
The four club members in my lounge-room-come-library switch on their camera faces. Here, we read about morally gray men who burn the world down for their ladies and pay homage to them in our bookish merchandise.
“Me!” Harper stares into the camera with all the enthusiasm of a goth Fae that hexes people for fun, or God forbid, smiles.
I give her the play nice eyes over the top of my phone, and she glares at me with an icy glare like I’m a pixie she’ll lift by the wings and spank until I bleed glitter.
Before Goth Fae can scare away our fans, I distract them by panning down to our bookish merchandise line.
Harper models a Thick thighs and stalker vibes hoodie with a biker helmet with a knife and roses protruding through the visor.
Every stitch in our merch line is hand-crafted by her father, ethically produced and guaranteed not to fall apart or shrink after three washes.
Charlie, my other bestie, primps her red wig from our Bookish Wigs line. Dark romance meets cinnamon roll chaos. Our fans eat it up.
Today, though, they’re too busy losing their shit over Josh Hammond, my Yorkshire Terrier. Aptly named after my favorite stalker Golden Retriever from the novel Lights Out.
I glare at my pet for trading my lap for my bestie’s. The jury’s out on whether he’s a manslut or drawn to Harper’s darkness and knife obsession like his namesake, who started my descent into stalker romance.
I swing my phone back to Charlie, demure with her cutsie finger wave and bashful smile, but no less down for the smut.
Introverted and shy, she fades into the background amid the bolder personalities.
Loyal as a guard dog, she’s the first to show up with snacks and a backup plan whenever something goes wrong.
Former party girls, Nicki and Becca, play up for the camera, the first pretending to give an air blow job. The second squeezes invisible butt cheeks, boobs, or cock. Not one hundred percent sure… but it’s dirty, and I love it.
The five of us are one corner of the bookish community I’ve carved out over the past three years. It started with posting reviews on TikTok of what I was reading—good, bad, and the Do Not Finishes—and it grew into a twenty-thousand-strong following.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy my day job as a reporter. But it’s a far cry from the award-winning career I chased at college. Book reviews and merchandise pay the bills and fund my first love—the kind of journalism that hits back.
A motorcycle roars past my house, and like clockwork, the five of us yell, “Hot biker!” and burst into laughter. Laughing emojis scroll flood my screen.
Right. Back to the reading sprint. “Book Girlies, get your cup of tea, snacks, and blankets, and join us for a reading sprint! Here’s my arsenal!”
I slump into my chair, fluff the blanket over my legs, cuddle my hot water bottle, and get comfortable. Secretly, my blood runs cold, and I’m a Vampire Fae, despite my mother calling me a nightmare.
To my followers, I flash the goodies I share with Harper and Charlie—pistachios, Timtams, raspberries, and a tub of Belgian chocolate ice cream.
Nicki and Becca are being tame with crackers.
They want to look their best for wedding season.
Screw diets and being good. I’m here for the book boyfriends who love their girls curvy.
“And a Belgian hot chocolate, served in our glorious mug, designed by the lovely Harper.” I lift my black mug with gold writing. “Mine says, Hot drink. Hot mess. Hot villain, and it describes me and my kind of book boyfriend.”
We came up with six new bookish sayings and had them printed on mugs, sweaters, hoodies, and stickers, and I’m giving our audience a little tease of our launch at the end of our reading session.
“Round of applause for Harper. She’s so talented.” I raise the camera from my mug to her judgy eyebrow. “Believe it or not, that’s her happy face.”
She gives me the bird, and I giggle.
Fan comments rush in.
My bestie-slash-housemate and I are the definition of the opposites attract trope. I’m sunshine, loud, boisterous, the center of attention. Bold colors in my hair and clothes, twirly skirts and dresses, and fabrics that sparkle. She says I look like a metallic cupcake vomited.
Harper’s got the personality of an overcast day—dry wit and sarcasm as a second language. Color and sunlight burn her retinas, hence the dress sense of Wednesday Addams—leather, long coats, and vampire-hunting boots. Hair to match her mood, with a sheen of blue when it hits the right light.
I better get in a quick pimp of Charlie’s biz. “Check out the new wigs Charlie dropped at Bookish Wigs.” I catch her mid-popcorn nibble, totally unprepared.
Compliments fluster my best friend, and a nervous smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.
“Oh, don’t be shy, Charlie,” I tell her. “These are amazing!”
She finally accepts the tribute, fluffing her long, curled red wig, hiding her alopecia. Fiery red is the signature of her natural hair and honors Clary from the Mortal Instruments, her favorite Young Adult series.
I switch the camera back to me and grin. “We’ll show you more after the sprint, so stay tuned.”
Their enthusiastic responses clog my feed.
“Alright, you thirsty bishes,” I announce, “let’s see what we’re reading.”
My four girlies dive into showcasing their individual tastes. Harper’s in a romantasy bloodbath, Nicki’s mafia-tied with a silver fox, Becca wants a sugar daddy, and Charlie’s deep into an Alpha biker werewolf. Stalker, of course.
What I won’t give for a sexy, silver fox billionaire stalker to take care of me.
That leaves me. TikTok hype sent me straight to my latest love, unhinged male love interests, who’ll do anything for their lady loves.
I flick open my paperback to the chapter artwork, and dream about my morally gray man, sinking into his lap while I read, and he sharpens his knife, preparing to destroy my enemies.
Justice is rarely served in this world, but it is in my imagination, and that’s where I prefer to hang out.
Comments trickle down the screen as our viewers list the titles they’re reading during the sprint.
“I’m starting the thirty-minute timer.” I let the chatter die down, set the clock, and lower the phone in its brace, overlooking the group of us. “Ready to read with us, bishes?”
I activate the TikTok timer and settle into my latest read.
I’m straight into the smut scene and rub my thighs together—a slight action to hide my arousal, because no one needs to see that shit on a livestream.
I’m at the part where the depraved stalker slams his knife into his captive right when a sharp, rude knock sounds on the door.
It sends a jolt through my spine, and I nearly jump out of my seat. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The novel bends from my crushing it.
Josh barks and launches off Harper’s lap to assess the situation.
We’ve never had a visitor interrupt reading sprint time before, and it startles me. Anything related to closed doors triggers claustrophobia and memory of being trapped.
A familiar hand bears down on my shoulder. “Just breathe, cupcake.”
Harper.
I close my eyes. Count three breaths. Repeat three things I can control. How I react to this. Slow my breath. Face my fear and answer the door.
She slides the book from my aching fingers so I won’t damage it.
Another knock lands like a gunshot, and I flinch.
A memory slams in my ribcage. I know what awaits behind closed doors.
My gaze pings to every corner for an escape.
The window. The hall bearing my staircase and the front door.
Fuck. Something as simple as a knock sends me into a spiral of anxiety that danger awaits.
My body remembers what I tell it to forget. And I really want to forget.
“I’ll get it.” Harper lifts from her seat and removes a switchblade from her pocket without any reservations about using it. Comfort object meets murder threat. We each have our own coping mechanisms. In this chaos, she’s the only place I feel safe.
Snippets of conversations with my therapist flit through my head.
Do small, brave things.
Take controlled risks.
This fear won’t rule me. It’s my bitch.
“No! I’ll get it.” My numb legs propel me out of my seat.
Harper’s by my side in an instant. If anything happens, she’s there to back me up and stab the fucker, and knowing she’s with me gives me the confidence to go to the door.
Somehow, I find the strength to carry me out of my lounge-library. The walk to the foyer takes forever. Josh’s barking stirs battle drums in my head. I summon the war paint—the color and sparkle the world sees. Bright enough to distract and brittle enough to crack.
Harper’s presence is a steady constant at my back.
I pause at the wooden front door, take three long breaths, and summon the courage to open it. My eyes crush shut, trying to stop the flicker of monsters hidden behind closed doors.
“Hope it’s a hot stalker,” she mutters, using her dark humor to haul me out of my decline.
I don’t smile right away. Her joke slipped under my guard like sunlight under blinds, and cracks the anxiety’s hold over me.
She prefers her men dark and depraved. I’m not as far on the dark side as her. I like my book boyfriends with a hint of marshmallow, which is why Josh Hammond is my ideal man.
“Whoever’s on the other side of this door has a death wish.” Harper twirls her knife.
My fingers clench on the doorknob, and I unlock the latch.
“It better be your book boyfriend in the flesh, holding more snacks and armed with an apology and a threat to ravage your curves,” Harper warns, reciting my Santa Wishlist. “If not, they better make their last confession, because they’re my next corpse.”
I blink at her knife and don’t doubt she won’t use it. Blood and knives are her love language and form of foreplay.
“Fictionally speaking,” she corrects herself, and hides her weapon behind her back, the blade glinting like it didn’t get the memo.
More tension bleeds from my chest. “Please don’t joke about stabbing someone. That’s premeditated murder, and I don’t want to have to testify against you.”
“Relax, cupcake. I’m not stabbing anyone that doesn’t deserve it.” Her smirk promises otherwise and convinces me I must handle this.
I stare into her eyes, pale blue like frostbite, cutting and merciless if you get on her bad side. Beautiful in the way of an approaching storm, but only from a safe distance.
Air locks in my lungs. Fuck. I have to do this. Harper’s watching and she’s the bravest person I know. Pretending not to be afraid is my default mode. My insides shake as I jerk open the door.
Recognition comes slower than it should. So does my relief. Shame crawls up my spine at having expected shadows and dangerous intent.
Harry, my grouchy, old neighbor, stands on my doorstep, scowling like I’ve personally offended his evening routine. “Your dog’s been barking again.” He lifts a shredded plant. “Got into my petunias and tore them up.”
The fear doesn’t dissolve straight away. It morphs into a small flame of annoyance. I can’t do this right now. This guy has it out for my dog, and I don’t know why. Josh is tiny and harmless, his paws too small to dig and bury a bone, let alone mount a campaign against flowers.
Harper leans forward to carry through on her threat when this dick is a pain in our asses. “Did he now?” The menace in her tone is enough to peel the skin from a body, and Harry flinches back.
Instinct hits, and I catch her arm, de-escalating the situation before she stabs Harry through his thick, square glasses that give the impression of an 1980s librarian with a grudge.
“We checked the last time you made these accusations, and there were no holes under the fence.” Harper goes to war for Josh and me, while I grip the doorframe and remind myself to still my thundering pulse.
Harry shoves the plant into my arms. “Replace it by the weekend.”
Harper flashes the teeth of a predator. “Looking forward to burying you with it.” She slams the door in his face and folds up her switchblade and stuffs it in the front pocket of her hoodie.
Finally, my muscles give up and unclench, and it doesn’t hurt to breathe.
Harper takes my arm and gives it a light pump. “I know you wanted to do that alone, but I’m never going to leave your side unguarded.”
“Thank you,” I mumble.
I want her to fold me into her arms and cuddle me, get the warmth I crave, just for a second. But that’s not her way. She’s not big on the physical stuff but shows up to collect my emotional wreckage. And trusting that I’m safe with her is what really matters.
“Come on, Joshy.” Harper claps at the terrier, and he takes off, trotting back to the lounge.
I wish it were that easy for me to drop my alarm. History’s made it clear this won’t pass quickly. Thirty minutes, minimum. There’s no way I can host the rest of the sprint when I’m falling apart. I want to scream at losing control. Letting everyone down. Showing weakness.
“I’ve got you, cupcake.” Steady hands secure my upper arms and steer me back to my seat, fold me in my blanket, and pass me back my book to calm me down.
I fake a smile at the uneasy glances my way. Outside, I appear calm. Inside is a recovering, chaotic mess.
Thankfully, Harper takes over for me when the timer runs out.
Damn, she pulls out a hidden charm that surprises me, and wins over some new viewers, apparently.
I try to dive back into my book but can’t, and Harper can tell, taking us through the one-and-a-half-hour event successfully, and with bonus plugs for our merch line.
I’m a zombie when she puts me to bed afterwards, clothes and all, metallic makeup on. She leaves the light on and snuggles into bed beside me. My bestie doesn’t say anything, just gives me the silence to speak if I want to. What would I do without her?
For once, Josh, the traitor, goes to sleep with me—and only because his “favorite” is here. I don’t have the energy to think of ways to win him back from the dark side.
I lie wide awake, hating that I feel small and vulnerable when I don’t show any fragility. Weakness allows predators to strike, and I’ll never allow one to hurt me again.
“It’s going to be alright, cupcake,” she reminds me, brushing my hair from my cheek.
Okay enough to survive.
I lean into her strength and warmth. Call upon the armor of glitter I wear. After a few beats, the world feels safe and warm again. Not enough to sleep, but the right amount to strategize ways to beat the fear that paralyzes me.