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Lily Fain’s life as a horror novelist isn’t perfect, but it suits her, even if she has written off  true love  in exchange for her fictional world of monsters. Then her imagined world comes to life when she discovers she has a stalker who isn’t the average fan, but a real vampire who wants her dead.

Griffyd Fychan is a vampire-killer who is seven feet of lithe muscles, quick reflexes, and an explosion of ferocity that strikes terror in those he hunts, even those he rescues. But when the slayer steps between Lily and her vampire stalker, Griffyd’s instincts not only compel him to protect her from their mutual enemy, but to bond with her, as well.

The problem? Griffyd isn’t human–he belongs within the pages of Lily’s horror novels.

Faced with the menacing vampire-killer’s affections, will Lily retreat in fear to her author’s life? Or will she surrender to her dark passion for Griffyd, whose bonding to her could alter her in ways neither one could have ever foreseen?

*~*

EXCERPT:

Griffyd couldn’t stand it any longer. He had been spying on the human woman while she slept, and had found himself inching closer to where she lay, snuggled comfortably in his bed. Yet one of her arms escaped her cocoon, where it draped over the edge of the mattress as if beckoning him, inviting him to run one of his fingers along the soft skin of her inner wrist.

He felt a purr flutter up through his chest, which surprised him. He had never purred before, and the sensation of it thrilled him, flurried his heart rate. As did the sight he drank in with his obsidian eyes.

His faemne had curled up like a little nestling and had burrowed deeper into the downy folds of his bed. Yes, he liked the sight of that a lot. She looked so peaceful buried in amongst his bedding, so utterly at home, that it sped his breathing so that his chest clenched.

Damn him for what he had the undeniable urge to do. Running his finger along her tender, forbidden skin only heightened his need to touch. He wanted to feel more of her, he desired to feel the weight of her body in his arms, upon his stomach; he desperately wanted to snuffle the dip of her neck where it met her collarbone.

Griffyd the vampire-killer, the monster he knew she thought him to be, got up off his knees and slipped himself beneath her sleeping form to cradle her like she was but a fragile fawn.

And squeezed his eyes shut against the bliss of it.

Min modlufu, he purred.

If she woke at that moment, he would never forgive himself this moment of weakness, and for a breathless second he thought she had. But she only squirmed herself tighter against him, nuzzling her face along his chest, then sighed, and he felt her grow heavier as she drifted deeper into unconsciousness.

Gaestlufe–my soul’s love.

He couldn’t part with her, had to find a way to make her see him beyond the fangs, the horns, the claws. They were weapons, yes, but he could be gentle, he could be gentled. If he could help her to see all of him, perhaps then she would not be so frightened, would understand that the violence in his life took up only a part.

Which encroached with the coming twilight. He could leave her now, knowing she rested safely in his lair, that her wound had grown no worse, nor had she from the toxins entering through it. Her human body would take a while to heal, but he counted on that, hoped she would not prove to be too healthy in that respect. Selfish, yes, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed time.

And for once in the long centuries of his life, he didn’t think he had enough of it.

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