What if the most scandalous romance ever told was rewritten as a dark, feminist romantasy?
Sir Clifford Chatterley turned me into a vampire to prove a theory — that feral creatures like me could be domesticated, civilised, and made acceptable for his aristocratic world. He keeps me chained and starved, drowning my hunger in silver and ash while he moulds me into the perfect Progeny wife.
But his gamekeeper sees something different when he looks at me.
Oliver Mellors doesn't want to tame me. He wants to unleash me. In the dark woods beyond Wragby Hall, he teaches me to hunt. To feed. To feel. He shows me that the wildness my husband is trying to suppress isn't shameful — it's my power.
Between the lord who wants to break me and the vampire who wants to free me, I discover a hunger that has nothing to do with blood. And everything to do with taking back what's mine.
My body. My desire. My rage.
You know the story.
But you don't know my story.
A deliciously dark, gothic reimagining where Lady Chatterley has fangs, the gamekeeper knows how to use his, and burning down the patriarchy has never been so satisfying.
