author_lyse

I used to think obsessive male leads were kind of hot. You know, the intense stares, the undying devotion, the way they’d burn the world for the woman they love? Swoon, right?

Wrong.

That fantasy went up in smoke the moment I woke up in the body of Sonia Mitford. The heroine of The Crimson Devotion. The first obsessive romance fantasy novel I ever read. The one that ended on a mysterious hiatus. The one with Marius Wittelsbach, a charming, possessive psychopath who thinks an ankle shackle is a love language.

Now I’m trapped in a velvet-draped prison, shackled to a bedpost like some porcelain doll in a gothic fairytale. And Marius? He’s worse than I remembered. Sweet, soft-spoken, and utterly unhinged.

"You don’t need to be afraid. I’ll take care of you."
Translation: I’ll murder anyone who blinks in your direction and serve you tea over their corpse.

"Anyone who bothers you... anyone who looks at you the wrong way... I’ll get rid of them for you."

I thought I was playing the role just fine. Smiling. Nodding. Pretending not to be horrified.

But then, plot twist. Alessio Slovene, the forgettable side character, walks in looking like a golden retriever knight and drops this bomb: he’s actually the crown prince in disguise. And he’s been investigating Marius.

Finally, a lifeline. Maybe.

Because people are vanishing. The body count is rising. And every time Marius kisses my forehead and calls me “Nia,” I feel one step closer to becoming the tragic heroine in a blood-soaked love story.

Obsessive male leads aren’t dreamy.

They’re terrifying.

And I might be in way over my head.

The Obsessive Male Lead Is Actually Scary

I narrowed my eyes, watching the cloaked figure up ahead. His left leg moved strangely, stiff and uneven. For a man trying to flee, he wasn't fast enough. His stride had a noticeable drag, as if he'd once injured it badly and never fully recovered.

I raised my crossbow, steadying my breath as I took aim at his weakened leg. The injury was slowing him just enough. My finger squeezed the trigger, and with a sharp twang, the bolt flew.

The bolt struck his calf, and he staggered, caught off guard. He let out a grunt of pain but didn't fall. Instead, he stumbled forward, his steps faltering. Each one was slower, his balance slipping with every stride.

"Stop, you bastard!" I shouted, my voice cold, sharp like flint. "I'll shoot you again if you don't stop this instant. And the next shot will be fatal."

No Longer a Drill