I don’t write love stories for the well-adjusted.

I write for the ones who’ve clawed their way through silence and learned to live loud in the wreckage.

The ones who survived something—and didn’t come back whole.

I carve my books from the quiet places, the shameful ones, the soft cruelties we learn to carry.

Grief. Longing. Rage that learned to smile before it learned to speak.

I write women who don’t apologize and men who love like ruin.

I write feral romance—stitched with longing, soaked in ink, and holy in its devastation.

If you're here, you already know: the best stories don't end clean.

But they still end true.

This is for the ones who like their obsessions messy.

Their happy endings earned.

And their scars written in gold thread.

Welcome to my altar. Stay as long as you need.