Immortalis Is Not for Fans of Clean, Wholesome Fiction
If you seek the gentle comforts of clean, wholesome fiction, where love blooms in sunlit meadows and conflicts resolve with heartfelt apologies, then Immortalis will shatter your illusions. This is no tale of redemption through kindness or virtue triumphant. It plunges into the abyss of eternal hunger, where vampires do not sparkle but rend flesh from bone, and desire twists into something feral, unyielding, and profane.
The world of Immortalis, drawn from the shadowed chronicles of its immortal predators, offers no safe harbour. Consider the protagonists, those ancient beings who walk the night: they are not brooding romantics pining for lost humanity. They are killers, sculpted by centuries of savagery. Their courts pulse with the metallic tang of blood spilled in ritual excess, where dominance is asserted not through whispered endearments but through chains, whips, and the exquisite agony of submission. Scenes unfold in dimly lit chambers where silk sheets stain crimson, and ecstasy merges seamlessly with torment. One such encounter, raw and unfiltered, sees a fledgling vampire bound and broken, her cries echoing not in protest but in rapture, as her sire carves devotion into her very skin.
Gore is not mere backdrop here; it is the lifeblood of the narrative. Limbs are torn asunder in frenzied hunts, entrails spilled across marble floors amid the laughter of the undead elite. The transformation itself is a grotesque symphony: bodies convulse, veins erupt, flesh warps under the curse’s merciless grip. No fade to black spares the reader; every splatter, every scream, every quiver of violated flesh is rendered with unflinching precision. And woven through this carnage is an eroticism that defies convention, a dark romance where enemies become lovers only after rivers of blood have flowed between them, where touch her and die is not hyperbole but creed.
BDSM elements dominate, elevated to an art of immortal perversion. Collars of iron and thorn bite into necks, floggers draw blood that is lapped from wounds still weeping. Power exchanges are absolute, sadistic, laced with the thrill of potential annihilation. These are not playful games between consenting adults in a modern flat; they are pacts forged in crypts, where safe words dissolve in the face of eternal compulsion. The serial killer allure permeates every liaison, for these immortals have tallied bodies across millennia, their charm a veneer over psychopathic precision.
Immortalis demands readers who relish the grotesque, who find beauty in the body horror of undeath, satire in the absurdity of endless night, and twisted arousal in forbidden unions. It mocks the saccharine tropes of wholesome tales, substituting gothic decadence for domestic bliss, paranormal extremity for paranormal fluff. If your shelves hold only stories of chaste kisses and moral victories, turn away. This book will corrupt, consume, and leave you craving the darkness it unleashes.
Immortalis Book One August 2026