Do not read this. I assure you, I am not the sort of woman that anyone likes, and you will not like me. The fact that he likes me, it should be a sign to you, in fact. He is Mr. Marlow, and there is something wrong with him. I couldn’t say what it is exactly. He doesn’t outwardly present as deformed, not truly, but he seems that way somehow. The edges of him squirm and expand. He is shadows and barbs and coils and teeth. He is a monster. He likes me. And the man that contains Mr. Marlow, the proper and buttoned up Dr. Fastian? Well, he sees me for what I am—a scarred strumpet who enjoys playing too close to the fire, who doesn’t mind getting singed now and again. He doesn’t like me, not truly. I am not the sort of woman that anyone likes. Well, not anyone decent, that is. You won’t like me either. I am warning you. Do not read this. This Jekyll-and-Hyde inspired monster romance is a gaslamp romp into the dark, seedy back alleys of a Victorian-esque city. Part psychological thriller, part musings on gender roles and social structure, and all detailed monstery spice. If a reader is looking for a simple pleasurable escape, she should look elsewhere. This one will hurt.