Look. I know. I . I don’t need the Dragon or that judgmental raven or any more tavern rumors to remind me.

  I have taste in men.

  Truly catastrophic.

  Like—"light your tits on fire and run through a temple during High Mass" levels of bad.

  Let’s review, shall we?

  Bollo.

  Then there’s Gregory.demon. Has horns, tail, and zero impulse control. Also owes me a goat. Long story. His idea of foreplay is biting. Not gently. And yet, , I let him back in every time he slithers by smelling like brimstone and bad decisions. What’s wrong with me?

  And oh—Sir Odran.know he’s a human golden retriever with a concussion, but the . The jawline. The way he says “wench” like it’s both a threat and a compliment. I hate him. I want him. I hate that I want him. And then I want to hate-fuck him again. It’s a circle of sin.

  And then——there’s the Dragon

  Let’s not even unpack .

  Ancient. Cranky. Aromatic like a forge. Gay as a Seebulban sailor on moon festival night. And somehow manages to make my thighs tense with just a smirk and the way he says “pathetic.” It's not even sexual—it's just... His voice, his wings, his . I want to kiss him. I want to strangle him with his own tail. I want to spoon him and call it tactical heat conservation. I don’t even know anymore.

  So yeah. When I say I have a type?

  My type is:

  If there’s a red flag, I will not only ignore it, I will wear it like a silk sash and ask if it makes my eyes pop.

  But sure. Let’s all pretend I’m the dramatic one.

  At least I’m . That’s gotta count for something, right?

  Right?

  …Shit.

  Because clearly, I have a .

  No, worse—I have a . A self-destructive, pants-down, dignity-out-the-window of terrible, crotch-led choices dressed up as men.

  Tall. Smirking. Dangerous. Charismatic in that unstable, knife-in-the-boot, “I don’t do attachments” kind of way.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  You know the type.

  The kind that broods near fireplaces. The kind that has a mysterious past and no savings account. The kind that says right before disappearing with your coin pouch and your favorite underwear.

  Every. Damn. Time.

  And I see it coming! I it! Somewhere deep in my brain, a tiny rational voice goes: “Hey. Hey, maybe go for the kind one this time. The one with steady employment and a soft laugh. The one who makes breakfast and asks how your day was.”

  But no. I shush her. I tie her up and gag her with lace panties.

  Because kind is boring. Kind doesn’t set your thighs on fire. Kind doesn’t throw furniture during arguments or make you feel like you're the eye of some feral storm. Kind doesn’t whisper filthy things in five languages and then forget your name.

  And don’t even get me started on ambition.

  Apparently, all it takes is a half-formed dream and a dangerous glint in his eye and I’m ready to ruin my life. He says he wants to , or , or , and I go all soft and wet like it’s noble.

  Doesn’t matter that he has no plan. No map. No clue. I hear “ambition” and I spread like warm butter.

  Meanwhile, the sweet ones? The soft ones? The ones who’d treat me well? Pfft. I get itchy. Like allergic. Like kindness gives me hives. He could be rock hard, emotionally available, good with his hands his words—and I’ll still flinch and mutter something about needing “space.”

  I left a guy once because he brought me tea I woke up.

  Tea!

  He meant well. He . Which clearly meant something was wrong with .

  So here I am. Again. Broke. Half-dressed. Probably infected. And trying to pretend I haven’t made this exact mistake times before.

  Gods. I don’t need a man.

  I need therapy.

  You know what? I blame it on my upbringing.

  No, seriously. Let’s trace the rot.

  My father? Even probably didn’t know. Could’ve been a sailor, a pickpocket, a passing bard with a half-decent jawline. Whoever he was, he left faster than a fart in a sandstorm. So no paternal role model. Just a gaping absence and a vague suspicion I inherited my taste for chaos from him.

  My mother? Oh no. Don’t even on that bitch.

  The most nurturing thing she ever did was not sell me. And I’m pretty sure that was just an oversight. She once told me love was a fool’s game, then turned around and cried over some stonemason who gave her a shiny rock and a fake name.

  And the ?

  Dockside whores, the lot of them. All perfume and bruises and broken dreams. Teaching me how to paint my lips before I knew how to read. Telling stories about and while giving handjobs behind the tavern for a bowl of stew.

  That was my education.

  That was my curriculum.

  Romance 101: He might hit you, but if he buys you soup, it’s love.

  And when that mess didn’t kill me, I ended up in the Temple of Bleeding Hearts. Gods. Don’t make me laugh.

  Priests with sweaty palms and vows of poverty they broke behind every curtain. Telling me purity was divine while staring at my tits like they were decoding scripture. Teaching obedience, silence, and that a woman’s virtue lies somewhere between her thighs and her ability to shut up.

  So yeah.

  I never had a blueprint for healthy love.

  No cozy hearth. No decent example. Just a carousel of lechers, zealots, and street philosophers with crotch rot and bad poetry.

  So is it really that now, every time some morally questionable man with a tragic past and a dangerous aura walks into my life, my panties stage a coup?

  No. It’s not.

  It’s conditioning.

  It’s inherited stupidity.

  It’s the combined weight of generations of women handing down bad advice like it was heirloom jewelry.

  And here I am. The latest disaster in the lineage.

  Romantically feral.

  Emotionally constipated.

  And still thinking the next smirking bastard will be different.

  Maybe he won’t lie. Maybe he won’t steal. Maybe he won’t leave.

  Maybe.

  Probably not.

  But maybe.

  Gods help me.