It. Is. Here.

The Mortal Coil is live.

At long fucking last, Medousa is here, and she’s the vengeful sadist Domme you never knew you needed.

This book is long.

Did you read The Eighth House? Yeah, try twice that. I said what I said. But it did take me well over two years to write, and I’ve put more of my author wailing and gnashing of teeth into this story than anything I’ve ever written before. Apparently there was a lot of it.

This book is dark.

Do you hear me, people? Even some of my author friends, who read this thing chapter-by-chapter in its rawest form, were like, “Uhhh … you might lose some people at this scene. Just an FYI.”

So I’m warning you now: Perseus is an alpha-sub, and Medousa is cruel AF. She pulls no punches. There will be blood. Probably other fluids, too, but just thought I’d give you a heads-up about that one.

I’m really proud of it.

What else can I say? This thing was a huge pain in the ass to write, but it was that way because I wanted to get everything out of it I could. Medousa deserved better than what the ancient stories gave her, and I wasn’t going to tap out before I did our gorgon justice. I hope I have.

Here’s what some of my lovely early readers have to say about it so far:

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Check out this blurb:

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Want a sample? Yeah, you do.

The man had let her put him in chains. Simply held out his arms. She’d hurt him after that, and he’d known no other choice. What would he do now, here, unbound?

She circled to his right side and further behind, where his heels rose from the water. Her fingers slipped across the front of his neck and tilted his jaw to the sky. “On your back,” she said, and let a subtle pressure underline her command.

Just as she’d insisted in the beginning, no questions, no hesitation, Perseus leaned and put his arms back to brace and lower his upper body into the pool. Knees bent and feet under his backside, the man’s body bowed upward, prick jutting rude from his hips. It was not a way to bend, and he had to remain raised on his elbows in the fine pebbles lining the shallows.

“Legs out,” she told him. “Lie flat.”

He did as she said, unfolding his limbs out before him and beginning to lower his spine. Medousa made her way to his other side as he moved, an eye for the taut flex of muscle on display where his core bunched, his thighs met his hips. Perseus paused and cocked his head.

“My face will be underwater,” he said, as though she hadn’t noticed the downward slope of the ground leading into the pool.

Medousa pulled her coil in a heavy loop to drape over his knees and thighs. “Yes, it will.” She lowered herself to his side, her own palm supporting her, wrist-deep in the stirring ripples. “You can hold your breath for a time, can you not, Son of Olympos?”

Trouble tightened fine muscles at the corners of his closed eyes. Was the warrior not beautiful in his apprehension?

“I⁠ ⁠… can.” He drew the last word out, a tentative step around a blind corner.

“And you will,” said Medousa. “And I shall let you up before you drown.” She let her free hand rise to grip his jaw, her thumb smearing over his chin, way too close to the mouth that held an undue amount of her attention.

“You will only have to trust me,” she said, “not to murder you if the impulse takes hold.” She slid her grip lower to his throat, a pale foretaste of how his fate might turn askew. “As women place their trust in each and every man they allow to be close.”

The way his chest rose and fell, the way his breath came hot on her wrist⁠—was it fear or arousal? Perseus swallowed beneath her palm and wet his lips with his tongue.

“I trust you.”

Medousa drew in a breath. Not ‘I will trust,’ as if he hadn’t but would from this point forward. ‘I trust you.’ Now. Already. What reason had she given him to do so?

Do not waste this gift.

“Fold your arms behind your back,” she said, removing her hand, “and fill your lungs.”

He did both while her coil doubled around to climb his chest. The weight of scaled muscle was enough to bear him back, unsupported, until the water closed over his face. Medousa shifted, her serpent body draping from one side to the other and back over his knees, his hips, his ribs. The end of her tail circled his throat, and she all but lay on his chest.

The mercenary was still at first, the shallows consuming him from just above his navel. Below the eddying surface, his hair drifted about his face, a strange reflection of her fídia. And why was the man so warm? Was it the cool water licking at their limbs, more tangible than the air in the forge? At each place she weighted him down, heat sank into her flesh. Male stiffness twitched under pinning scales.

His head jerked to one side. Shoulders flexed. It was enough for a first taste, and Medousa let her tail slide off his neck.

Perseus rose to the surface and sucked down air, water streaming from the sockets of his eyes and the rope of his hair.

“Do you continue to trust?”

The warrior took his fill of several deep breaths before he answered, eyes closed as was always wise.

“Yes.”

Medousa hummed. “Let us see for how long.”

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Hope you enjoy my darkness as much as I do,