Last month, I binged Netflix's Monster series about Ed Gein. While eating dinner.
Not as background noise. Not "I couldn't look away." I was actively watching—fork in one hand, remote in the other—completely unbothered.
Mr. Wilde tapped out after episode one. ("This isn't for me, babe.") So I finished the rest with the dogs curled up next to me on the couch, perfectly content.
And here's what I've realized about the dark stuff: it's not an either/or situation for a lot of us. It's a yes/and.
Yeah, there are romance readers who only want the ballroom scenes and period dramas. And there are true crime junkies who wouldn't touch a romance novel with a ten-foot pole.
But then there's this massive group of us in the middle who want BOTH.
We'll watch Bridgerton one night and Ed Gein documentaries the next. We want the sunshine and rainbows AND the love interest who can cut down our enemies, wipe the blood off his sword, and casually ask where we want to go for brunch.
We don't see it as contradictory. We see it as complete.
Because here's what I think is really going on: some of us have embraced our shadow selves—or at the very least, we're curious about them. We're not afraid to acknowledge that we contain multitudes. That we can be soft AND feral. Romantic AND fascinated by darkness.
Other people? They're terrified to even admit they have a shadow self to begin with.
And THAT'S the real divide.
And you know what got me? The visceral details.
Ed Gein wearing a suit made out of human skin. The mask. The specifics of what he did and how he did it. I wasn't horrified—I was fascinated. Not in a "this is cool" way, but in a "this is humanity at its most broken and I need to understand it" way.
I can watch surgical procedures on YouTube while eating lunch without flinching. I've sat through hours of true crime documentaries that would make most people nauseous. I probably would've made a great mortician (although the smells would've done me in if I'd been a coroner. More power to folks who can do those jobs).
My point? Some of us have a higher tolerance for darkness. For gore. For death. For the uncomfortable.
And that capacity to be comfortable in the uncomfortable? That's exactly what draws people like us to alpha monster romance and dark fantasy boyfriends who'd commit felonies for us without being asked.
Because monster romance isn't really about the monsters.
It's about being seen—truly seen—in all our complicated, sometimes-dark, definitely-not-sunshine-and-rainbows glory, and being wanted anyway.
What Monster Romance Actually Offers (Hint: It's Not Just Fangs)
Here's what people who don't read monster romance get wrong: they think it's all about the shock value. The taboo. The "wow, you're into THAT?" factor. (I'm a blast at dinner parties.)
But anyone who actually reads this stuff knows the truth.
Monster romance is about acceptance.
It's about being with someone who has darkness of their own—who understands that humans aren't just light and goodness and Pinterest-board positivity. That we contain multitudes. That we have shadows. That sometimes we're angry, or vengeful, or fascinated by things society tells us we shouldn't find interesting.
And instead of asking us to hide that, to be less, to pretend we're something we're not?
The monster looks at us and says, "I see you. All of you. And I'm not going anywhere."
The Psychology of "Other"
As someone who's spent way too much time analyzing human behavior (it's basically my job at this point), I can tell you exactly why the "other" is so appealing:
We're all afraid of our own otherness.
The parts of ourselves that don't fit into neat little boxes. The interests society side-eyes. The thoughts we don't say out loud. The fact that we can eat dinner while watching true crime and not bat an eye.
Society teaches us to hide those parts. To smooth them over. To present a version of ourselves that's palatable, acceptable, normal. (You know, the version with the personality of a Hallmark card and the edge of room-temperature milk.)
Monster romance says "nope."
Because when the love interest is literally a monster—a vampire, a demon, a creature society has already deemed unacceptable—there's no pressure to perform normalcy. He's already on the outside. He's already been judged. He's already carrying darkness.
And if he can be loved despite (or because of) that darkness, then maybe—just maybe—we can be too.
The Beauty and the Beast Fantasy (But Make It Feral)
The original Beauty and the Beast tale has been feeding our collective unconscious for centuries, and there's a reason for that.
It's not actually about a girl falling in love with a beast.
It's about finding someone who seems monstrous to the world but who shows you tenderness. Who treats you like you're precious. Who would tear apart anyone who threatened you, but who holds you gently.
It's the ultimate "he's soft for ME" fantasy.
Modern monster romance just takes that and cranks it up about fifteen notches.
Your vampire boyfriend might drain entire villages, but he brings you flowers and remembers how you take your coffee. Your demon lover might rule the underworld, but he memorizes your favorite books and makes sure you're warm at night. Your werewolf alpha might rip throats out with his teeth, but he nuzzles into your touch like he's been starving for it his entire immortal existence.
Your basilisk mate leans over the counter, fangs catching the fluorescent light, hands the cashier a velvet pouch of gold teeth, and says—"One bloodshake, extra virgin. And fries for my queen."
Sir, this is a Wendy's.
The juxtaposition is what kills us.
He's dangerous to everyone else, yet ferally, utterly devoted to you.
Monster romance doesn't ask the beast to become human to earn love. It asks the heroine (and by extension, the reader) to see the humanity inside the monster—and to let the monster see the wildness inside her.
What Makes Alpha Monster Romance So Addictive?
If you're deep in the dark fantasy boyfriend rabbit hole, you already know these tropes hit different. Here's what keeps us coming back:
- Fated mates or soul bonds – If there's no magical compulsion forcing him to be unhinged about her existence, did he even try?
- Obsessive devotion that would get a restraining order IRL – We want "burn kingdoms for you" energy, not "I'll text back when I remember."
- The soft-only-for-her thing – Terrifying to everyone else, purring in her lap. If he's not code-switching between murder machine and touch-starved puppy, we don't want him.
- Morally grey (or just morally absent) – He's committed war crimes but he remembers how she takes her coffee. Priorities.
- Size difference that defies physics – Look, if logistics aren't a concern, what are we even doing here?
- Protective violence as love language – Someone threatens her and suddenly there's a body count. Romance.
That's not an exhaustive list. That's just what gets our hearts racing and our Kindles overheating.
Why Some of Us Are Just Built Different
Here's something I've noticed about the dark romance and dark fantasy boyfriend community:
We're the people who aren't easily shocked.
We're the ones who can discuss cannibalism in the same breath as what we're having for dinner. Who find serial killer documentaries genuinely interesting from a psychological standpoint. Who understand that being fascinated by darkness doesn't mean condoning it.
We have this capacity to hold space for uncomfortable truths.
That humans are capable of horrifying things. That we all have shadows. That violence and tenderness can exist in the same person. That love and obsession aren't as far apart as we'd like to believe.
And that capacity? That comfort with complexity?
That's what makes us perfect for this genre.
Because monster romance requires you to be comfortable with contradictions. To accept that something can be dangerous and safe. Violent and tender. Monstrous and loving.
You can't read a good monster romance if you need everything to be black and white, good or bad, acceptable or unacceptable.
You have to be able to sit in the gray.
And honestly? That's where all the interesting stuff happens anyway.
The Permission to Want What You Want
I think the real draw of monster romance (the thing that keeps readers coming back) is the permission it gives us.
Permission to want intensity. To crave devotion that borders on obsession. To fantasize about being wanted so completely that it's almost feral.
In real life, we're told to be reasonable. To have realistic expectations. To not ask for too much. (Translation: lower your standards and be grateful for the bare minimum.)
But in monster romance? The vampire who's waited centuries for his mate isn't going to love you reasonably. The demon who's claimed you as his isn't going to keep things casual. The creature who's chosen you will be obsessive, possessive, and completely unhinged about you.
And we don't have to apologize for wanting that fantasy.
We don't have to explain why the intensity appeals to us. Why we want the monster and not the prince. Why we'd rather have fangs and devotion than charm and indifference.
Monster romance gives us the space to explore desires that society tells us are "too much"—and then validates those desires by making them the entire point of the story.
When Darkness Recognizes Darkness
The best monster romances understand something crucial:
The heroine isn't "fixing" the monster. And the monster isn't "corrupting" the heroine.
They're recognizing each other.
Two people (or, you know, one person and one immortal creature of the night) who both understand that darkness exists. Who both carry it. Who both refuse to pretend otherwise.
That recognition (that "you see me and I see you and we're both still here") is what makes the genre so powerful.
It's not about redemption arcs or moral lessons. It's about two beings finding each other in the dark and deciding that's exactly where they want to be.
Together.
Why Monster Romance Thrives in Dark Romantasy
Monster romance pairs with dark fantasy romance like—well, like human skin suits and serial killers, apparently.
(Sorry, my brain is still on Ed Gein. You see what I mean about the darkness thing?)
But seriously: fantasy settings give monster romance room to breathe.
In a contemporary setting, dating a vampire or demon requires a LOT of suspension of disbelief. But in a dark fantasy world where magic is real, ancient beings walk among us, and the rules of reality are already bent?
Monster boyfriends make perfect sense.
The stakes are higher. The devotion is more intense. The "us against the world" dynamic is literally baked into the worldbuilding because your boyfriend is probably being hunted by monster hunters or vampire slayers or whatever.
And when you're already dealing with curses, magic, political intrigue, and supernatural threats, having a love interest who can tear someone's throat out with his teeth isn't excessive—it's practical. (Honestly, it's just good planning.)
Plus, the fantasy setting gives the relationship structure that makes sense within that world. Mate bonds. Pack dynamics. Ancient magic that binds souls together. Blood oaths. Fated pairs.
The world itself validates the intensity of the connection.
It's not "clingy" when you're literally magically bonded. It's not "possessive" when claiming your mate is written into the laws of the universe. It's not "too much" when the alternative is death or eternal separation.
The fantasy framework makes the devotion make sense.
And for readers who crave that level of intensity? Who want love that's absolute, consuming, and borderline feral?
That's everything.
About The Wilde Kingdom
Inside The Wilde Kingdom, I write dark fantasy romance where the monsters are the love interests, the heroines don't apologize for their darkness, and devotion always borders on obsession.
My stories aren't for everyone. They're unhinged, intense, and completely unapologetic about what they are.
But if you're someone who can watch true crime while eating dinner, who finds beauty in darkness, who wants fantasy romance that doesn't shy away from the complicated stuff?
You're my people.
Enter The House of Wilde (free tier) and get:
✨ Sneak peeks of my twisted romantasy stories
🎨 Exclusive character art of your book boyfriends (monsters included)
📙 The Grimoire—your guide to everything unhinged in the Jekkaverse
đź”® Monthly horoscopes from The Cheshire Cat
🌙 Full moon spells from Hatter
🔥 Access to our private community for feral book talk
The darkness is free. The devotion comes later.
When the Glamour Fades and the Truth Stares Back
Monster romance isn't about shock value or pushing boundaries just for the sake of it.
It's about exploring our own otherness. About finding beauty in darkness. About wanting someone who sees every complicated, uncomfortable, sometimes-unsettling part of us and doesn't flinch.
Some of us can watch Ed Gein documentaries while eating dinner. Some of us find surgical procedures fascinating. Some of us are just more comfortable with darkness, with gore, with death, with the parts of humanity that make other people uncomfortable.
And that's not wrong. That's not broken.
That's just who we are.
Monster romance gives us the space to be that person—to want what we want without apology, to crave intensity without shame, to fantasize about being loved by something dangerous and powerful and completely devoted to us.
The prince is nice. He's safe. He's what we're supposed to want.
But the beast? The monster? The creature everyone else fears?
He sees us. He knows us. And he wants us anyway.
That's the appeal.
That's always been the appeal.
And honestly? I wouldn't have it ANY other way.
