Raven Voss

I write filth with a plot.

Monsters, mostly. The kind with claws and bad manners and a fixation on one woman who was supposed to be dinner. Every so often I put the fangs down and write a girl clawing her way to the top of a crypto empire instead, though someone still ends up wrecked by the last page. Call it a theme. My heroines don’t get saved. They get kept.

The monster was always the best part of the story to me. And when a reader tells me a book was too much, I take it as a note to go further next time. You’ve read this far, so I’m guessing you’re the same kind of trouble.

For the record, I do my best work past midnight, mildly feral, next to a candle that’s purely decorative and a black cat named Lir who is convinced the vampire is based on him. He’s not entirely wrong.

In real life I have a very respectable day job and a very respectable face to match it. Not one person I know has the faintest idea this is me — it’s the biggest, darkest secret I’ve got, and now, unlucky you, it’s yours too.

Raven Voss isn’t my real name and you’re not getting it. There’s a story I only give to my newsletter, though. Come see how bad I let it get.