The so-called hero, Lachlain MacRieve, is a werewolf. I knew it was a bad, bad sign when the "timid" never-been-kissed heroine, Emmaline Troy, turns out to be--I kid you not--half Valkyrie and half Vampire. (The cheesy "I'm-so-embarrassed-to-be-seen-reading-this" cover was another clue.) Fortunately, my suffering was brief, because by page 10, having chased down our heroine, our hero is sexually assaulting her, ripping her clothes off and threatening her with death. I guess it's all supposed to be OK since she's "his mate, the one woman made for him alone." (At least that might mean other women are safe from him.) And they say the old bodice ripper is dead! And this one got a win from the top Romance genre award. And people wonder why so many have contempt for the romance genre? No way this piece of crap would have won a Hugo or Nebula. Stopped reading at page 12. One of the Immortals After Dark series, I won't be reading more.
