My Psychopath Boyfriend

⚠️ WELCOME:

Hey there, my lovely readers! 🖤

If you are looking for a sweet, healthy love story...

This probably isn’t it.

But if you like morally questionable men, beautiful women who seem far too innocent for the worlds they’re trapped in, religious darkness, psychological games, obsession, secrets, dark humor and a romance where absolutely nobody should be trusted...

Welcome to MY PSYCHOPATH BOYFRIEND.

Fun Fact: Every cover in the Sera Vesper universe depicts an actual scene that appears later in the novel. This cover is no exception.

🖤 TROPES & THEMES:

• Dark Romance

• Psychopath / Stalker MMC

• Possessive MMC / Obsessive MMC

• Morally dark characters

• Doctor x Patient

• Age Gap (20 & 28)

• Forced Proximity

• Forbidden Relationship

• Religious Cult / Extremist Community

• Strict & Controlling Father

• Innocent / Sheltered FMC

• Psychological Manipulation

• Secrets & Hidden Motives

• Cat-and-Mouse Dynamic

• Dark Humor

• Psychological Suspense

• Slow-Burn Tension

• “Who is really in control?” energy

⚠️ CONTENT WARNINGS:

This is a dark romance and is not intended to portray a healthy relationship. Please expect themes involving:

• Stalking and voyeurism

• Invasion of privacy

• Obsessive behavior

• Manipulation and psychological control

• Religious extremism / cult dynamics

• Family and parental control

• Toxic relationship dynamics

• Doctor–patient power imbalance

• Possessive and morally questionable behavior

• Trauma and emotional distress

• Sexual content (18+)

• Dark humor surrounding disturbing situations

• Attempted murder / violent acts

• Medical abuse / unethical medical behavior

DISCLAIMER & AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or real-world religious institutions, cults, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

The religious themes, scriptures, and practices portrayed in this story are purely fictionalized for dramatic purposes and do not reflect the author’s personal beliefs, nor are they intended to misrepresent, offend, or criticize any real faith, doctrine, or community.

🖤 Welcome to Providence Pines—where nothing is as it appears to be. Enjoy the ride!

Chapter 1 + Jezebel Lamia Graves

Jezebel

Today is my wedding day, the happiest day of my life. I am at peace knowing I have fulfilled my duty to the community, honored my family, and above all, honored Father.

One Year Earlier

I sit at the dinner table beside my father, my mother, and my ten-year-old brother, Gideon. As always, our fingers entwine tightly, forming an unbroken chain, while Father recites the evening prayer.

My gaze remains fixed on the faded linen tablecloth. Looking Father directly in the eyes is a boundary no woman in this house is permitted to cross.

When the final prayer fades, we utter a collective, quiet Amen. Father gives the subtle nod that permits us to lift our utensils. In complete silence, without raising my head, I take my spoon and begin eating the thick vegetable stew from my bowl.

“Jezebel Lamia Graves.”

My full name falls over the room like a heavy iron weight. Father only uses my full name when he has reached an irrevocable decision—or a lesson is about to be taught. I remain motionless, staring into my bowl, waiting.

Ever since I grew up and understood that names in our parish carry spiritual burdens, I developed a quiet fascination with their hidden meanings. It became a solitary game—the only game I’m allowed, simply because no one knows it exists inside my head.

My own name was not chosen out of affection. Believing I was born carrying the ancestral sin straight into the marrow of my bones, Father wanted to offer the community a living testament. He wanted every eye in the parish to see me as a physical warning against temptation and the inherent malice of women. So he named me Jezebel—the ultimate symbol of vanity, idolatry, lust, and demonic control.

And because cruelty requires punctuation, he added Lamia, the mark of greed and temptation. In our fold, daughters are denied their father’s surname at birth. Instead, I carry my mother’s maiden name—Graves—symbolizing the burial of worldly desires, until the day I take my husband’s name and half my inherent sins are cleansed through marriage.

My brother was gifted the name of a mighty warrior, Gideon. My mother, Batia, bears a name that reflects the role expected of her: a submissive handmaid of God.

“You are twenty years old,” Father says, the rhythmic scraping of his spoon against the bowl continuing uninterrupted. “You have one year left before it is permissible in the eyes of the Lord for you to marry.”

In our parish, girls are introduced to their betrothed at eighteen, provided a husband has been chosen for them. From that moment on, they remain under strict surveillance until they marry at twenty-one. No one had chosen a husband for me when I turned eighteen. I keep my eyes fixed on the stew, listening to every inflection in his voice.

“I have found someone perfectly suited for you. At last, you will have the chance to prove your humility and the pious upbringing you received beneath my roof.”

“Yes, Father,” I whisper. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mother’s head bowed just as low as mine, her lips pressed into a thin line. Gideon, at ten, pays no mind to the conversation, focused entirely on his food.

“He is the eldest son of the Pastor in the neighboring parish,” Father continues. “You will be a proper mother to his three children. At fifty-three, he possesses the spiritual authority needed to keep you on the path of righteousness once you leave my home.”

“As you see fit, Father,” I reply, swallowing another spoonful of stew.

“It is more than fitting,” he adds, his tone cold, transactional. “His wife passed last winter from pneumonia, and the poor man has struggled without order in his household. You will honor his home and prove yourself worthy of the privilege you have been granted.”

“Yes, Father.”

After dinner, I help Mother wash the iron pots in absolute silence. Once the kitchen is spotless, I retreat to my small bedroom, slip into my stiff nightgown, recite my evening prayers, and slide beneath the thin blanket. I close my eyes instantly. Tomorrow will be a long day. I have my shift at the school, and afterward, I plan to walk to the town library to check if any new texts on human anatomy or local flora have arrived.

In our community, women do not hold employment; their sanctuary and sole obligation reside within the home. But Father maintains that idleness is a demonic gateway. Until my wedding day, he permits me to work at the town school library so my mind has no room to wander toward sin. I cherish my hours among the shelves; I have already read every single volume the school possesses.

The next morning, I wake up early. A quiet anticipation settles in my chest—another day surrounded by books, followed by a visit to the municipal library.

I get out of my narrow bed, step into the small adjoining bathroom, and wash my face and hands with cold water. I dress in my usual attire: a gray ankle-length skirt and a high-collared shirt buttoned tightly to my throat. I comb my dark hair, binding it into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck, then fold my headscarf repeatedly until it forms a thick headband. I lace up my worn sneakers, grab my canvas bag, and exit the room.

On the kitchen table, a single slice of stale bread and a mug of water await me—left by Mother the night before. I drink the water in long gulps, but slip the dry bread into my bag to eat on my walk.

Although I could buy food from the school cafeteria like the rest of the staff, Father forbids me from eating there—and gives me no money for lunch. He believes a full stomach breeds sloth, and that two meager meals a day—morning and night—are more than enough for a woman’s body. We are allowed an afternoon meal only on Sundays, after the long church service.

The house is dead silent; the sun has not yet broken the horizon. I slip out the back door without making a sound and begin the two-mile walk toward the town school. Women are forbidden to drive, and Father refuses to let me use the local bus—comfort, he says, invites laziness and wastes funds. So I walk.

The small wage I earn at the school never touches my hands. Father collects it directly, placing it into a fund to be handed over to my future husband upon our marriage. He allows me to keep only pennies. If I ever need a book of my own, I must beg for his permission.

Normally, the Holy Bible is the only book a woman is permitted to read. But Father allows me access to scientific books—he considers it a form of penance to possess knowledge I am forever forbidden to use.

The workday slips by in paper dust and the soft thud of date stamps. By late afternoon, I slip down the damp brick alleyways toward the municipal library.

I stop at the front window, pressing my palm against the cold pane, and scan the book spines displayed behind the glass. Nothing new. Standard parish tracts, agricultural almanacs, moral histories. I push the door open anyway, the brass bell shivering a dry chime.

Deep in the stacks, past the legal archives and the theological rot, the new arrivals stand isolated on a raw pine rack.

My breath hitches. I step close, eyes grazing the ink—Atlas of Human Myology, its muted cover plates depicting muscle fibers, vascular trees, the architecture of sinew. My fingers lift, trembling slightly against the rough paper edge of the top volume, racing the lettering of the title.

I sense a change in the air behind me. Not dust settling. Not a draft from the transom.

Weight. Warmth. A shadow that smells faintly of sterile antiseptic, wet wool, and something sharp, dark, and predatory that doesn’t belong to the prayer-hall or the gravel road.

Someone is standing so close the wool of my sleeve brushes against a stranger’s coat.

I don’t turn. I freeze, my pulse suddenly hammering a frantic rhythm beneath the skin of my wrist, my eyes dropping lower on the page while the stranger’s breathing grows slow and measured, waiting for me to break first.