innamorare's Reviews (71)

This dark, feminist reimagining of Lilith’s story is a sultry, chaotic cocktail of rage, romance, and rebellion that had me glued to my Kindle like it was dispensing life advice from a sexy demon. It’s a world so vivid I could taste the forbidden fruit, but, ugh, that abrupt ending cost it a half-star, and let’s be real, Lilith’s occasional Mary Sue vibes had me side-eyeing a bit.

First, the good stuff, because there’s so much to obsess over. Lilith Leviathan is the heroine of my dreams, the kind of badass I’d channel during a bar fight or a particularly savage self-care day. She’s hiding out in Nineveh, Eden’s grimy, sin-drenched underbelly, and Scarlett paints this place so vividly I could smell the incense and hear the clink of illicit deals in shadowy corners. Lilith is a glorious hot mess—peace and chaos, creation and destruction, with a side of fury that makes you want to smash the patriarchy and then get a manicure. Her journey from broken to unstoppable, sparked by stealing a mysterious dagger, had me cheering like I was at a concert. I was living for her vibe, even if sometimes it felt like the whole world was a little too obsessed with her.

Enter Zahariev, the friends-to-lovers dreamboat who had me swooning harder than a Victorian lady with a tight corset. Their chemistry is so electric it could power a nightclub, and Scarlett knows how to crank up the slow burn until it’s a full-on inferno. Their evolving bond, from wary trust to world-shattering devotion, had me giggling and kicking my feet like I was 13 with a crush on a boybander. Zahariev is  perfection, and I’d sell my soul for a date with him in Eden.

The feminist retelling of Lilith’s story is where Scarlett slays. This isn’t some shallow “girlboss” nonsense—it’s a raw, unflinching dive into Lilith’s trauma from a corrupt, patriarchal church. There’s a scene with a haunting memory (keeping it vague for spoiler-phobes) that hit me so hard I was sniffling, blaming it on “seasonal allergies.” Scarlett nails the themes of healing, reclaiming power, and embracing life’s messy gray areas. It’s heavy but hopeful, and it made me want to scream “YAS QUEEN” while flipping off every toxic ex in my life. Lilith’s rage is a feminist anthem, and I’m here for it.

Now, let’s talk spice, because Scarlett doesn’t hold back. The romance is steamy, y’all. Two scenes in the last 10 percent had me blushing so hard I looked like I’d face-planted into a vat of rosé. If you loved the Hades x Persephone series, you’ll be right at home with this forbidden, sultry goodness. Lilith and Zahariev get creative with their devotion, and I was fanning myself like a Southern belle at a scandalous ball.

But here’s where I get snarky, because this book isn’t flawless, and I’ve got some bones to pick. First, that ending—Scarlett, girl, what happened? It’s like the story was racing toward an epic finale, then tripped over a plot hole and face-planted. The last chapters feel rushed, like Scarlett was dodging a deadline and forgot to tie up loose ends. It’s not a proper cliffhanger, just a jarring “to be continued” that had me flipping pages, thinking my Kindle was broken. With two spicy scenes crammed into the last 10 percent, there was room for a few more pages to flesh out the ending and tease book two in the Blood of Lilith series. That half-star deduction hurts my heart, but it’s gotta happen.

And let’s talk about Lilith’s Mary Sue moments, because whew, they got under my skin. Don’t get me wrong, I adore her, but sometimes it feels like the entire universe revolves around her like she’s the sun in a Lilith-centric solar system. Everyone’s obsessed—friends, enemies, random strangers in Nineveh’s alleys. There’s this one character who loses his wife to a violent childbirth (heartbreaking, right?) and yet he’s STILL more worried about Lilith than his newborn son or the tragedy that just rocked his world. Like, sir, your priorities are messier than my TBR pile. It’s a bit much, and it pulled me out of the story, making me mutter, “Okay, Lilith, we get it, you’re the main character.” A touch more balance would’ve made her shine without eclipsing everyone else. Don't get me started on the character with a dogs name. Give Coco a actual personality that doesn't revolve around just being a good friend. 

Despite these gripes, Terror at the Gates is a witchy, wild ride I couldn’t put down. It’s perfect for fans of dark fantasy, feminist fury, and romance that burns hotter than a dragon’s breath. Scarlett St. Clair has built a seductive, savage world, and I’m already counting down to book two. (Please, Scarlett, give us a juicier ending and dial back the Lilith is the Center of the Universe vibes! Enhance your side characters!) Grab this book, a glass of wine, and dive into Lilith’s story—just brace yourself for a finale that’ll leave you yelling “THAT’S IT?!” at your screen.

With a Vengeance is one hell of a train ride, literally and figuratively. This book, set in the glitzy, cigarette-smoke-hazed 1950s, is a locked-room mystery aboard a luxury train, and it’s got more twists than my attempt to parallel park. 

A swanky overnight train, a cast of morally dubious passengers, and a murder that screams “someone’s got an axe to grind”? Yes, please. Sager’s got a knack for setting the scene, and this train—plush velvet seats, clinking champagne glasses, and that faint whiff of betrayal—feels like you’re trapped in an Agatha Christie fever dream, but with better cocktails. 

The characters are a mixed bag of deliciously flawed humans. Our protagonist, a woman with a past shadier than anyone's uncle’s “business deals,” is equal parts cunning and paranoid, which I respect. Anna's trying to piece together who’s bumping folks off while wondering if she’s next on the hit list. The supporting cast? Think Knives Out on rails.  Sager keeps you guessing, and I was flipping pages like I was auditioning for Speed Reader: The Movie.

The pacing starts like a leisurely scenic tour, then slams you into high gear around chapter five. I was so engrossed during my lunch break that I forgot my sandwich in the office fridge, and now it’s probably plotting its own vengeance. The mystery unravels with just enough clues to make you feel smart, but not so many that you’re solving it by page 50. My only gripe—and why this isn’t five stars—is that a couple of the twists felt like Sager was showing off. Like, “Look at me, I’m the king of plot acrobatics!” One reveal in particular had me rolling my eyes so hard I saw my own brain. Still, the final act ties things up with a bow that’s satisfying, if a tad too neat for my cynical heart.

Sager’s writing is where this book shines brighter than my phone screen at 2 a.m. His prose is crisp, dripping with 1950s flair, and packed with zingers.

Growing up, my grandma was obsessed with old-school mysteries, and we’d watch Murder on the Orient Express every Thanksgiving while she muttered about “red herrings” and smoked Virginia Slims. Reading With a Vengeance felt like sneaking into her bookshelf and cracking open a dog-eared paperback. It’s not just a thriller; it’s a vibe.

So, it's a damn good time, but it’s not reinventing the wheel—or the train, I guess. The claustrophobic setting and Sager’s sly humor keep you locked in, but a few plot stretches and overly polished moments held me back from declaring it a masterpiece. If you love a stylish whodunit with a side of moral ambiguity, grab this book. Just don’t read it on a train unless you want to side-eye every passenger.

Pick it up, and let me know if you fare better than I did at spotting the killer. 

Alert! Bog horror, bog horror!

Okay, now that that's out of my system, let's talk about Emma, our seventeen-year-old protagonist who’s basically living my worst nightmare: stuck in a creaky old house in Maine next to a bog called the Moss that’s so eerie it might as well have its own horror movie soundtrack. I mean, a misty, sinister bog? That’s the kind of place where I’d lose my favorite scrunchie and my sanity in one go. Emma’s dealing with ghosts—literal and figurative—because her sister vanished into this bog, and her mom disappeared too. The vibes? Straight-up gothic, like if Jane Eyre got lost in a Stephen King novel. I was hooked. 

Lueddecke’s writing is where this book shines like a full moon on a foggy night. It’s lush, atmospheric, and so vivid I could practically smell the peat and hear the creak of that haunted house. I read most of this curled up on my recliner, and I swear I kept glancing at my windows expecting to see some shadowy figure staring back. The way she weaves the bond between Emma and her missing sister had me tearing up—ugh, my heart! It’s like, I wanted to hug Emma and also maybe sage the entire house for her. Sisterly love wrapped in creeping dread? Yes, please.

It’s a slow burn, and I mean ~slow~. Like, I get it, we’re building tension, but sometimes I was like, “Emma, girl, can we speed-run this ghost hunt? I have laundry to do.” The horror elements are deliciously spooky, but a few jump-scares felt like they were trying too hard, like a Halloween pop-up store animatronic. Still, when the chills hit, they hit.

What I loved most, though, was how the story felt like a long-lost fable, all rich and dreamy. It’s not just a ghost story; it’s about grief, family, and facing your fears. I was rooting for Emma so hard,  though I won’t lie, I wanted a birmore closure. Like, throw me a bone, Lisa, I’m emotionally invested here!

The Moss is a gorgeous, spooky read that’s perfect for anyone who loves a good haunted house tale with heart or a good bog horror (yes, that is a genre!). I could’ve done with one less “what was that shadow?” moment, but it’s so atmospheric and heartfelt I couldn’t put it down. Read it, love it, and maybe don’t go near any bogs, swamps, marshes, or fens afterward. 

(Yes, I was googling the differences between wetlands halfway through this novel). 

You had me at “vampire with amnesia” and “witch with secrets” piling into a beat-up car for a cross-country adventure. I mean, come on, it’s like a supernatural Thelma & Louise with less cliff-diving and more fang-flashing! Jenna Levine’s latest romp is a frothy, funny cocktail of romance and comedy, but—sigh—it didn’t quite sink its teeth into my heart the way I hoped. It’s cute, it’s quirky, but it’s also got some quirks that made me raise an eyebrow higher than a vampire spotting a garlic bread buffet.

Peter, our hunky amnesiac vampire, can’t remember a thing about his centuries-long life, and Zelda, our secretive witch, is dodging her own baggage like it’s a dodgeball game in gym class. The two of them hitting the open road? Total catnip for a hopeless romantic who dreams of love, adventure, and maybe a cute gas station meet-cute (don’t judge). The dialogue sparkles like a Twilight vampire. I cackled out loud when Peter tried to navigate a modern GPS like it was a cursed artifact from the 1700s.

But here’s where the sparkle dims a bit, and I’m gonna get real. Peter and Zelda are hundreds of years old, y’all. Hundreds! And yet, they’re out here scraping by like they’re one paycheck away from eating instant ramen for eternity. I’m sorry, but if I’d been alive since the days of powdered wigs and chamber pots, I’d at least have a side hustle that didn’t involve clocking in at Vampire Starbucks or Witchy Waffle House. Peter, pre-memory loss, wasn’t sipping champagne in first class or chartering private jets? Zelda’s couldn’t replace her wobbly end table? Girl, what?! I was expecting bougie immortals dripping in old-money vibes, not two supernatural sad sacks who apparently missed the memo on the Industrial Revolution, the dot-com boom, AND Bitcoin. If you’ve lived through the invention of the light bulb and didn’t think to invest in General Electric, I’m side-eyeing you harder than my dog when I forget her treats. These two are old enough to have seen the future coming, and yet they’re living like they’re auditioning for Broke Immortal: The Reality Show. 

The road trip itself is a hoot, though. Levine paints their misadventures with such vivid charm that I could practically smell the stale coffee and questionable motel sheets while wondering if Zelda could magic away bed bugs. 

But the pacing? It’s like the car ran out of gas halfway through. The middle sags a bit, with some scenes feeling like filler episodes of a sitcom you love but don’t need. I wanted more stakes (pun intended), more depth to their secrets, and maybe a little less “oops, we forgot how to adult despite being older than the Constitution.”

Also, can we talk about the romance? It’s adorable, don’t get me wrong—Peter’s awkward vampire charm had me swooning, and Zelda’s sassy deflections are my spirit animal. But it’s almost too sweet, like eating cotton candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I wanted a touch more spice, a bit more angst to make the happy ending feel earned. It’s not quite closed-door, but it’s more “slightly ajar door” than “steamy vampire romp”. I was hoping for a love story that’d make my heart race like I’d just spotted a garage sale full of Labubu’s (I did snatch up the one I found once!), but it was more like a cozy hug from your favorite sweater. Nice, but not electric.

Oh, and a quick note: I scoured Reddit for some hot takes from smokedup_69420, hoping for some spells, but alas, that username’s a ghost. Missed advertisement opportunity. 

Road Trip with a Vampire is a fun, fluffy read that’s perfect for when you want to giggle and swoon without thinking too hard. It’s got heart, humor, and a road trip vibe that makes you want to crank up a cheesy playlist and hit the highway. But the missed opportunities—like the slightly flat emotional depth—kept it from being a five-star fang-fest. If you’re in the mood for a light, laugh-out-loud romance with a supernatural twist, this’ll do the trick—just don’t expect Peter and Zelda to be living that Bloomberg-level immortal life.

Brian McAuley’s latest stab at the slasher genre, a book that’s like a horror movie you’d watch at 2 a.m. with a bowl of slightly stale popcorn. It’s got blood, guts, and a remote healing retreat that’s about as relaxing as a dentist appointment with a dull drill. Its just not the kind of thing that’ll haunt my dreams or make me double-check the locks.

The setup’s got that Midsommar vibe, which the blurbs lean into hard, promising a “blood-soaked thriller” where wellness gets a body count. Our heroine, Hannah, is running from her past—classic slasher protagonist move—and lands at this desert retreat that’s supposed to fix her soul but mostly just fixes her as a target for a machete-wielding nutcase. The vibe’s eerie, the stakes are high, and the body count’s higher. Sounds like a party, right? Well, kinda.

Here’s the good: McAuley knows how to write a slasher that feels like you’re watching a grainy VHS horror flick from the ‘80s. The kills are less “boring stab” and more “whoa, that’s a new way to use a yoga mat.” The pacing’s fast, too, like a car chase where nobody’s wearing a seatbelt. You’re flipping pages, waiting for the next poor sap to bite it.

But here’s where it stumbles, and I’m not just talking about the characters tripping over their own bad decisions. The cast feels like they were plucked from a slasher trope vending machine: the troubled lead, the creepy guru, the snarky sidekick who’s too cool to live past page 100. I wanted to care about Hannah, but she’s so busy running from her vague, tragic backstory that I never got a real grip on who she is. Like, girl, give me something to root for.

The retreat setting is a highlight, though. McAuley paints this dusty, culty compound with enough dread to make you swear off wellness retreats forever. I could practically smell the sage smudging and hear the wind chimes clanging ominously. But the plot twists? Meh. They’re less “mind blown” and more “oh, I saw that coming from page five.” It’s like the book winks at you, thinking it’s pulled a fast one, but you’re already checking your watch.

I had fun, don’t get me wrong. It’s a bloody, messy romp that keeps you guessing who’s next on the chopping block. But it’s not breaking new ground. It’s like ordering a burger and getting exactly what you expected. If you’re a slasher fan who wants a quick, gory read to pair with a cheap beer, this’ll do the trick. Just don’t expect it to reinvent the wheel—or the pickaxe.

First-Time Caller by B.K. Borison is like sipping a pumpkin spice latte while wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, watching Sleepless in Seattle for the umpteenth time, but with a twist that makes you snort-laugh into your mug. This book is a delight, a cozy rom-com, with just enough quirks to keep you flipping pages like a giddy teenager doodling hearts in her notebook. It’s got that magic that makes you want to text your bestie at 2 a.m. to squeal about it.

The setup is pure Nora Ephron vibes with a gender-swapped spin: Lucie, a 29-year-old single mom, is raising her whip-smart 12-year-old daughter, who decides to play Cupid by calling into a radio show for dating advice for her mom. Enter Aiden, the grumpy, jaded radio host who’s all brooding sarcasm and probably smells like coffee and regret. When the call goes viral, it’s like the universe yeets these two into each other’s orbit, and what follows is a slow-burn romance that had me like, “You idiots, just kiss already!”

Borison nails the chemistry here. Lucie and Aiden are like a rom-com Venn diagram: she’s all sunshine and optimism, probably baking cookies for the PTA while humming Taylor Swift, and he’s the human equivalent of a rainy Monday morning. Their banter crackles like a fireplace in a log cabin—witty, sharp, and occasionally snarky. Lucie manages to charms Aiden with her relentless positivity, and he’s just all, “I’m allergic to hope.”

What makes this book is the found family vibe. Lucie’s daughters Maya,  is a total gem that had me wishing I was half as cool at 12. The side characters, like Lucie’s quirky old teenage ex/baby daddy, and her coworkers at the garage, add this warm, small-town charm that makes you want to move into the book and start knitting scarves for everyone. It’s all so cozy I half-expected a talking cat to show up with life advice.

The pacing drags a bit in the middle, like when you’re waiting for Uber Eats but keep refreshing the app anyway. Also, Aiden’s grumpiness occasionally tips into “dude, chill” territory, and I wanted to shake him and yell, “GO TO THERAPY!” But honestly, these are minor gripes. The story’s heart is so big it could star in its own Pixar movie, and Borison’s writing is like a warm hug from your favorite aunt who always sneaks you extra dessert.

If you’re a hopeless romantic who believes love can bloom over a crackly radio signal, this book will make your heart do cartwheels.

A.B. Poranek’s sapphic retelling of Swan Lake had me twirling through pages like a lovesick ballerina, but also occasionally tripping over my own pointe shoes. This book is a lush, moody fantasy that’s  enchanting AND exasperating. 

Odile, our leading lady. She’s a firecracker wrapped in a velvet cloak, torn between her loyalty to her shady dad and her swoon-worthy feelings for Marie. Odile’s inner turmoil is delicious—she’s scheming, vulnerable, and just the right amount of chaotic. I was rooting for her like I root for my Roomba when it gets stuck under the couch. Her chemistry with Marie is like watching two stars collide in a glittery, sapphic supernova.

The world-building is where Poranek really spreads her wings. The atmosphere is so vivid, I could practically smell the damp moss and hear the swans honking (or is that hissing? Swans are mean, y’all). The kingdom feels alive, dripping with intrigue and fairy-tale vibes that make you want to slip into a corset and join the drama. I could see myself sipping tea in a castle, eavesdropping on all the treachery.

Now, the ploy is a mystery wrapped in a riddle tied with a ribbon of deceit, which sounds fabulous but sometimes feels like a tangled ball of yarn. There were moments where I was like, “Wait, who’s betraying who now?” The pacing wobbles like a toddler in heels—thrilling one minute, slogging the next. I found myself skimming some of the denser bits, muttering, “Get to the kissing already!” And while the Swan Lake retelling is clever, it leans so hard into the fairy-tale aesthetic that it occasionally feels like it’s trying to win a cosplay contest rather than tell a cohesive story.

The sapphic romance is the heart of this book, and it’s where Poranek shines. Marie and Odile’s dynamic is like a perfectly baked macaron. It’s delicate, sweet, and just a little crunchy around the edges.

A Treachery of Swans is a beautiful, messy, swan-filled fever dream. It’s got heart, it’s got drama, and it’s got enough sapphic yearning to make your toes curl. Buttttttttttt, the pacing hiccups and the occasionally overwrought prose keep it from soaring to a full four stars. Still, I’d recommend it to anyone who loves a good fairy-tale retelling with a side of romance and treachery. Grab a cozy blanket, channel your inner Odile, and dive in. Just maybe don’t read it near swans. They’re judgy.

Ross plops you into this lush, godly world that feels like a fever dream lovechild of Circe and a Pinterest board titled “Ethereal Cottagecore Fantasy.” It’s all misty forests, golden light filtering through ancient trees, and a pantheon of deities who are somehow both majestic and total hot messes. The story follows Matilda, a young goddess who’s basically the divine equivalent of that girl in your book club who’s always almost got her life together but keeps tripping over her own heart. She’s destined to connect with Vincent, a mortal who’s so charming I forgot how to blink for a solid three chapters.

The writing is where I lost all sense of chill. Ross’s prose is so gorgeous it should come with a warning label: “May cause spontaneous poetry recitations and an urge to run barefoot through a meadow.” Every sentence is a little gift, wrapping you up in this world where magic hums in the air and emotions hit like a tidal wave. Ross doesn’t just write; she casts a spell.

And the humor! Oh, the snappy banter had me cackling like a witch at a full moon party. Matilda’s quips are sharp enough to cut through divine egos, and Vincent’s cheeky retorts? I’m sorry, I need him to narrate my life.

But let’s talk about the emotional gut-punch. Ross doesn’t just want you to read; she wants you to feel. There’s this deeper undertone of love and fate that had me tearing up one minute and fist-pumping for Matilda’s quiet heroism the next. I was invested, y’all. Like, cancel-my-plans, ignore-my-emails, don’t-talk-to-me-unless-you’ve-read-this-book invested. I remember reading one chapter on my lunch break and accidentally getting cheese on my Kindle because I was too invested to notice my sandwich staging a revolt.

It’s a prequel to the Letters of Enchantment duology, set centuries before Divine Rivals, but you don’t need to read those to fall head over heels for Wild Reverence. (Because I haven't read those... Yet). It’s sweeping, it’s romantic, it’s got that slow-burn tension that makes you want to scream into a pillow.

Wild Reverence is a glittering, heart-wrenching gem that deserves all the stars and maybe a shrine. Go read this book. Like, yesterday.

(Also, this is my 100th book of the year! Yay me!)

Final Cut is like a slasher flick you’d sneak-watch at a sleepover in middle school, but maybe not the one you’d pick for movie night now. It’s solid, (like something you’d watch on Netflix as you’re ignoring your everlasting queue) not spectacular, but it’s got its moments.

The setup is pure teen horror catnip: a group of kids making a low-budget horror movie in the middle of nowhere, only to realize there’s a real killer on set. It’s like Scream decided to cosplay as a Goosebumps episode, complete with creepy vibes and a body count that escalates faster than my anxiety during a work deadline. The main character, Haze, is a scrappy wannabe actress trying to keep her horror debut (and her newfound friends) from falling apart, which I respect. I mean, I can barely keep my laundry from piling up, so props to her for trying to wrangle friends and a murderer.

The good? I’ll give Worley credit: the big reveal of the killer caught me off guard. I was smugly thinking I had it all figured out, sipping my tea like some armchair detective. Well played, Olivia. The twist gave me that delicious “oh, dang!” moment that makes you forgive a book’s sins for a hot second. It’s got this fun, campy energy that screams “tween sleepover hit.” If I were 12, I’d be clutching my flashlight, whispering about this book under the covers, convinced I could solve the mystery faster than Haze. It’s got that R.L. Stine feel—spooky, but not too spooky, perfect for kids who love a thrill without nightmares.

But here’s where the three-star rating kicks in: some of the plot devices were so obvious they might as well have been neon signs. The red herrings? More like red whales, flopping around in plain sight. I could see the “shocking” betrayals coming from a mile away, like when my cat pretends he’s not about to knock over my water. The pacing’s a bit wobbly too—starts off snappy but drags in the middle like a horror movie sequel that didn’t need to exist.

I’m an adult, and I suspect my age is part of the problem. This book feels tailor-made for the 12-16 crowd, with its earnest teen drama and just-scary-enough stakes. Reading it as an adult, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at some of the clichés—like, yes, we getit, the creepy swamp is creepy. But if I were a tween, I’d eat this up like Halloween candy. It’s got that nostalgic Goosebumps vibe, where the scares are real but you know you’re safe under the blanket fort. It’s also refreshingly tween-friendly— good old-fashioned whodunit suspense.

Sometimes it tries too hard to be clever, and the dialogue can feel like it’s auditioning for a CW show—but it’s a fun ride. It’s like a B-movie you secretly love despite the cheesy effects.

In short, Final Cut is a decent popcorn read. If you’re a teen or a nostalgia junkie, you might bump it up to four stars. For me, it’s a solid three—enjoyable, but I’m too old to be fully bewitched by its charms. Still, I’d recommend it for a spooky weekend read, especially if you’ve got a tween in your life who needs a stop along the way between Goosebumps and Stephen King. 

bury my bones in the midnight soil,
plant them shallow, but water them deep,
and in my place will grow a feral rose,
Soft, red pedals, hiding sharp white teeth


This book snatched my soul, chewed it up, and spat it out in the most deliciously gothic way possible. Five stars? More like five million stars, because this sapphic vampire fever dream is everything I didn’t know I needed until it sank its fangs into me. 

It’s like if Interview with the Vampire had a lovechild with a haunted Southern graveyard and a Pinterest board titled “Toxic Lesbian Yearning.” It’s dark, it’s lush, it’s dripping with lust and rot, and I am absolutely here for it. The story follows three women—Sabine, Lottie, and Alice—whose lives (and undeaths) are tangled across centuries like roots in cursed soil. Schwab weaves their stories with this lyrical, almost hypnotic prose that makes you feel like you’re walking at midnight, heart pounding, half-expecting a ghostly hand to grab your ankle. It’s that immersive.

The toxic sapphic vibes? I didn’t know this was a trope I needed until Schwab served it up on a silver platter with a carafe of blood. It’s messy, obsessive, and gloriously unhinged, like watching two hurricanes fall in love and destroy everything in their path. It’s not just romance; it’s a full-on gothic obsession, and I was giggling and kicking my feet like a teenager reading fanfiction at 2 a.m. 

Schwab’s characters are so achingly human, even undead, that I wanted to wrap them in a blanket and also maybe run away from them. I have no favorite because I’m too busy hurting for all of them, like a mom watching her kids make terrible life choices.

The plot? It’s a masterclass in tension. Schwab doesn’t just tell a story; she builds a world that feels alive and rotting at the same time. The pacing is like a slow poison—deliberate, creeping, until you’re so hooked you can’t put it down. I stayed up until 3 a.m. reading, ignoring the fact that I had work in five hours. Worth it. The way the timelines braid together across centuries is so seamless, it’s like Schwab’s out here playing 4D chess while I’m still struggling with checkers. Sabine burns with ambition, Charlotte’s heart is soft and open, and Alice fights with unyielding grit. Their lives weave together, diving into what it means to crave—life, freedom, love—and the messy reality of living forever.

And can we talk about the atmosphere? This book is a love letter to gothic horror, with a side of snarky, sapphic chaos. It’s creepy without being jump-scare cheap, and the imagery sticks with you like mud on your boots. I caught myself daydreaming about it during a boring meeting, which is how you know it’s a great read.

My only complaint? It ended. I wanted to live in this dark, twisted world forever, sipping metaphorical wine with these toxic vampire queens. If you’re into stories that are equal parts haunting and hot, that make you feel like you’re falling in love and falling apart, this is your book. Schwab has outdone herself, and I’m already planning my rereads like a lovesick fool and placed a pre-order. Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil is a bloody, beautiful masterpiece, and I’m obsessed. Go read it, and prepare to lose your mind in the best way.