innamorare's Reviews (71)

Talia is on death row for killing her husband, but when he strolls in alive, she’s like, "Great, now I’m in trouble for ~not~ murdering him?" Meanwhile, the prison cafeteria’s serving mystery meat so bad, the lethal injection might be the less painful option.

I really wanted to love Her Soul for a Crown as much as I love a slushed Mountain Dew in a hot summer day. The premise: an orphaned poison-wielding badass named Anula, steeped in Sri Lankan mythology, ready to sell her soul to a cursed god named Reeri to topple heartless rajas? It had me vibrating with excitement. Slow-burn romantasy? Mythological vibes? Revenge? Sign me up! But after finishing this book, I’m left feeling like I ate a gorgeous curry that was missing a few key spices. 

Anula is a firecracker of a protagonist. She’s fierce, whip-smart, and her affinity for poisons makes her the kind of gal you’d want on your side in a bar fight—or, you know, a royal coup. Rameera’s worldbuilding is lush, with Anuradhapura’s (say that five times fast) golden palaces and shadowy jungles popping off the page like a Bollywood set. The mythology? Reeri, the Blood Yakka, is creepy-cool, like a demon you’d reluctantly invite to dinner because he’s got stories. When the book hits its stride, it’s a page-turner. I stayed up past midnight, ignoring my dogs judgmental stare, because I hadto know if Anula would pull off her revenge.

But here’s where the curry starts to thin out. The side characters—Bithmul and Reeri's Yakkas—are flatter than my attempts at making naan. 

Then there’s the whole “three rajas in as many days” situation, which had me snorting louder than my neighbor’s lawnmower. So, Anuradhapura apparently swaps kings faster than I swap Netflix shows, and nobody bats an eye, even during an age of Usurpers? Two new rajas pop up like whack-a-moles, and the entire kingdom’s like, “Cool, business as usual.” The soldiers don’t mutiny. The people don’t riot. The street vendors aren’t even whispering, “Yo, what’s with the raja roulette?” It’s like the whole kingdom’s been slipped a chill pill.

The pacing doesn’t help. The first half drags like my dog when she knows it’s bath time, with too much setup and not enough action. Then the back half sprints, cramming betrayals, battles, and romantic confessions into a whirlwind that left me dizzy. I kept thinking, “Slow down, let me savor this!” A little more flesh on the side characters and a deeper dive into the kingdom’s reaction to its raja speed-dating could’ve balanced things out.

Her Soul for a Crown is like a dazzling costume party where half the guests forgot to show up. Anula’s a star, the romance is okay, and the mythology is fresh, but the thin side characters and head-scratching plot holes keep it from greatness. I’d still recommend it to romantasy fans who love a fierce heroine and don’t mind some gaps—pair it with a mango lassi and enjoy the ride.

Where do I even start with this deliciously melancholic, Sylvia Plath-obsessed fever dream of a novel? It’s like someone took The Virgin Suicides, sprinkled in a dash of mI Have Some Questions for You, and then doused it in 90s riot grrrl vibes with a side of paranormal chills. I’m still clutching my imaginary fishnets and swooning over the prose, but let’s unpack this gem, because this book deserves it, even if it made me work for it at times.

First off, the dual timeline structure—past Nikki and present Sadie—had me stumbling like a newborn fawn in chunky Doc Martens. The jumps between Nikki’s college days, where she’s chasing the dark allure of the Sylvia Club (a campus legend about Sylvia Plath-adoring girls meeting tragic ends), and Sadie’s present, where she’s navigating motherhood and living in Nikki’s creepily preserved home, took a hot minute to settle into. I’d be vibing with Nikki’s angsty, Courtney Love-blaring youth, only to be yanked into Sadie’s suburban unease, wondering if Nikki’s ghost was about to pop up like a jump scare in a 90s slasher flick. The transitions lulled me a bit, like when you’re at a concert and the band takes too long to tune their guitars between songs. But once I locked into the rhythm, I was hooked, flipping pages past midnight under the comfort of my covers. 

The story follows Nikki and Sadie, former besties whose friendship frayed like a thrifted sweater. In the past, Nikki’s obsessed with the Sylvia Club, digging into the supposed suicides of Plath-loving students at their all-women’s college. Her curiosity feels like a moth fluttering too close to a flame, and it’s no spoiler to say it burns her—and her bond with Sadie. Fast-forward twenty years, Nikki’s dead, and Sadie’s got a newborn with Nikki’s grieving husband, Harrison, living in a house where Nikki’s presence lingers like a stubborn perfume. Sadie’s convinced Nikki’s sending clues from beyond, and the unraveling of the Sylvia Club’s secrets becomes a haunting puzzle. It’s a story of fractured friendships, the ache of girlhood, and grief that clings like damp Baltimore fog.

Zang’s prose is where I lost my mind—in the best way. It’s hypnotic, dripping with melancholy, like a sad girl playlist you can’t stop humming. She captures the sharp edges of female friendship with such precision, it’s like she’s holding a scalpel to your heart. One scene where Nikki and Sadie try on thrifted clothes, laughing and dreaming, had me nostalgic for my own college days, blasting Senses Fail and pretending I was cooler than I was. I could smell the musty thrift store and feel the weight of their unspoken tensions. But then Zang flips the mood, and you’re in Sadie’s present, where she’s dodging nosy neighbors and Harrison’s refusal to move Nikki’s stuff, like he’s curating a shrine.

The Sylvia Club mystery is a slow burn, but it’s worth the wait. I won’t spoil the twists, but let’s just say Zang knows how to make you gasp and then cackle at your own gullibility. The paranormal vibes add a delicious creep factor, though I occasionally rolled my eyes when Sadie’s ghost-hunting felt a tad too Scooby-Doo. Still, the way Zang ties the past and present together is fantastic, even if some lulls had me skimming like I was cramming for a final.

I read some of this while sipping a Frappuccino in a coffee shop, and I swear, every time Sadie saw Nikki’s ghost, I’d glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a spectral Plath fan to be lurking by the espresso machine. That’s the kind of immersive vibe Zang creates. Sometimes the pacing dragged like a dial-up modem, and I wanted more of Nikki’s fiery spark in the present timeline. But when it hits, it hits. It’s a love letter to the messy, beautiful chaos of being a young woman, to the friends who break your heart, and to the ghosts we carry.

Doll Parts is a must-read for anyone who’s ever been a sad girl, loved a sad girl, or just wants a thriller that feels like a riot grrrl anthem with a side of goosebumps.

This book that promised me Outer Banks vibes with scuba-diving teens chasing treasure but ended up feeling more like an underwater The Descent with a side of teenage angst. I cracked open this thriller expecting sun-soaked drama, salty friendships, and a treasure hunt to make John B proud. Instead, I got a creepy supernatural cave that hogged the spotlight and left me wishing for more pogue-style shenanigans. It’s not a bad book, but it’s like ordering a piña colada and getting a seaweed smoothie.

First, the good stuff. Reiss knows her way around a reef. The scuba-diving scenes are so vivid I could practically feel the regulator in my mouth and the ocean’s weight pressing down. Phoebe “Phibs” Ray, our protagonist, is a dive-shop kid with a knack for finding trouble—er, I mean, ancient gold coins. Her crew, the Salt Squad, is a tight-knit gang of five high school grads who’ve gone viral for their Florida Keys treasure find. Now, they’re off to an Australian island for one last dive before college splits them up, and Phibs is stuck in her dead-end town taking care of her ailing grandmother. The setup is pure gold: remote atoll, rumored lost cave, and a group of friends. Reiss nails the sensory details—coral glittering like a disco ball, the eerie silence of the deep, the panic of checking your oxygen gauge. I was hooked, ready for a high-stakes treasure chase.

Then, the plot takes a hard left into supernatural territory, and I’m not sure I bought the ticket for this ride. Phibs and her crush, Gabe, discover a sea cave that’s less “pirate loot” and more “eldritch horror Airbnb.” After breathing some funky air pocket, they start… changing. Think oozing gashes, whispers in their heads, and a vibe that screams “we accidentally pissed off a sea demon.” I was hoping for more OBX-style treasure-hunting drama—rival crews, cryptic maps, maybe a shady boat captain with a gold tooth. Instead, the cave’s spooky mojo takes center stage, and the treasure hunt feels like an afterthought. It’s like Reiss started writing a Netflix banger but got sidetracked by a Stranger Things fanfic. I wanted pogues vs. kooks, not teens vs. sentient cave slime that leaves a slit on their bodies that kept conjuring alien vaginas in my minds eye (I’m sorry you had to read that).

The characters are a mixed bag. Phibs is a solid lead—gritty, loyal, and carrying the weight of her grandma’s dementia and a murky family history. Her voice feels real, like she could be your sarcastic cousin who’s always got a dive knife handy. Gabe, her love interest, is fine—broody, dark-skinned, and diver-hot—but their romance simmers without ever boiling over. The rest of the Salt Squad? Kinda flat. Lani’s the “wild one,” Isabel’s the “smart one,” and Will’s… there. They’re more archetypes than people, and I wanted more of their messy group dynamic to shine. There’s a dual timeline flashing back to their coin find six months ago, which adds some depth but also bogs down the pace. I kept thinking, “Less moping about the past, more hunting for that cave loot!”

The writing is where Reiss shines. Her prose is lush without being purple, painting the ocean as both gorgeous and terrifying. The pacing? Oof. The first half drags like a dive with a faulty fin, and the supernatural stuff feels rushed at the end, like Reiss realized she had 50 pages to wrap up the cave’s curse. And don’t get me started on the open ending—it’s less “intriguing cliffhanger” and more “wait, that’s it?” I flipped the last page expecting a bonus chapter, only to find acknowledgments. Rude.

There’s a moment where Phibs and Gabe are dodging treasure hunters who’ve taken the squad hostage, and I was SO CLOSE to cheering—finally, some high-stakes drama! But then the cave’s creepy whispers kicked in, and I deflated faster than a punctured floatie. I wanted more of that hostage chaos, maybe a boat chase or a betrayal to spice things up. Instead, the supernatural plot swallowed the action like a shark gulping a minnow.

It’s does have heart, killer diving scenes, and a promising debut vibe from Reiss, who clearly knows her stuff (she’s a real-life scuba diver, per the bio). But the supernatural cave hogged the spotlight, leaving the treasure-hunting drama I craved high and dry. If you’re into ocean horror with a side of teen feels, you’ll probably dig this. If, like me, you wanted Outer Banks with flippers, you might surface feeling a bit shortchanged. Here’s hoping Reiss’s next book leans harder into the treasure and less into the cursed-cave vibes. I’ll still dive into her future work—just maybe with a bigger oxygen tank.

You had me at “skin-crawling folk horror” and “sapphic romance.” I was ready to clutch my pearls on a cursed island with Tian, Liya, and Shenyu. I mean, a reclusive songstress with hypnotic siren-y vocals? A bodyguard with a beastly secret? A troubled idol with a string of bad boyfriends? Sign me up for this feral fairytale! But, alas, I was promised a gothic banquet and served a half-baked charcuterie board with some questionable cheese. 

Let's start with vibes. Linda Cheng’s got a knack for creepy atmospheres, and I give her mega props for that. The remote island in the South China Seas, with its constant bizarre rituals, creepy smiling staff, and something  not quite human lurking in the forest? It’s giving Midsommar meets The Wicker Man. But then the story itself stumbles like me trying to walk in platform boots after one too many margaritas.

Tian, our leading lady. An ethereal, beloved songstress with a massive online following and a tragic backstory. You’re so perfect, so chosen, so SPECHULLL that I’m side-eyeing you harder than I did my high school prom queen. She’s got this Mary Sue energy that makes everyone orbit her like she’s the sun in a glittery solar system. Fans LITERALLY die watching her livestream (yikes, iconic but underdeveloped plot point), and she’s whisked away to this spiritual retreat to, what, heal her soul? Unravel occult mysteries? Girl, you’re too flawless to be this clueless. I wanted to root for you, but your perfection left me rolling my eyes instead of clutching my heart. 

Then there’s Liya, Tian’s childhood friend and bodyguard, who’s supposed to be this fierce protector with a monstrous secret. Her “beastly” vibe—sharp teeth, ferocious appetite—honestly had me picturing No Face from Spirited Away, but, like, if No Face was hot and brooding. I was ready to stan this sapphic icon, but Liya’s character arc is flatter than my attempts at baking sourdough during lockdown. She’s just… there to protect Tian because of some vague ancestor magic. No depth, no growth, just a loyal attack dog. I kept waiting for her have a personality beyond “must save Tian.” Sigh. Wasted potential, my love.

And Shenyu? Oh, honey, you’re the quirky gay best friend I wanted to adopt. His snarky one-liners are the glitter in this gloomy tale, and I cackled every time he opened his mouth. But that’s all he does—tosses out zingers like confetti and fades into the background. He’s got this messy backstory with bad boyfriends and a brush with the law, but does the book explore it? Nope. He’s just Tian’s sassy sidekick. I wanted more. Give me Shenyu’s angsty island diary entries or a subplot where he flirts with a creepy kitsune. Anything!

The biggest crime? Everyone feels like a satellite in Tian’s universe. Liya and Shenyu don’t get to shine; they just revolve around her, propping up her chosen-one narrative. The island’s blood-drenched legend and Liya’s monstrous identity sound juicy on paper, but they’re rushed and underdeveloped, like Cheng had a Pinterest board of cool ideas but forgot to flesh them out. The sapphic romance between Tian and Liya? It’s there, and I’m a sucker for queer love, but it’s so surface-level I didn’t even get my usual butterflies. I wanted yearning and tension, but I got… vibes.

On the plus side, the folk horror elements are genuinely unsettling. The island’s creepy aesthetic is a mood. Cheng’s prose is lush, almost too lush, like she’s trying to bedazzle every sentence. I respect the hustle, but sometimes I just wanted the story to move faster instead of lingering on Tian’s ethereal cheekbones or something.

Anyway, this book is like that one friend who’s drop-dead gorgeous and full of potential but keeps flaking on plans. I wanted to love it. I really did! But the underdeveloped characters and Tian’s Mary Sue glow-up left me wanting more meat on these brutal bones. 2.5 stars, because I’m generous and that island gave me chills. Pick it up if you’re in the mood for spooky sapphic vibes, but don’t expect to fall head over heels. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rewatch Spirited Away and imagine Liya as No Face with better hair.

This Frankenstein-inspired YA horror romance that had me clutching my Pedro Pascal throw blanket, and occasionally side-eyeing some mortuary details like the picky mortician I am. It’s creepy, and just a smidge frustrating in the most lovable way.

Meka works at her family’s funeral home, and I’m already geeking out. The book mentions little tidbits like Dryene/eyecaps/Lanol Care, and my mortician brain went, “Ooh, are we going full mortuary science nerd here?” But then, two minutes later, I see “coffin,” and I’m like, “Hold up, Kalynn, six-sided coffins are so 1800s.” (We primarily use caskets in the US. Not the same thing. Cue The more you know gif). I know, I know, most readers probably don’t care or know the difference, but I’m over here clutching my Trocar like, “Who’s gonna tell her?” It’s probably the feeling healthcare workers get watching Grey’s Anatomy or any other hospital drama. Still, Meka’s vibe is pure Tim Burton heroine… gritty yet soft, especially with her boyfriend, Noah, who’s so chill about her corpse-adjacent life I was ready to bake him cookies.

The plot slams into high gear when a tragedy rocks Meka to her core. It’s a gut-punch that left me stress-eating twizzlers. Suddenly, Meka’s world is a haunted house: ravens circling her home like goth party crashers, sketchy strangers stalking her, and… well… the dead not STAYING dead. Bayron’s atmosphere is foggy graveyards, and that prickly “someone’s watching me” vibe. 

The Frankenstein twist? I’m obsessed. It’s clever. It’s not just a retelling; it’s a glow-up of the classic, with themes of love and loss that hit right in the feels. I may have teared up while clutching my tissue box like it was Noah himself.

But, okay, time for some snark. The pacing’s like my attempt at jogging—starts strong, then wheezes in the middle. Meka’s moping for a bit, and I’m like, “Girl, I get it, life’s rough, but let’s get this sh*t into gear!” Also, the term “dead body” kept throwing me out of the story. As a mortician, I’m trained to say “decedent” to keep things respectful—nobody wants to hear their loved one called a “dead body.” Every time it popped up, I was like, “Kalynn, why you gotta do me like this?” It’s probably not a big deal for non-morticians, but it’s like nails on a chalkboard for me. And some side characters—like those creepy strangers—felt like they showed up for a cameo and got cut before the good scenes. I wanted more from them.

This book’s a sparkly, spooky delight that made my imagination do cartwheels, but it’s not QUITE a perfect casket—er, I mean, masterpiece. The mortuary nitpicks and pacing hiccups held it back, but Bayron’s storytelling is so slay. It’s like a killer Halloween party with amazing punch but slightly stale snacks. If you love horror with a side of romance, creepy vibes, and a heroine you’d totally grab coffee with, Make Me a Monster is your vibe. Read it with the lights on, maybe with a cute playlist to balance the spooks. 

3.5 ⭐️

Listen, I love a good horror novel as much as I love a late-night Taco Bell run (thrilling AND regrettable). This book, McNeil’s first stab (pun intended) at adult horror, promised a feminist eco-creeper with Midsommar vibes, and I was here for it. Did it deliver? Well, mostly. It’s like ordering a deluxe burrito and getting a solid taco instead. It’s still tasty, but you’re left wanting that extra guac. Let’s unpack this forest of frights with some campfire storytelling. 

Our girl Jen Monroe is a woman with more baggage than a cross-country Greyhound bus. Seven years ago, she fled her small town of Barrow, Washington, after her forest ranger dad vanished into the woods, leaving behind a legacy of tree-hugging passion and a town full of logging goons who probably sharpen their axes with glee. When Jen gets a text from her estranged mom saying Dad’s remains have been found, she’s like, “Nah, my dude’s still out there, probably braiding ferns or frolicking in a meadow like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.” So, she hauls back to Barrow, determined to prove he’s alive. Cue her ex-boyfriends (because of course) suggesting a camping trip into the creepy woods to “honor” her dad. Spoiler: the forest is not serving up warm fuzzies. It’s got secrets darker than my sense of humor after three espressos, and Jen’s about to stumble into a nightmare that makes The Blair Witch Project look like a cozy picnic.

McNeil knows how to set a scene, and boy, does she lean into the Pacific Northwest’s misty, mossy menace. The woods are practically a character but “friendly oak” and more “that tree’s definitely whispering my Social Security number.” Her prose paints a vivid picture of gnarled branches and eerie silences. McNeil’s got a knack for building dread, layering it like a cursed lasagna until you’re sure something’s gonna jump out at you. 

Jen herself is a solid protagonist. She’s scrappy, stubborn, and just relatable enough to root for (eventually). By the end, she’s got this mix of grit and grief that feels real, like the friend who’d sob over a missing puppy but also yeet a bear into next week if it got sassy. But, oh boy, Jen is NOT likable at the start. This woman kicks off the book as a hot mess, and not the fun kind. She’s having an affair with her married boss, an older guy who’s got the emotional range of a teaspoon with his, “lol, sorry can you send me your notes” in response to Jen when she learns her dad—missing for a decade in a national forest—is dead. Like, sir, your timing is worse than a rom-com misunderstanding. Jen’s delusion that this sleaze will pick her over his wife is peak “girl, get a grip,” and it makes her hard to root for early on. Thankfully, she grows on you like a stubborn lichen, her pain and tenacity smoothing out the rough edges.

The supporting cast, however, is where things get wobbly. Some characters feel like they wandered in from a B-movie, spouting lines that made me snort—like, “We’re fine, it’s just the woods!” Uh, buddy, have you seen a horror movie? The woods are never “just” anything. 

The horror itself is a mixed bag of treats and tricks. McNeil weaves in folklore and eco-horror elements that give the story a fresh twist, like a haunted compost pile with feminist flair. But while the buildup is chef’s-kiss spooky, the climax feels like it tripped over a root. Without spoiling, let’s just say the big reveal is less “mind-blown” and more “huh, okay, I guess.” It’s not a total letdown, but I wanted a gut-punch that left me gasping, not a shrug that left me checking how much time I had left in my Kindle. 

It’s a rollercoaster that thrills but doesn’t quite stick the landing. The pacing drags in the middle, like a hike where you’re stuck behind someone who stops to photograph every mushroom, and some plot threads dangle like cobwebs you’re too short to dust.

McNeil’s horror pedigree shines through, though. She’s clearly having a blast branching out into adult territory. The feminist undertones are subtle but sharp, poking at patriarchy and environmental greed. It’s like she’s saying, “Hey, maybe don’t mess with Mother Nature or women who’ve had enough.” I respect the hustle.

In the end, They Fear Not Men in the Woods is a creepy, atmospheric read that’s perfect for a stormy night when you want to feel like the forest is watching you (unless you live in Appalachia, then you know it already is). It’s got enough chills to make you double-check your locks, but it doesn’t quite reach the pantheon of horror greats. If you’re into Midsommar folk-horror weirdness or just want a quick, spooky escape, this’ll do the trick. Now, I’m off to burn some sage and apologize to my Monstera for side-eyeing them while reading.

TL/DR: it’s a fun, feminist fright-fest that’s more eerie campfire tale than nightmare fuel. Just lower your expectations for the ending.

3.5 ⭐️

This book is a Tilt-A-Whirl of teenage angst, murderous secrets, and a theme park so quirky it makes Six Flags look like a corporate snooze-fest. Sometimes it’s as chaotic as a toddler on a sugar high, but it’s got enough razzle-dazzle to keep you hooked.

First, meet Greta Riley Green, our unreliable narrator with a past so shady it could star in a noir film. After some mysterious “incident” (Bane keeps us guessing like a reality TV cliffhanger), Greta’s trying to reinvent herself at Hyper Kid Magic Land, a theme park that feels both whimsical and unhinged. Think roller coasters, sparkly costumes, and a vibe that screams, “We’re fun, but also maybe haunted.” Greta’s summer job is supposed to be her fresh start, but when Mercy Goodwin, the park’s dazzling star performer, vanishes after asking Greta to meet her, Greta’s plunged into a mystery stickier than a melted popsicle. Was she the last to see Mercy? And why does this park have more missing girls than a true-crime podcast?

Greta herself is a delightfully flawed heroine. She’s persistent, vulnerable, and just broken enough to root for. Her struggle to piece together her fractured past is raw and relatable. I saw a bit of my younger self in her—the girl who thought reinventing herself meant a new haircut and a fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude. (Newsflash: It doesn’t.)

Mercy is a glamorous enigma, all confidence and secrets, and I was invested.  There’s also Ivy, a side character who’s so fierce and funny she deserves her own spin-off. The dialogue pops like bubblegum, and Bane’s take on toxic masculinity (“men are assholes because they choose to be”) had me clapping like I was at a feminist poetry slam. This book is a love letter to girls who are messy, difficult, and unapologetic, and I’m here for it.

Just like a with a Rollercoaster: when you go high, you gotta go low. The pacing can be as wobbly as a bumper car driven by a hungover teen. The first half builds delicious tension, but the second half feels like Bane tried to cram a season of Pretty Little Liars into 100 pages. Some twists are jaw-dropping, but others feel like they were thrown in for shock value, like a haunted house jump-scare that’s more annoying than scary. The romance subplot is cute but thinner than a carnival prize teddy bear—it’s there, but you’re not sure why. Liam is adorable, though. And while I love an unreliable narrator, Greta’s gaps sometimes left me frustrated, like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Difficult Girls is perfect for fans of A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder or anyone who loves their thrillers with an amusement park. Bane’s debut proves she’s a voice to watch, and I’m already counting down to her next book. If you’re ready for a summer job that’s  dreamy and deadly, grab this book, buckle up, and prepare for a wild ride. 

Okay. So. Devney Perry’s new romantasy vibes like Game of Thrones and a Hallmark movie had a baby, but that baby couldn’t decide if it wanted to slay monsters or swoon dramatically. I dove into this 528-page beast with high hopes. Perry’s a romance queen, and the promise of Sarah J. Maas-level stakes with enemies-to-lovers spice had me ready to binge read and annoy my Buddy Reader who took on this with me. 

Let’s start with the good stuff, because Perry does know how to spin a world. The land of Calandra, with its five kingdoms and god-sent monsters, is vivid enough to make you check under your bed for spiked-tail bears. The world-building is all misty forests, treehouse cities, and a magic system that feels like it could’ve been scribbled in a medieval monk’s fever dream. I was hooked early on, picturing myself trudging through cursed realms with a sword and a bad attitude. Odessa, our princess protagonist, starts off as a gray-dress-wearing (why?!!!! I never understood this! Making her drab with only one dress cover, ever?) wallflower in Quentis, overshadowed by her spotlight hogging half-sister, Mae. When a monster hunting prince named Zavier Wolfe picks Odessa instead of her younger, badass sister for an arranged marriage to seal a treaty, it’s like Cinderella getting yanked from the ashes into a Lord of the Rings cosplay gone wrong. The setup? Chef’s kiss. I was ready for Odessa to ditch her crown and go full warrior-princess.

But here’s where the wheels start wobbling. The pacing in this book is like trying to jog through molasses. The first half is all setup of Odessa asking questions, getting zero answers, and navel-gazing about her powerless life. I get it, she’s a repressed royal, but girl, freaking do something. It’s like Perry wanted to slow-burn the plot as much as the romance, and my patience was burning faster than a dragon’s hiccup. There’s a scene where Odessa’s stuck on a ship with the Guardian—a beefy, silver-eyed (or green eyed or hazel or every color under the sun because Perry loves to mention this five thousand times how much his eyes change color) warrior who’s basically Jason Momoa with a grudge—and I swear, they just STARE at each other for several pages. It felt like that one video of Joe Goldberg of You where they took out the inner monologue and it was just awkward silence. 

ANYWAY. Moving on.

The slow burn is so slow that a turtle seems like a speed demon. When they finally lock lips (no spoilers, but it’s late), I cheered… then groaned, because the payoff felt like a firecracker when I’d been promised a supernova. The chemistry is there, but it’s diluted by Odessa’s endless internal monologues. At one point, I imagined her journaling, “Dear Diary, he’s hot but rude. Also, monsters. Also, I’m sad.” I wanted more spark, more bite. 

The plot picks up in the second half, thank the gods. Monsters, secrets, and a disease called Lyssa ramp up the stakes. Odessa finally grows a backbone. But the ending? A hot mess. It’s like Perry threw every plot twist she could think of into a blender and hit puree. I was left with more questions than a toddler at a science fair, and not in a “can’t wait for book two” way, but in a “what just happened and why do I care?” way. The cliffhanger isn’t a cliffhanger; it’s an avalanche.

Odessa herself is a mixed bag. I rooted for her to break free from her father’s shadow and become a badass, and she does... kinda. Her growth is there, but it’s sluggish, and her constant questioning (without answers) made me want to hand her a Google search bar. The Guardian, meanwhile, is swoony but underdeveloped, like a hot guy at a bar who says three words all night. Side characters, like Mae and a mysterious little girl, add intrigue, but they’re more plot devices than people. I wanted more depth. 

It's not bad. It's just not the masterpiece I’d hoped for. The world-building and premise are nice, and Perry’s prose is as smooth as a sunny day. But the sluggish pacing, underwhelming romance payoff, and chaotic ending left me lukewarm. It’s like ordering a gourmet burger and getting a decent slider... tasty, but not what I signed up for. If you love romantasy and don’t mind a slow slog for a killer world, you’ll probably vibe with this. Me? I’m cautiously curious for book two, but I’m bringing a snack and lower expectations.

TL/DR: A fantastical romp that’s half epic adventure, half frustrating tease. Read it for the monsters and vibes, but don’t expect to fall head-over-heels.

Grab yourself a little drinky drink, your comfiest blanket, and maybe a fan to cool yourself down, because this Egyptian-inspired fantasy debut is a five-star SCORCHER that’ll leave you swooning, screaming, and begging for the sequel like it’s your high school crush’s phone number. I devoured this book like a plate of baklava at a family gathering, and let me tell you, it’s a masterpiece that deserves all the starry eyed hype and then some.

Let's begin with Sylvia, our prickly, stabby, morally grey queen-in-hiding. She’s the lost heir of Jasad, a kingdom that got torched to a crisp a decade ago, its magic outlawed and its people hunted like they’re the last clearance rack dresses at a Nordstrom sale. Sylvia’s out here living her best (stressful) incognito life as a chemist’s apprentice, trying not to accidentally magic her way into an early grave. I relate to her on a spiritual level: her vibe is like me trying to hide my snack stash, except her stakes involve, y’know, execution. Her snark is sharper than my eyeliner wing on a good day, and her internal struggle between “I just want a nap” and “I GUESS I have to save my people” had me cackling. Sylvia’s not your typical chosen-one princess—she’s messy, fierce, and so real you’ll want to grab her by the shoulders and scream, “YOU’RE DOING AMAZING, SWEETIE!”

Then there’s Arin, the Nizahl Heir, who’s basically the human equivalent of a perfectly tailored trench coat: cold, precise, and unfairly hot. He’s the enemy, the magic-hunting prince who catches Sylvia’s slip up and drags her into a deal that’s shadier than a used car lot. Help him hunt rebels by using her as bait as his Champion, and he’ll keep her secret. Cue the most delicious enemies-to-lovers slow burn since Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, but with more knives and political intrigue. Their banter? Chef’s kiss. Their tension? I needed to open a window.

The world-building is where Hashem flexes so hard, I’m surprised she didn’t pull a muscle. Inspired by Egyptian lore and the Arab Spring, Jasad’s history of magic, rebellion, and colonization is so vivid, I could practically smell the desert sand and hear the marketplace chatter. The four kingdoms—Omal, Lukub, Orban, and Nizahl—are distinct, with politics so twisty, I felt like I was watching a telenovela. The forbidden magic trope? Handled with such finesse, I was obsessed. There are monsters straight out of Egyptian mythology, rebel factions, and a deadly tournament called the Alcalah that’s like The Hunger Games but with more cultural flavor and fewer mockingjays. 

The first 100 pages are a smidge exposition-heavy (okay, Sara, we get it, you built a whole universe), but once Sylvia’s thrust into Arin’s schemes, it’s full-throttle. The plot twists hit like a mom’s slipper when you talk back—unexpected and unforgettable. And that ending? I gasped so loud, my roommate thought I saw a spider. I’m still recovering, and I'm glad I already went ahead and requested the sequel (I got approved, BTW. Thanks Netgalley). 

Sylvia’s journey—grappling with what she owes her people versus what she wants for herself—felt like a gut punch wrapped in velvet. It’s about identity, survival, and the messy cost of power, but it never feels preachy. Plus, the found-family vibes with Sylvia’s village friends, Sefa and Marek, had me soft as a marshmallow. I’d die for them, no questions asked.

In short, The Jasad Heir is a dazzling, witty, heart-wrenching ride that’ll make you laugh, cry, and scream into your pillow. Sara Hashem, you absolute genius, how dare you write something this perfect as your DEBUT when us mere mortals exist? If you love epic fantasy, enemies-to-lovers romance, or just a story that grabs you by the heart and doesn’t let go, run to get this book. Five stars, a million fangirl squeals, and all my love.