I write about monsters and the people who survive them. I spend my days crafting psychological thrillers where broken characters face their worst nightmares. So when I tell you I just devoured Kate Stewart’s Exodus (book two of the Ravenhood Series), you might wonder what the hell happened to me.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been completely enthralled by Cecelia’s romantic chaos, and I’m not even sorry about it.

The Setup (Or How BookTok Made Me Cautious)

I tore through the first book, Flock, in a matter of days. Couldn’t put it down. But then I made the mistake of scrolling through BookTok reviews of Exodus and saw readers literally crying over their phones. Multiple people warned about emotional devastation ahead.

So I did what any reasonable person would do: I slowed down. Because sometimes you need to prepare for heartbreak, even the fictional kind.

What Kate Stewart Gets Right

Stewart knows her audience, and she knows how to play us like instruments. Take this line:

“He wants me to read, with him, in his bed. And what better way to pass a day in stormy weather than curling up with a gorgeous man and getting lost in the words.”

Come on. We all wanted to read in bed with Dominic and spend lazy days in the sun with Sean. She created these moments that feel like the kind of intimacy that makes you forget you’re holding a book.

The character development has been stellar. Stewart doesn’t dump exposition on you like a truck. Instead, she parcels out backstory when it matters, when it hits hardest. You learn about these characters the way you’d learn about real people—through their actions, their silences, the way they touch or don’t touch.

And yes, the spice is excellent, especially in book one. But it’s not just heat for heat’s sake. Every intimate moment reveals something about who these people are and what they want from each other.

Why This Horror Writer Needs Romance

You might wonder why someone who writes about trauma and survival would gravitate toward love stories. Here’s what I’ve figured out: both genres are about transformation. Both ask what happens when someone’s carefully constructed world gets turned upside down.

In horror, that transformation often comes through surviving something terrible. In romance, it comes through letting someone past your defenses. Different catalysts, same fundamental question: what happens when you can’t stay the same?

Cecelia isn’t just choosing between men (though that choice is delicious torture). She’s choosing between versions of herself. The woman who plays it safe versus the one who takes risks. The one who follows rules versus the one who writes her own.

Sound familiar? It’s the same choice my thriller protagonists face, just with better lighting and considerably more sexual tension.

The Beautiful Devastation

Stewart understands something crucial about storytelling, something she captures in this quote from the book:

“My favorite books, love songs, movies, the ones that resonated with me, have kept me grieving long after I turned the last page, the notes faded out, or the credits rolled.”

The best stories don’t let you go. They change you. They make you feel things so intensely that you carry the emotional residue for days, weeks, sometimes years afterward. Whether that feeling comes from watching someone survive a monster or watching someone fall in love doesn’t matter. What matters is that it leaves a mark.

The Verdict (And My Dilemma)

Exodus delivered on its promises. The emotional stakes are real, the character growth is satisfying, and yes, those BookTok reviewers were right about the tears. Stewart crafted something beautiful and brutal, the kind of story that makes you understand why people get addicted to romance.

But I’m not sure I’ll continue to book three.

Not because the writing isn’t good (it’s excellent). Not because I don’t care about Cecelia’s journey (I’m invested). But because sometimes you know a story is going to wreck you, and you have to decide if you’re ready for that particular devastation. Maybe that’s the real difference between horror and romance. In horror, you expect the pain. You sign up for it. In romance, the pain sneaks up on you, wrapped in all that hope and beauty and the promise of happily ever after. It hits different when you’re not braced for impact.

For Fellow Genre-Jumpers

If you’re like me—if you usually live in darker fictional territories but find yourself curious about the romance buzz—the Ravenhood series is a good entry point. Stewart respects her characters’ complexity. She doesn’t shy away from difficult emotions or messy situations. She understands that the best love stories aren’t about perfect people finding each other; they’re about damaged people choosing to heal together.

And if you’re worried about the emotional aftermath, well, maybe that’s part of the point. The stories that stay with us are the ones that risk everything, including our carefully guarded hearts.

Just maybe keep some tissues handy. BookTok wasn’t lying about those tears.

Have you made any surprising genre jumps lately? What stories have caught you off guard and refused to let go? I’d love to hear about the books that made you feel too much in the best possible way.

“I got two rules for you,” Alice said to the dog. “Don’t harass my chickens. Nobody loves an egg-sucking dog. And you watch out for my Stella.”

“Rules have changed,” Stella said.

Upon their first extended stay with Aunt Alice, Stella and Casey were given three rules which were enumerated on individual arthritic digits. “Eat or don’t eat. I ain’t gonna tolerate picky eaters. You look after each other. That’s what sisters do. If you get into trouble, I’m the first person you call.”

They stood side by side and watched as Karma ran circles around them. Stella surveyed the farm as she hadn’t been out here for months, maybe even a year. Everything was the same, but so much had changed. The chicken coop was now a bright shade of green and the peak of the roof was now lined with metal sculptures of cats playing on the roof. She’d planted hostas around the Bur Oak trees scattered around the property which made it feel more like a manicured park.

“That damn dog is happier than a lark with a song,” Alice said as she watched Karma run from tree to tree sniffing the ground and following the scent and specter of squirrels. “Skinny though.”

Even though they hadn’t seen each other since the divorce there was still a comfort and familiarity between them as they passed long minutes in silence watching the dog and listening to the world spin.

“Do you want this place when I die?” Alice asked and picked at fuzz on her calico dress. “Maybe turn it into a bed and breakfast.”

Stella studied Alice and looked into her wrinkled face and the curve of her mouth. Stella cupped Alice’s callused hands in her own and traced her aunt’s lifeline and heartline like a palm reader at the county fair.

“You okay?” Stella asked. “Anything I should know about.”

“Christ. Nothing that dramatic. A friend offered to buy the old homestead.”

“Do you need the money?”

“Heavens, no.”

A tractor rumbled to life in the distance and a cloud of dust rose over the line of trees that separated the house from the cropland. Karma sprinted to the bordering trees to investigate with tail swinging in wild and curious circles.

“Sell the land, if you want.” Stella had never thought about inheritance or family legacy, except for mom’s collection of Grateful Dead bootlegs. She’d always believed it was up to her to make their own way in the world. The small scrap of land at the end of the lane that they called the old homestead had never been a part of their history other than warnings to stay away. The house and acre of surrounding land covered in her aunt’s art was what Stella would want should that time come.

“Does Casey want a graduation party?”

“If she wanted one, she would’ve planned it by now.”

From a far corner of the yard Karma barked and howled. These weren’t the playful barks like discovering chickens for the first time, but intentional warning, bordering on viciousness. Stella jogged out to the side yard to see what was upsetting her dog, but as she got closer Karma turned on her. The dog sprinted headlong at Stella. Stella stutter-stepped backward, lost her footing on a tree root, and crashed to the ground. The dog stopped short and snarled at her new owner. What the hell had gotten into the dog? Maybe this was the dog’s trauma response: some deep-seated hatred of tractors borne from experience. Stella rolled over onto all fours and bowed her head to the dog. 

Karma sniffed at Stella’s ear. Stella thought it was affection until the dog took a large bite of hair, and started tugging her back toward the house. Stella screamed as the dog dragged her several yards before letting go. Karma sprinted back to the edge of the cropland and then back. 

Stella held her hand to the side of her head to quell the throbbing. Karma stuck a wet nose in Stella’s face. Stella grabbed the dog’s collar in case this turned into another tugging match, but Karma was content to love on her new mistress.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” Alice said and swatted at Karma’s rump.

“That was strange,” Stella said.

“As most good deeds are.”

The air ride seat of the Case tractor bounced and the ride felt no different than riding down the highway in a Cadillac. Wyatt enjoyed the rhythm, bounce, and rattle of the tractor on the rutted road. For the past month, Wyatt has spent forty to sixty hours a week in this cab and knew its rumble and rhythm like a Formula One mechanic might know the pitch and whine of a Ferreri and Billy the head of his pit crew.

The modern family farm was either a break even enterprise or an insurance shell game. Plant the fields, raise the livestock, and pray that the fall provides enough bounty to cover rent or the property taxes on the land, as well as all the creditors. 

The financial end of farming didn’t add up. It took a much smarter man than him. He was driving a $150,000 tractor, pulling a $100,000 planter. The seeds in the hopper were so genetically and chemically advanced they’d left the lab yesterday. This one plot of land was worth at least two million dollars in a bad year, but this year could fetch closer to three million. And that was just one pilot, almost two hundred acres among the four thousand he planted each spring. Last fall, corn was going for over five dollars a bushel compared to leaner years at $1.85 a bushel. The best economist in history wasn’t Milton Friedman or John Maynard Keynes, it was the average American farmer at the mercy of volatile commodity prices with ever increasing cost of production.

Wyatt refused to live a life juggling debt and unable to truly provide for himself or heaven help him a family. If he bought something, he wanted to own it, care for it with pride, and use it until it was past its prime. He dreamed of tending his own acreage, but he couldn’t commit himself to pretending to own something when it all led to debt. The job at Granum provided him the same pride of cultivation and production, but also financial stability. He tended more cropland in Colfax county than any other farmer, collected handsome bi-weekly paychecks, provided for his father’s care during the old man’s twilight years, and saved generously for his own retirement. Pride of labor and financial stability are the basis of a great life in his estimation.

He guided his steed from the gravel lane to the tiny access road and into the fields. The land’s matriarch, Alice, was out in the yard. He wished he could stop and chat, but he had to get moving if he was going to be done before sunset and his date with Casey. He waved to her and stopped the tractor in the field. 

While the tractor idled in the field, he unzipped his coveralls, pulled his arms out of the long sleeves and let the top half hang around his waist. Although the cab had better heat or air conditioning then most cars on the road, he ran hot while planting. It wasn’t exertion that made him sweat, because the GPS and satellite controlled steering did all the work. Anxiety and excitement raised his temperature. He pulled off his Granum seed hat, rested it on the CB radio in the corner and ruffled his sweat-drenched hair.

Wyatt tapped on the tablet mounted in the cab. He flipped through several menus and screens. This plot of land sat adjacent to the river and was prone to flooding late in the summer after germination; therefore, the seed would be planted slightly deeper than normal. The hoppers dropped seeds at the rate of 32,000 seeds per acre, the computer controlled the blades and seed depth. He watched as the twenty-four row planter unfolded with the touch of a few buttons.

While he yearned for an earlier time when farmers were revered and life seemed much simpler, he couldn’t imagine planting without modern technology. Sitting in the cab surrounded by touch screens and dozens of buttons and knobs, he imagined himself at the helm of a spacecraft. He set the speed and hit auto. Without any guidance from him, the tractor pulled forward. Using GPS and satellite navigation, it righted itself in the field and began planting. He throttled up to five miles per hour and checked all his settings after the first two passes.

After covering half the field length on his third pass, he stopped the tractor and hopped out of the cab with a small metal ruler in hand. Wyatt hiked a few strides behind the planter and dug down to find the iridescent green seed nestled in a bed of rich top soil. It looked like an exotic bug cocoon in a pile of black fabric, the most fertile dirt in the world. He dropped the ruler down into the hole. Two and a quarter inches. Perfect seed depth. He pulled off his leather work gloves and picked up the seed. and rolled it between two fingers.. The iridescence rubbed off on his hand. Something in him wanted to pop the seed into his mouth like it was a candy-coated confection, but he resisted the urge. Instead he gave it a sniff, but all he could smell was the nutrient rich soil. 

He tucked the seed into his coverall pocket and clambered back up into the tractor cab, restarted all the systems and let technology take full control. He propped his feet up in the corner, leaned back and watched the field ahead while his mind drifted. He sent the selfie to distract Casey. It was going well, they’d only been dating a few months, but he was hopeful their future wouldn’t end at her graduation in six and a half weeks, not that he was counting.

His phone chimed. He snatched it from the cup holder. Not from Casey as he’d hoped, but the day nurse that cared for his father. No content in the text, just a picture of Dad in his best black Stetson and favorite western shirt. There was no blurring in the photo. The Parkinsons wasn’t bad today. Dad was having a good day. Wyatt’s chest ached with regret and longing to be there. His father, Chance Martin, grew up in west Texas. After school he traded the oil fields for dirt-filled arenas. Bronc riding usually broke a man’s body. It took half a lifetime, but Chance’s rodeo days broke his brain: too many bad falls, too many head injuries, and early onset Parkinsons. 

He dropped the phone back into the cup holder and looked out the enormous windshield to see that he was running out of field. The satellite images and mapping of the field was a week old.  He’d spent the day yesterday running the cultivator through this same field, opening up the soil, redistributing the nutrients, tilling last year’s stalks under. It made planting easier, but it could also cause erosion. If he cultivated a hilly field without planting it right away, all the best top soil would end up in the gully. A small corner of the field and protective berm had dropped away into the drainage ditch. 

Wyatt hollered a few curse words and took over manual control of the Case and turned sharply to the left. He righted the tractor in time, but a few rows of the planter dangled over the drop off. Like a distracted driver that hit the rumble bars on the highway shoulder, he scolded and cursed himself for his carelessness. With the tractor idling and lined up for the next row, he hopped out of the cab again to check everything. The seeder looked no different than this morning. Wyatt peered over the edge of the field and the eroded earth that fell away from the cropland. A small stream coursed along the bottom of the sandy drainage and was now littered with errant seeds. The collapse was a simple matter of geology. It was the place where the silty soil of the river and floodplain met the deep, rich soil. His nerves were too rattled to crawl down to the creek bed to pick up all the seeds. He knew it was against protocol, but he also knew Kevin would never come out into the field to inspect his work.

Overhead was nothing but bright blue sky, but far in the distance along the western horizon was a wall of clouds rising up like a mountain range that varied between deep gray and blinding white. Rain. It was going to rain tonight. If the front was moving fast, it could rain this afternoon. With a new sense of urgency, he hustled back into the cab and hit resume on the tablet screen.

As the sun moved ever west, light inched across the wall. One moment the wall was dark the next moment it was lit with dazzling spangles as the sun slanted across the horizon of the San Juan Mountains creating a premature or sunset.

The ice shimmered with brilliant shades of yellow and read and orange like the frozen waterfall was now molten gold tumbling down the mountain to pool in snow. Porter stood and stared in wonderment, while Jo snapped her handheld camera and the tripod camera’s shutter clicked every ten seconds taking a time lapse. The light was so fleeting like the sun sped closer to twilight with its foot firmly on the galactic gas pedal. The light show was over in a matter of ten minutes. The sun dipped below the mountains in a premature sunset.