Tenderly I am devoured

Tenderly, I Am Devoured

The Book That Whispered Poetry and Cursed Me Softly

Some books break your heart like a hammer.

Others? They sing to it as they slice it open with sea-glass and velvet.

Tenderly, I Am Devoured is very much the latter.

This book didn’t just hurt me — it softly devoured me, whispering poetry that smelled of seafoam and ruin right into my ear.

And I let it. Willingly. Lovingly.

🦢 Enter: Lacrimosa Arriscane (Yes, That’s Her Real Name)

Our girl Lacrimosa — or Lark, for those of us not emotionally ready for Latin opera every time we say her name — starts off as a disgraced schoolgirl, kicked out of her fancy, probably-haunted boarding school. She returns home to a crumbling family estate, trauma galore, and an overwhelming sense of why even try anymore.

And what do you do when the vibes are cursed, your family’s falling apart, and your bank account is as hollow as your soul?

✨ You bind yourself to a chthonic swan god, obviously.

Enter Therion: deadly, divine, full of shadows and swan aesthetics.

And things just... unravel from there. Beautifully.

💀 The Polycule Is Polycule-ing

Because what’s a descent into mythic madness without heartbreak and yearning?

Alastair – The First Love™. A haunted stormcloud of a man. He’s all ache and bone-deep regret.

Camille – His sister. Softness wrapped in razors. Her tenderness is a balm and a warning.

The queer romance? Raw. Yearning. Gothic.

The vibes? Sea-soaked and emotionally devastating.

The tension? Tied with silk and soaked in blood.

📖 The Prose: Floral Gothic on Acid

This is the kind of writing that would make a ghost sigh.

Think: Wuthering Heights went for a midnight swim in a cursed lake and came back with seaweed tangled in its ribs and an unfinished poem on its tongue.

Lyrical, lush, eerie — like reading a bruise as it blooms.

It’s folk horror meets gothic romantasy, with every chapter bleeding saltwater and soft rot.

The horror is quiet. Creeping. Lurking behind lace curtains and drowned churches.

One minute you're swooning, the next you're cold to the bone.

Yes, I had a Lovecraft moment.

(No, not the racist kind. The unsettling eldritch dread crawling down your spine like cold algae kind. And maybe, yes, a few tentacles.)

💔 The Romance: Like Petals on a Tombstone

This book aches. The romance doesn’t scream.

It lingers. It wounds.

It tastes like longing and iron and salt.

Lark and Alastair’s connection is feral — pain and history and teeth.

Lark and Camille’s bond is soft — quiet grief and blooming want.

And Lark herself?

She starts as a lost girl.

By the end? She’s a storm-touched priestess with godblood in her veins and longing in her bones.

Watching her unravel and rethread herself was holy.

Uncomfortable. Beautiful. Necessary.

🕯️ The Middle? It Lingers.

Yes, the pacing slows in the middle.

But it’s intentional.

It wants you to drown a little.

It wants you to sit in it — like wet silk clinging to your skin, making you feel the weight of every moment.

And I did. Happily.

This story doesn't rush you. It devours you gently. Tenderly, even.

Floral Gothic Romantasy with Saltwater in Its Veins

It’s haunted girls, queer longing, and divine monstrosity.

A book for the romantics with cracked spines and candlelit altars.

🌙 P.S.

This post contains affiliate links, which means that if you decide to grab this haunted beauty for your own collection (and I really think you should), I may earn a small commission — at no extra cost to you.

You're not just supporting your next book obsession — you're supporting me, and my continued quest to find and share these cursed little gems with you.

So thank you, sea-ghosts and gothic babes. 💀🌸

Amazon:Tenderly I am devoured