Terror at the gates

I Fought God, Cried Ugly Tears, and Now I’m Emotionally Unavailable 

Thanks, Scarlett St. Clair

You know when you finish a book and you’re just… sitting there? Staring at the wall? Questioning every life choice that led to this emotional collapse?

Yeah. That was me. After the audiobook of a story so feral, so unhinged, so spiritually devastating, that I’m still vibrating. Not even metaphorically. I’m vibrating like a cursed relic that’s been touched by divine rage.

From the first second of the narration, I knew I was done for. It wasn’t just an audiobook — it was a possession. Every scene gripped me by the throat. Every whisper from the narrator felt like someone exhaling secrets into my bones. And the tension? Oh, the tension. It wrapped around my spine and didn’t let go. I was living in this story. Breathing it. Drowning in it. And I loved every soul-crushing second.

Let’s talk about Lilith. My girl. My queen.

My reason for spontaneously combusting. She is female rage in its most delicious, terrifying form. The kind of character that doesn’t just walk into a scene — she ignites it. She’s raw, she’s furious, and she’s so deeply real that I could feel her rage crackling in my chest. She’s not here to be likable. She’s not here to be soft. She’s here to remind you that women are divine forces of chaos and creation — and if you try to silence them, they will unmake the world. And you know what? I was cheering.

But then came Zahariev. And I’m not okay.

This man.

He is tall, broody, riddled with emotional constipation, and so sexy it should be a war crime. He’s got that whole “I’ll burn the world down but never say I love you” vibe, and I ATE. IT. UP. The man falls first, falls hard, and then spends half the book trying to pretend he’s not emotionally feral over Lilith. And I was right there with him. Feral. Unwell. Screaming at 3 a.m. while dramatically pausing the audiobook to whisper “sir, get it together.”

And their dynamic? Peak slow-burn torture.

The kind where you’re gripping your headphones and whispering “just kiss already” but also “no wait not yet I need five more scenes of angst.” Their banter is daggers wrapped in velvet. Every conversation was a battle. Every glance was a war. And when the tension finally cracked? BABY. The payoff was nuclear. The kind of intimacy that simmers and sings. The spice? Yes, it’s there. But it builds like thunder before the storm. And when it hits? Glorious.

Now here’s where this book gut-punched me.

It’s not just romance and rebellion.

It’s a knife carved out of pain and truth.

This book dives deep into religious trauma, power, control, and the cost of being a woman in a world ruled by men and monsters in holy robes. And it doesn’t tiptoe around it. It goes straight for the soul. There were moments where I had to pause, breathe, and cry. Real tears. Ugly ones. Because it wasn’t just storytelling — it was truth disguised as fiction. And damn, it was heavy in the best, most healing way.

Somehow, through all the chaos and carnage, this book felt like a love letter.

To every woman who’s ever been silenced.

To every mother who’s ever been overlooked.

To every person who’s been told they’re “too much.”

It’s rage and reverence wrapped in beautiful, brutal prose.

Scarlett St. Clair, I don’t know what kind of deal you made with the gods to write something like this, but I want a refund. Or maybe a hug. Or both.

So if you’re out there, emotionally stable, looking for a little light reading — STAY AWAY. This book will wreck you, rebuild you, and leave you staring at your ceiling wondering if love is just another form of divine punishment.

And yes, I recommend it with my whole traumatized heart.

Terror at the gates