(Sneak Peak below) Spoiler Alert - Book #1 Recap review via Plot Twist & Tea
Let’s set the scene...
Girl walks into a Halloween party.
Girl meets masked psycho with big dick energy and a murder kink.
Girl gets dragged out of a bloodbath for a little bondage and bone sesh.
Oh, and did I mention? She has a bookstore and a soft spot for trauma dick.
If you thought You by Caroline Kepnes was spicy, this book flips the table, sets it on fire, ties you to the bedpost, and proceeds to eat you out while bodies drop downstairs.
Bethany is your bookish, socially awkward librarian-turned-cozy-horror-obsession. She’s trying to mind her business, sip sangria, and not get murdered when she stumbles across a literal skull-masked killer mid-slaughter. Naturally, she gets abducted, restrained, and absolutely wrecked in the bedroom (while the horror show goes on just floors below). A sane person would call the police. Beth? She calls it Tuesday.
Skull (aka the sexiest red flag in literature) is a walking BDSM-fueled fever dream with a god complex, a murder habit, and a hard-on for fear-induced orgasms. He’s giving tall, dark, and “I’ll eat you alive in every sense of the word.” He’s also giving: “You’re mine now. No take-backs.”
The Spice:
Off-the-charts. Filthy, depraved, and shockingly poetic.
Imagine a murder-mystery orgy where your orgasm is the alibi. The sex is rough, the praise is filthy, and the power dynamics are so off-kilter they’d make Freud raise an eyebrow. One second, Skull’s eating her out like a death row meal, the next he’s carving his initials into her with a blade. Romantic? No. Unforgettable? Also no—because now I need therapy.
Dialogue sample:
Skull: “You’re pretty when you scream.”
Me: “…and I need to lie down.”
Would I recommend it?
Absolutely. If your idea of a good time is psychological warfare, shadow kinks, and morally bankrupt billionaires with knives and a possessiveness problem—welcome home. If not, run. Preferably before the ropes come out.
Final Thought:
Pretty When You Scream is not just a book—it’s a full-body, whiplash-inducing, “I can’t believe I’m turned on while people are dying” experience. It’s dark, it's wrong, and it’s so good it feels illegal. Jasmine P. Dane is not here to make you comfortable—she’s here to ruin your standards and make you question your moral compass.
SNEAK PEEK
I’m running in the dark toward screams that go suddenly, deadenly quiet like the air was cut off from their mouths in an instant. The following silence is more terrifying than their cries, chilling me to the bone. A door suddenly slams shut, extinguishing the last rays of light, and I gasp, coming to a halt in the pitch black.
My heart pounding in my ears, I fumble with my phone before clumsily dropping it.
Stepping forward, the tip of my shoe hits something hard, and I teeter on the brink of face-planting on marble. Panicked and on my knees, I slide my hands across the floor in search of my lifeline wrapped in a flower-etched casing. My breathing hitches when I hear something. A shuffle? Footsteps?
I try to quiet my panting. But even with my mouth closed, my unsteady breath is too loud through my nose. Am I alone in the dark? Is somebody there?
My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I stand, backing away from something—a dark energy. Or is it just my imagination?
Sidestepping until I find the wall, I steady myself, trying to calm my breathing as I reach for a would-be weapon. I trace my fingertips along the ornate curve of a picture frame or mirror, in search of one of those heavy, valance candlesticks throughout the hall. My hip rams into a wooden console table, forcing me around to the other side. Something glass falls off and breaks—fuck, I should have stayed on the ground and found my phone!
But there’s no time to panic. It’s not me who is in danger. It’s my friends. Albi. Mary.
This is what they get for driving up here from New York City to see me. I could have warned them, but I didn’t. Instead, I selfishly basked in the comfort of their familiar faces, and I flashed a fake smile that was masking a lie. A great, dark deception that has become my life.
Finally finding a valance, I yank until the candlestick breaks free. I turn, backing to the wall while clutching the candlestick. My eyes flood with guilty tears, and a whimpering sound escapes my lips.
Thanks to me, two innocent young women have been sucked into this deadly game. I should have told them to leave, but I wanted to believe that everything would be okay. Now that I have done the deed.
God, their faces when I told them. That I married the billionaire atop Skull Hill. If only they knew he wasn’t the man they remembered from high school. Not Mr. Gorgeous and Ivy League-bound, who made all the girls drool. No, it was not the rightful Greylinn heir—not the man but the monster—whom I was forced to marry. He may look the same as they remember, but I know more than anybody that looks can be so utterly deceiving. It’s the scars hiding underneath the mask that would give him away to anybody suspicious. But nobody is looking up here on this hill to solve the murder spree happening down in Sleepy Hollow.
Nobody but me, isolated in my forbidden knowledge.
When another door slams shut, I stumble, falling into a cold, stone statue—goddam, I’m too far away from my phone now. But I know this statue. It must be the one at the end of the hall, just before the corner to Landon Greylinn’s secret room. Skull’s secret room. The real Landon Greylin is dead and gone. Replaced by his secret twin. The child given away at birth. The forgotten one. The scarred one. The vengeful and murderous one.
Edging the corner with my hand along the wall, I freeze amidst a strange hissing sound. My stomach drops. What...?
“You dropped this,” comes the sharp whisper of a male voice.
“Landon?” I cry out, partly relieved.
But there is no reply, only fading footsteps leaving me there in the pitch black—what the hell is this? Another fucking game!?
“Stop this!” I scream.
Quickly, I raise my phone to my face, fingers pressing along the edge to get some light. My phone is almost dead, but not quite. I shine the flashlight up the empty hall, scanning for somebody or light coming from the cracks beneath doors. But, nothing.
Was that him? Did he get my call?
I open my phone. The text message I sent says “read.” He fucking read my text. He knows what’s going on. He didn’t call me back. Is he here now? What, does he want me to call him and beg? He likes it when I beg. A tinge of sick hope washes over me. Did I fall into another trap, am I overreacting to a silly game, and my friends are just having fun?
Is Skull getting off on my fear?
I hit dial with a livid, teary-eyed huff. What kind of horror show am I living in when I’m calling the slasher guy to help me stop his friends from hunting my girls?
This nightmare only makes sense for one. Twisted. Reason.
Because that slasher is my husband. Till bloody death do us part.