Spark

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at the ‘magic in my blood but I’m powerless’ setup—until *Spark* subverted it within the first 30 minutes. Sadie Moss’s protagonist isn’t waiting for a grand destiny; she’s actively *mourning* the one she’ll never have, and that grief gives the story a weight most paranormal romances skip. When her abilities finally manifest, it’s not a triumphant moment—it’s a *disaster*, complete with singed eyebrows and a panicked 3 a.m. Google search for ‘how to hide magical burns.’ Puckett’s narration sells every beat: her voice cracks with frustration during the heroine’s self-deprecating spirals, then drops to a husky whisper in the (admittedly steamy) scenes where magic and attraction collide. The chemistry with the love interest sizzles, but the real romance is between the protagonist and her own reluctant power. That said, the middle act drags slightly with repetitive ‘training montage’ energy—Moss leans hard on the ‘magical mishaps’ schtick, and a few scenes could’ve been tightened. The worldbuilding also feels uneven; we get vivid details about the protagonist’s magical lineage but frustratingly vague rules about *why* some bloodlines fizzle out. Still, the final act delivers a payoff that’s equal parts cathartic and bittersweet, with Puckett’s performance peaking during a climactic scene where raw emotion literally *spark*s off the page. If you’re tired of paranormal romances where power is a given and love interests are flawless, *Spark*’s imperfect, funny, and occasionally exasperating heroine might just be your new favorite mess.