I picked up Blood Moon because of the title. We had a couple this year, and I thought, “Cool—serial killer meets celestial phenomenon. Let’s go!” Unfortunately, the killer wasn’t the only one getting...active.
Let’s talk about Molly. I liked her. She’s got spunk, resilience, and the kind of attitude that says, “Sure, I’ve been kidnapped by a lunatic, but I still have questions and zero time for your nonsense.” I was rooting for her—even as she waded through interactions with a man I’ve now dubbed The Killer Professor (probably tenured, definitely terrifying).
The pacing? Pretty solid. I read it quickly, skipping over the scenes where the thermostat went up but my interest went down. Sandra Brown kept the story clipping along—enough suspense to keep me engaged, but not so much that I couldn’t pause to sleep or snack.
Now for the romance. Or what I call the "insert sigh here" sections. I didn’t realize Sandra Brown was known for her steamy scenes, or I might’ve backed away slowly. As it was, I skipped ahead like I was in a choose-your-own-adventure book and all roads led away from shirtless metaphors. The romance didn’t add anything for me—in fact, it felt like someone spliced in a Harlequin chapter where a plot twist should’ve gone.
Memorable quotes or scenes? Not really. In a few weeks, I’ll probably be questioning whether I read this book at all or just hallucinated it after a long day.
Would I recommend it? If you like TMI romance and sweaty, unrealistic sex scenes with a side of murder and mayhem, Blood Moon might be your jam. For me, it was a lesson learned: check the author’s reputation before diving in. I’ll be thinking twice before picking up another Sandra Brown novel—unless she writes one called Celibate Eclipse and promises zero shirtless anything.
