Okay, full disclosure: I am a slut for dark romance.
Nowadays, who isn’t, right? BookTok is flooded with some of the most salacious literary recommendations in bookstores , from dark comedies like Butcher and Blackbird to sexual thrillers like Haunting Adeline and Her Soul to Take. It’s hard to believe that just over a decade ago, Fifty Shades of Grey was making national headlines for content that would be considered borderline vanilla today.
But hey, I’m not complaining. Erotica has always been a thing; that modern readers have options beyond the stereotypical Harlequin novelettes is a blessing to the greater reading community at large.
And as someone who’s been reading smut since the days of fan fiction. net, it feels vindicating to see books that leave less to the imagination skyrocket in popularity.
So you can imagine my reaction when I learned that a smutty modern retelling of The Hunchback of Notre Dame existed while on a field trip to my local Barnes & Noble. I may not have had a job at the time and was struggling to pay rent, but you bet your ass I had $17.99 for that copy of Crossed.
Written by Emily McIntire, Crossed is the fifth book in McIntire’s Never After series, a collection of dark romances that take Disney’s hottest villains and repackage them as delicious, morally objectionable love interests who finally get their happily ever after–even if it’s at the expense of everyone else.
(Quick disclaimer: McIntire’s Never After series are not marketed as retellings, and do not deal specifically with Disney or their versions of certain stories. Rather, they’re like alternate universe versions of stories we’ve grown up with–just with more blood, sex, and drama. Read at your own risk.)
Forgive Me, Father
It may be shocking to some people, but Claude Frollo has a fanbase. A devoted fanbase.
I wouldn’t blame you for being surprised, or even horrified. Every depiction of Frollo, from Victor Hugo’s original novel to Disney’s movie musical, has presented him in a less-than-favorable light.
From a corrupt clergyman to a xenophobic judge, Frollo has remained a representation of the worst of the Catholic Church. He is quick to judge and lay blame, to deal out harsh punishments and enforce his warped sense of morals upon others, yet is woefully blind to his own shortcomings and refuses to take accountability for his sins, pinning his faults on others. Claude Frollo is, in short, the quintessential religious hypocrite.
But for a lot of people, especially those with questionable backgrounds regarding religion and/or father figures, Claude Frollo is also a massive DILF.
Look, I’m not here to kink shame. I get it. I mean, I didn’t buy Crossed just for its pretty cover (even though it is a really pretty cover–just look at the purple and gold).
While Frollo is a great villain, there’s also plenty of potential for a steamy forbidden love interest if left in the right hands. And although the story does have its fair share of glaring problems, I’d be lying if I said McIntire didn’t do a damn good job giving us the taboo love story we’ve all been waiting for.
Spoiler-Free Synopsis
I really recommend people go out and read this book. I had a lot of fun with it–so much so I brought it to the gym with me to read on the treadmill because I couldn’t put it down–and would hate to spoil it for anyone even remotely interested in Crossed. So, before we get into the meat of my review, here’s a brief story overview:
Father Cade Frédéric is a French priest fresh off the boat from Paris. His latest assignment? Festivalé, a fictional little town in Vermont rich with culture and community–on the surface, at least.
Beneath the glimmering facades of French-inspired architecture and God-fearing, church-going townsfolk lies sin, sickness, and despair. Cade is no stranger to weeding out evils, however, and in a town whose corruption runs almost as deep as his own, he finds a glorious purpose: rid Festivalé’s heart of the demons that plague it…permanently.
Things begin to spiral, however, when he encounters Amaya Paquette, Festivalé’s beautiful and mysterious pariah. Abandoned by her mother and under the brutal thumb of local business mogul Parker Errien, Amaya spends her days tending to her autistic younger brother, Quinten and her nights as Esmeralda, a stunning exotic dancer with dreams of freedom and control just beyond her reach.
Despite their efforts, neither can deny their passion for each other, though they know their temptations will only lead to heartbreak and tragedy. Yet as Cade’s dark urges grow, he must weigh his lifelong devotion to God against his need for Amaya–before the sinister forces surrounding Festivalé consume them both.
The Good (Spoilers Ahead!)
Getting this out of the way early: this story is dark. You can read Crossed‘s specific content warnings on McIntire’s website (though the author encourages readers to go in blind).
But, given the nature of this story’s source material, expect religious trauma and corruption, abuse, murder, sexual assault, and ableism to be very present in the narrative.
McIntire’s version of Frollo, Father Cade, is a refreshing and fascinating take on the character that we all know and love–to hate. He is the only member of the cast to remain French–Cade is Parisian by birth, whereas the rest of the named characters are all U.S. natives. This doesn’t affect the story too much–it does add to Cade’s allure (imagine his accent!) and helps emphasize the stark differences between him and the people of Festivalé.
In my opinion, it also helps reinvent a core facet of the original Hunchback story, that being the religious hypocrisy.
Without getting too technical, America has a bit of a reputation for being rather over-the-top when it comes to religion (particularly Christianity), especially when compared to most Western European countries. There’s something clever about placing a religious authority figure from France into a “devout” religious community in America, only to show that said community’s faith is about as shallow as a kiddie pool during a drought.
Add to that the fact that Cade was based on Frollo–aka a walking manifestation of religious corruption–and you get a fun juxtaposition between priest and parish that not only pays homage to the original story, but also tackles a significant real-world issue and makes the story that much more believable.
Amaya, meanwhile, is a great Esmeralda. Making her a stripper charged with taking care of her autistic younger brother is probably one of the best modern-day translations of Esmeralda’s character. Both are overly sexualized; both are looked down upon by society, both because of this over-sexualization and because of their roles in the social hierarchy.
Amaya captures Esmeralda’s feisty spirit and dedication to those she loves, while her brother Quinten (and the community’s treatment of him) demonstrates an unfortunate truth: no matter how far we think we’ve come as a species, the desire and willingness to alienate those we deem “wrong” or “not normal” remains a dark part of some people, no matter how good they may pretend to be. It doesn’t have to be a physical deformity; even something as commonplace today as mental illness is enough to justify cruelty and abuse against another human being.
A little aside: I’m not autistic, and I’m not gonna pretend I have any insight into how autism, particularly in children, should be represented in media. However, I am neurodivergent, and I’ve had some experience with friends and relatives who are on the spectrum, so I feel a bit more comfortable giving my opinion on how McIntire approaches this topic in her book.
And honestly? It’s really good!
Amaya was only nineteen when her mother left her to care for her one-year-old brother alone, and yet she does an amazing job given the circumstances. She provides Quinten with access to the kinds of therapy that help him best, and works with an in-school aid to ensure he’s tended to when she isn’t with him. She keeps track of his electronics for him—headphones for overstimulation, and a tablet for educational games and programs—and tries her best to keep his day-to-day routine as stable as possible for his comfort.
It may not be perfect—then again, parenting rarely is, whether the kids are neurodivergent or not. What’s important to me is that Amaya tries. She does her damndest for Quinten no matter the cost, and I think this portrayal—treating her duty to her brother not as a burden but as a labor of love that she never regrets, even when things get tough—is a great step forward towards better mental health representation in modern media.
The Not-So-Good
Listen, I enjoyed this book. Really, I did. But no story’s perfect. And unfortunately for it, Crossed has more than its fair share of glaring issues.
Ironically, my biggest issues with Crossed stem from one of its biggest strengths and most crippling weaknesses.
All Bark and No Bite: Cade’s Missed Potential
We learn early on–I’m talking about the first chapter–about Cade’s dark secret: he harbors within him a “monster” that seeks out demons in others. He then kills those people in order to rid them of the demons and free their souls to heaven. (So, Dexter Morgan in a clerical collar).
His first kill, a drug-addicted prostitute, seems like it’s setting a problematic precedent: that these “demons” are just impoverished and/or mentally unwell people.
On the bright side, this doesn’t end up being the case. Downside? We never really get to see what kind of “demons” usually make up Cade’s kill count, as his next victim ends up being a revenge kill after one of Amaya’s patrons attempts to assault her after a shift. Every kill thereafter is plot relevant, so we really only get to see Cade go full Dexter mode once.
I can see why McIntire went this route–although dark romance love interests being “bad boys” is hardly uncommon, it would be far harder to sympathize with Cade, let alone root for him, if he were going out and killing innocent left and right.
However, this does take most of the bite out of his “dark secret.” Cade kills in chapter one, fantasizes about killing Amaya for most of the book, and then only ever kills people who arguably deserve it towards the end. Not exactly as monstrous as the story’s premise might have suggested (though he does have a higher kill count than Claude Frollo, so there is that).
And that’s before we get into what I consider his most problematic kill of all.
But first, let’s talk about Amaya. (Prepare yourselves: I have thoughts.)
How to Blue-Ball Your Audience: Amaya’s Lackluster Revenge
Oh, boy. Here we go.
To her credit, Amaya is a trooper. She endures hell from start to finish in Crossed. In no particularly order, she is:
- Accused of witchcraft by her mother in front of the entire town (after church, no less)
- Abandoned by that same mother at only nineteen, forcing her to care for her infant brother with special needs
- Forcibly indebted to, sexually assaulted by, and later coerced into marriage with her mother’s abusive and powerful ex-boyfriend
- Reviled by the townspeople on a constant basis, including the vengeful affair partner of her mother’s ex
- Forced to work as a stripper under a different name, in a different town, to provide for her family without facing additional public scrutiny
- Considered the primary suspect in a string of murders with a biased defense attorney
- Unable to trust anyone outside her brother, Cade, and her roommate/best friend Dalia, a former stripper with a heart of gold and a sharp tongue (who, I regret to inform you, will absolutely not survive to the end of this book)
Need I say more?
Amaya’s under the thumb of Parker Errien, her mother Chantelle’s ex-boyfriend and this novel’s version of Phoebus. Contrary to Disney’s depiction, Hugo’s original Phoebus was a major asshole who used Esmeralda for her body, and Parker’s no different. He’s ridiculously wealthy and pretty much owns the town of Festivalé and everyone in it.
Unfortunately for Amaya, she learns this the hard way. After Chantelle skips town, Parker reveals he was whoring her out to his richest friends. Now that she’s gone, he’s out a lot of money, and he expects Amaya to make good on her mother’s debts.
Parker gives her two choices: spend the rest of her life working to pay Parker back…or marry him, and clean the slate once and for all.
For reference, Amaya is around 24-25 when the book starts; Parker, meanwhile, is described as pale-skinned with blond hair “that’s graying around the edges,” according to Cade’s description in Chapter 2. And seeing as the average white male starts going gray in his mid-to-late thirties according to Google–
Gag.
And that’s hardly the worst of it. As if being an arrogant 1%-er with a god complex and a penchant for human trafficking isn’t bad enough, Parker’s also a kidnapper, rapist and murderer. By the book’s end he rapes Amaya twice, kidnaps her younger brother to use as leverage, and even murders Dalia for daring to get in his way.
Parker sees Amaya as an object to adorn him; when she finally agrees to marry him out of desperation, he takes every opportunity to strip away her identity and mould her into his ideal trophy wife.
None of that is Amaya’s fault, of course. She endures every trial and tribulation with more courage and compassion than anyone could expect. But given how much shit she takes, how much build up McIntire gives us not just against Parker and the people of Festivalé but her own mother as well, you would expect the ending to give us a satisfying conclusion, with Amaya taking sweet, sweet revenge against those responsible for her living hell.
In a way, she does get some revenge. But as a reader who was rooting for her from her very first chapter, it just doesn’t feel like enough.
There’s a great scene during the climax where Amaya gets hers on her long-time nemesis in Festivalé by bashing the woman’s head in with a metal tissue dispenser (shockingly not hard enough to kill her, but that’s not important). From there, things quickly come to a head. Parker kidnaps her brother and kills her best friend. The reader is eager to see him get his comeuppance. After all, Amaya’s bully got her skull crushed; surely Parker will get it worse?
Well, yes and no. Because it’s not Amaya that kills Parker–it’s Cade. (More on that later).
Eventually Amaya does get her first kill in the book. While hiding out in a remote cabin in Vermont’s Green Mountains, she meets Sister Genevieve, a reclusive older nun who readers will recognize as Cade’s closest confidant outside Festivalé. Over the course of the story, Cade has gone to her to heal the self-inflicted wounds left behind by his “discipline”–his means of penance for all the impure thoughts and actions he has (mainly regarding Amaya). As Cade trusts next to no one else in Festivalé, and Genevieve purposely isolates herself from others, the two form a seemingly solid bond built on trust and mutual past sufferings.
When Amaya and Genevieve meet, however, we learn the truth: Sister Genevieve is really Amaya’s missing mother, the same Chantelle Paquette who disappeared several years ago.
I saw this twist coming a mile away, I won’t lie. From her introduction, Genevieve was described by Cade as being almost identical to Amaya. In her own chapters, Amaya noted how similar she and her mother looked, with Parker referring to her as the younger, more beautiful version of the two.
But just because a twist seems obvious doesn’t make it bad. If anything, it felt like yet another callback to the original Hunchback, where Esmeralda was not Romani by blood but rather was abducted from her birth mother, who in her anguish sequestered herself and became a nun. When the truth comes out and the two reunite, their meeting is full of love, compassion, and joy.
Amaya and Chantelle? Not so much.
We learn from Amaya’s chapters that Chantelle was no saint. She was promiscuous and non-committal, fleeing whole towns with her young daughter when things didn’t go her way and forcing Amaya to take on the brunt of the parenting for her infant brother. She exhibits constant jealousy of her daughter and ultimately leaves both her kids in the hands of her evil ex because she no longer wants the responsibility.
In Cade’s chapters, however, Sister Genevieve is quite the opposite. She is thoughtful and discreet, tending Cade’s injuries without prying into the why behind them. Their conversations about love suggest that she is ashamed of her wanton past and struggling to move forward, with God being the one relationship where she truly feels loved.
I was so sure that, when Amaya met Genevieve and we learned her true identity, there was going to be some kind of revelation, a heart-to-heart between mother and daughter where things are finally brought to light.
After all, this book does a great job showing us how what we think we know of people on the surface isn’t always what’s true underneath, whether they’re a devout priest, a beloved member of a tight-knit community, or a sex worker struggling to get by.
I started to believe that there was more to Chantelle’s story than Amaya had given us. Maybe Parker had threatened her, driving her away so he could have control over Amaya. Maybe Chantelle’s own insecurities led her to believe that somehow, her children might be better off without her in their lives.
Neither would excuse the hell she’d subjected them to, of course. But it would have offered so much more perspective on who Chantelle really was, and justified the whole Sister Genevieve twist that much more.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen. What does happen is so. Much. Nothing.
The character development Chantelle experienced with Cade seemingly vanishes the moment Amaya recognizes her. She shows zero remorse for abandoning her children. She accuses Amaya of lying about Cade’s devotion to her (by this point, he’s already brutally eviscerated Parker for how he treated Amaya). She even suggests that her bond with Cade is deeper and more profound, and that Amaya is still the same delusional, self-absorbed girl she was when Chantelle left. Projection, much?
And then Amaya kills her. No explanation, no grand speech where she holds Chantelle accountable for all the shit she caused by leaving. Just a strangulation scene so anti-climatic that I genuinely didn’t believe she was dead until I read about Cade later burying her body.
Now, I don’t think having a villain who stays a villain from start to finish is a bad thing. Narcissistic and abusive parents do exist, and more often than not, they don’t change for the better.
But for a story that so successfully captures the complexity of people as a whole, that goes out of its way to show us how first impressions and biases can be deceiving, this reveal feels so empty that whatever catharsis was intended falls imperceptibly flat.
McIntire gave us so much setup for a possible Chantelle redemption, only to end up not paying it off. Chantelle’s conversations with Cade about love suggested she’d had a reality check about her string of failed relationships. Her decision to become a nun and live in solitude suggests at least some degree of repentance for her past actions, while her living close enough to Festivalé that Cade can drive there repeatedly indicates at least a subconscious desire not to move too far from her children (I mean, it’s the heavily-forested northeastern U.S.–surely there are other remote locations for a nun seeking to sequester herself?)
And yet, nothing comes of any of it. What felt like it would have made a great character arc felt rushed and ultimately pointless, leading to a waste of both the character’s potential and the readers’ time.
In my opinion, it would have been much more fitting to give Chantelle a reason to leave, either because of Parker or her own twisted logic (a la Monica from Shameless). It would have still fit with her narcissism–prioritizing her wants and needs over her kids’.
However, it would also have given her an opportunity to change. Maybe she apologizes to Amaya for leaving and all that happened after. Maybe mother and daughter get to finally bond after finding solidarity in their abuse at the hands of the same man.
Or maybe, just maybe, Chantelle could have killed two birds with one stone and resolved not only her character arc but one of both Cade and Amaya’s most glaring plot issues.
The Death of Parker Errien
I’ve already gone into more than enough detail on the human dumpster fire that is Parker Errien, so it should have been a blessing to see him finally get his due, right?
Well, no, not really. And this is where my issues with Cade’s most problematic kill and Amaya’s relationship agency come together in a muddled blend of missed potential.
Parker was deliciously vile. A bit over the top at times, maybe, but pretty believable as someone from a small town myself. I had a blast with him, not just because he had some of Book!Phoebus’ traits (womanizer, cheater, wealthy & powerful, takes what he wants, etc.), but also because he genuinely felt untouchable, and he KNEW it.
I couldn’t imagine how Cade and Amaya were going to get out from under his thumb short of murder. And hell, even then it would have done nothing to solve Amaya’s problems (the shitty town, the murder charges, the poverty, Quin’s needs). Parker, for a good while, was as much her savior as he was her damnation.
HOWEVER. His ending sucked.
Let’s recap. Parker Errien is a rapist. A human trafficker. A rotten piece of crap who has the world in his pocket.
And instead of having one of his victims take him down and giving him the truly vicious ending he deserved, we got Cade.
And it wasn’t even good.
Credit where it’s due, Cade tortured Parker, sure. But when you compare that to what Parker put him, us, and everyone else through? It’s not only not enough—it barely scratches the surface.
Parker killed Dalia. He threatened Amaya, raped her multiple times, and forced her to be both his wife and a replacement working girl when her mother left. He was the epitome of a disgusting, abusive, sorry excuse for a religious man. I wanted him to suffer.
And a big part of why his death didn’t feel like enough was because of who did it.
Why does Cade get to kill him? I get it, it’s a dark romance, we love the possessiveness and protection male leads show for their ladies. But aside from that and Cade’s own pride, there isn’t much satisfaction to be gained from seeing him tear into Parker.
Bear with me now. Imagine how much more satisfying it would have been if, instead of watching Cade sate his own ego, we got to see Amaya kill Parker? Over half a decade of torment and torture at his hands, and she finally gets to return the favor.
Or, better yet, we get Chantelle Paquette. Parker’s living sex doll, his pretty little plaything, the woman he used and abused for years. She comes out of hiding, not just for herself but for her kids, for the daughter Parker violated and the son he dehumanized.
We could have had it all. Parker, dead at the hands of one (or both?) of the women he wronged. A vindicated Amaya, or maybe even a heroic Chantelle who made one right choice for her family.
But, no. Just Cade being, well, Cade. What makes his killing of Parker worse is that it hardly feels different from his murder of Amaya’s patron outside the strip club. McIntire built Parker up to be this truly atrocious villain, and rather than give readers a fitting end to his vile story, we got a death that was much more whimper than bang.
LK’s Final Verdict
This book was a lot of things. It was dark. It was hot. It was messed up. At times, it made me feel so much emotion I was torn between tears and throwing the book into the pool.
For most books, I don’t believe in “good” or “bad.” What works for me may aggravate someone else. What pisses me off is, more often than not, beloved by others. My opinion isn’t the end-all-be-all. All I can offer is the insight of a devoted reader and writer who wants to see the best in every book they pick up.
Crossed is unlike any dark romance book I’ve read before. Amaya and Cade’s chemistry was undeniable, and the sex scenes were sultry and taboo while still being passionate, tender, and above all, well-written (something I surprisingly can’t say for all dark romances I’ve read).
But of course, no book is perfect. Crossed had its issues, most of which could have been avoided or fixed with another few rounds of editing or, for the later chapters, maybe another draft.
Overall, I give this book a 3.5 out of 5 stars. Still definitely worth a read for fans of Hunchback, lovers of dark romance, or those whose religious trauma manifested in more…unique ways as they got older. Don’t worry—I don’t judge.
Until next time~
Inkwells and Ivy 
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