Rebecca Ross knows that we’ve been calling for her for more. After all, she absolutely had us mesmerized with her Letters of Enchantment series. But she took what we asked for and increased it ten-fold. Not only is she releasing a new prequel book set in the same world, it is also her adult debut and dare we say that it’s more enchanting and sweeping than anything we’ve seen from Rebecca before!
Cosmopolitan has an official exclusive look at Wild Reverence, which is set to be released on September 2, 2025. This time we’re going back to the beginning of Matilda and Vincent’s love story and shows how far they are willing to go against fate, magic, and the gods to be with each other. Here’s some more info from our friends at Saturday Books:
Set in the world of the gods first introduced in Divine Rivals, #1 New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Ross delivers a sweeping, beautiful adult novel filled with tension, romance, and dark secrets.True love is more divine, than any ruthless god.Born in the firelit domain of the under realm, Matilda is the youngest goddess of her clan, blessed with humble messenger magic. But in a land where gods often kill each other to steal power and alliances break as quickly as they are forged, Matilda must come of age sooner than most. She may be known to carry words and letters through the realms, but she holds a secret she must hide from even her dearest of allies to ensure her survival. And to complicate matters . . . there is a mortal boy who dreams of her, despite the fact they have never met in the waking world.
Ten years ago, Vincent of Beckett wrote to Matilda on the darkest night of his life—begging the goddess he befriended in dreams to help him. When his request went unanswered, Vincent moved on, becoming the hardened, irreverent lord of the river who has long forgotten Matilda. That is, until she comes tumbling into his bedroom window with a letter for him.
As Fate would have it, Matilda and Vincent were destined to find each other beyond dreams. There may be a chance for Matilda to rewrite the blood-soaked ways of the gods, but at immense sacrifice. She will have to face something she fears even more than losing her magic: to be vulnerable, and to allow herself to finally be loved.
Ready to see Matilda’s journey to finding Vincent? Check out an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order Wild Reverence and maybe even pick up some of Rebecca Ross’s other reads as well!
An Excerpt From Wild Reverence
By Rebecca Ross
The Trouble with Loans and Old LoversMATILDA
He arrived much faster than I anticipated. In the past, Warin had liked to make me wait when I had wanted him or called for him. But when I heard his tread on the stony shore—when I felt his presence like one feels a cold shadow—I realized he must have been close, interested by the war camp that had gathered on the riverbank.
“You are the last goddess I expected to call for me,” he drawled. “Aren’t you supposed to be below, celebrating Enva’s imprisonment with your uglier kin?”
I turned to see him standing behind me, three paces away. He was dressed in robes that looked as if they had been dipped in sunset. His ashen-blond hair was silver in the fading light. His beauty was still as striking as it had been the first time I looked upon him in Fate’s orchard, his expression cruel, his blue eyes guarded as if he did not trust me, even after all the years we had spent as lovers, entwined on his bed.
Given our last parting on the steps of his villa, which had drawn blood from us both, I knew that he would be loath to aid me in this moment. But despite the jaded gleam of his eyes, there was also a curious spark within them.
That fire rekindled my determination.
“Hello, Warin,” I greeted him, removing the hood of my cloak. “You look well.”
His gaze traveled down my body, lingering on my belt of moonstones. “I wish I could say the same of you, little goddess, but the rain has a way of making you look quite mortal.”
It was an insult, but I did not feel the sting he hoped. Warin was one of those rare gods who never dallied with humankind, thinking they were far beneath him. He was telling me that I was unattractive to him now, even as my dress clung to me like gossamer, and my skin was flushed from the chilled air. My hair was unbound, spilling around me like red wine.
His eyes told me otherwise. He could not look away from me.
“I do not wish to waste your time,” I began, my voice pitched low, deep. “But there is something I need from you.”
“You never needed anything from me, Matilda.”
“Then should I call on another Skyward god? Perhaps Shale?”
Warin fell quiet, but his gaze burned through mine. He despised the god of wind and how my father favored Shale over all other divines at court. How Shale had always been fond of me, the first Skyward I had ever trusted.
“Speak your request,” Warin said, crossing his arms. “Perhaps I will grant it to you.”
I swallowed, hating that my mouth went dry. “Will you lend me your magic? From sunset to sunrise?”
His brow arched, betraying his surprise. “Which one?”
“Your power over rivers.”
“No.”
“You don’t want to give it a moment of consideration?”
“I never let anyone borrow magic from me,” he said. “And you, above all others, should know that.”
I did. I knew it, and yet I had dared to hope he might be moved to make an exception for me. That his curiosity as to why I wanted his power for a night would undo him, and that he would draw the constellation of rivers onto my palms with his hot ichor.
A beat of silence came between us.There was only the river and the rain and our breaths, rushing through the air.
“Why do you want my power?” he finally asked.
“I need to cross,” I replied, my hand sweeping toward the currents. “I have an assignment and must reach the castle before dark. As you can see . . . the eastern portion of the bridge is closed to me.”
“Who are you bearing a message for?”
“That I cannot say, unless you grant me your magic.”
Warin smirked, pleased with my response. “I have taught you well, haven’t I?”
He had taught me many things, but this was not one of them. The cunning had come from my mother.
I waited, the tension in my chest coiling tight.
“Borrowing my magic is out of the question,” he said. “But there is something I can loan you that will enable you to walk the riverbed with ease.”
“Tell me.”
He reached into his robes, withdrawing a set of slippers. They were made of iron bands, braided reeds, pebbles, moss, and silt from the river. I would have thought them odd had I not sensed the enchantment pulsing from them.
“What is this loan?” I asked.
“You may take these slippers and use them however you would like,” Warin said with a scythe of a smile. “You can walk through my rivers. You can breathe underwater as long as they are on your feet. But when I am ready for their return, you must bring the slippers to me yourself.”
This was not as terrible as I had been expecting.Was I not a herald who delivered messages? What difference did slippers make? I nodded.
“You must give me ample time with the shoes, and you cannot hold me when I return them,” I said.
“Hold you? I think I have held you enough and gotten my fill, don’t you agree?”
“You know what I imply, Warin. I make the delivery for their return, and then I may go. You cannot keep me longer than I would like to stay.”
His eyes narrowed, his smile losing its edge. “I am offended you think so low of me, Matilda. If I had wanted to put you in a gilded cage, I would have done so by now. And despite the last time you were at my villa . . . we spent many good moments there together. Unless you have forgotten?”
“I have not,” I was swift to reply. “But it would be foolish of me to accept a loan without defining terms on my end. As you once taught me.”
That mollified him. I had stoked his pride again, and Warin inclined his head.
“I will not hold you longer than the span of a dinner, at which I request you join me when you return the slippers.”
I had to stifle a groan. He was sly, and I was thankful my intuition had ignited, or else he might have tried to hold me longer than a meal.
“I agree,” I said, but my heart lurched with uncertainty.
Warin extended the river slippers. I accepted them, amazed by how light they felt, how delicate, as if they might come unraveled at the slightest touch.
“Who made them?” I asked, easing down to sit on a rock. Quickly, I unlaced my sandals.
“I do not know her name,” Warin said, as if tired. “A mortal woman, in my hall.”
His answer made me pause, but I only curbed my tongue. Anger him now, and he might retract the loan.
Instead, I said, “How will I know when you want them returned?”
Warin smiled. The western trade wind began to blow, and he prepared to ride it. Leaves spun in the air around us; the rain fell harder.
“Don’t worry, Matilda,” he said, just before he vanished. “You will know when I call for you.”
The slippers were a perfect fit.
I tucked my sandals into a pocket, wiggling my toes until the reeds, the moss, the stones, the silt, and the iron felt as much a part of me as my own skin. Then I gazed at the river as if I had never seen it before. Eventide had arrived; I was anxious that even with Warin’s enchanted shoes, I would not reach Vincent before the clouds broke.
I stepped into the shallows, my pulse a throb in my veins.
Down I went, one step after the other. Deep into the river, the water churning around me with a coldness that I could only liken to the indigo stretch of sky just above the clouds. And yet how heavy I felt in my center, as if the shoes and my very heart—my bones and my breath—had been cast into lead. How strange it was to let the water close over my head, swallowing me whole.
But Warin’s slippers held true.
I walked along the riverbed, the shoes an anchor and a guide.
I walked over sand that drifted like snow, over the skeleton of a drowned knight and his rusted armor.Through patches of kelp and schools of iridescent fish and around barnacled rocks that were jagged like teeth. Soon, I could no longer see. I was in the belly of the Wyndrift, a place so profound and frigid no light could reach it, and I paused, afraid to breathe. I had been holding air in my lungs, letting it smolder like fire, until I had no choice but to trust Warin and what he had promised me.
I opened my mouth and drew the water in.
It filled me like evening air, sweetened by storm. My lungs swelled like it was incense in my father’s hall, like the taste of burnt prayers, and I continued onward into the deep.
The tug on my ribs came again, as if a rope had been fastened to me, reeling me to my assignment. A lord who dreamt in a tower, who might remember me or might not. Orphia’s words trickled down my bones, spurring me to walk faster through the thick weight of water, my cloak streaming behind me like a pennant.
He was mine to take before one dark solstice night, but I refrained, curious to see who he would become.
That statement had not meant much to me when she had uttered it, when I had envisioned a stranger. But connected to Vincent, it made my heart rise in my throat.
He is doomed when the clouds break, and the moon shines through.
This was all a game between sisters. Mortals were entertainment for divines. Who could out-weave the other, who could make a pattern that could not be picked loose. A weaving of lives and deaths that would hold.
I bared my teeth to the water.
The currents shifted; I sensed the bridge ahead of me. I could feel the powerful draw of it, interrupting the rapids, as if I stood near a beehive, especially when I passed the middle tower of the eastern bridge, which was built upon the rock. The water hummed around its foundations; the river seemed to sing for it.
I had no doubt there was an Underling door somewhere in the middle tower, opening to a passage below. Finding that threshold would be crucial, providing me a quick escape route should I need one. And I decided that emerging here at the bridge’s foundation, appealing to Vincent’s guards at one of the gates, was a terrible idea.
I knew where the lord lay.
When I reached the bedrock of his tower, I paused to rest my palms upon the slick stone. There were tiny cracks that I could use as purchase for my fingertips and toes. I had been born surrounded by such stone, but I had never scaled it in such a daunting manner. Doubt made me waver until I began to pull myself up, and the slippers gripped the footholds with ease, their enchantment aiding me.
I climbed, rising out of the river.
My dress was heavy, weeping water. Hair clung to my neck like skeins of yarn, and my cloak flapped wildly, tugging at my collarbones as if to exclaim, Have you lost your mind?
“Do not fight me,” I murmured, continuing my ascent. “Make me a shadow.”
Breathless, I fixed my eyes upon the distant turret and Vincent’s illuminated window.The rain continued to pour; the clouds had not broken yet. There was still time for me to unravel the pattern Fate had woven for him, and yet my thoughts scattered like glass, racked by sudden nerves.
Would he recognize me? Remember me? I had not planned a dialogue, but perhaps I should have when I was traveling the riverbed . . .
A shout broke my momentum.
I paused to glance over my shoulder, looking at the eastern bridge.
I did not think I was the inspiration for the alarm until an arrow whizzed past me.
Someone had spotted me from one of the bridge towers, as impossible as that seemed with the cover of darkness. But then I noticed the vermillion shade of my cloak, how it was like a burnished ruby catching the dying light. It had drawn their eyes to me, refusing my request for invisibility, and I was tempted to yank the fabric from my neck and let it fall to the river in punishment.
“Traitor,” I whispered, and continued my climb. The cloak only flapped, indifferent.
Grumpy, indeed.
Another arrow clattered against the stone, a hairsbreadth from my sinister hand.
I hurried my pace. I was almost to Vincent’s window. I could almost feel the firelight wash over my face when an arrow caught me in the back, just beneath my shoulder blade.
My body froze, more from shock than pain. It was only a minor inconvenience, a slight sting of discomfort in my lungs, and I continued my ascent, listening to my heart thunder through me.
At last, I reached the window. A triumphant grin spread across my lips; I could taste the rain as I heaved myself upward onto the sill.
A second arrow stung me in the calf. But again, it was something I could handle later, and I did not feel the arrow’s bite as I tumbled into Vincent’s room. I would have preferred a more elegant arrival, but this would have to do for now.
I felt his gaze.
Slowly, I lifted my chin to look at him.
He was not on his bed, slumbering, as I expected him to be. No, he stood by the hearth wearing only his trousers. The firelight danced over his bare skin, highlighting the contours of his shoulders, his chest, and a long scar that wound across his abdomen like a serpent. Water shone on his freshly shaven chin; he had been washing his face, and his cheeks were reddened. The tang of dried herbs and tallow soap hung in the air.
My presence seemed to enchant him into stone. He did not move; he did not even seem to be breathing. But then the outside world seeped in. Alarmed shouts from the bridge, followed by the pound of booted feet hurrying up tower steps to reach their lord and his presumed assassin.
His name caught in my throat like a splinter.
Vincent.
I yearned to say it, but his face was harsh as he stared at me, disbelief surrendering to anger.
“Who are you?” he asked, reaching for the dirk on his hearthside table. The steel flashed in his hand. “What do you want?”
His voice was smoky, deep. It pulled on me like the tides, keen to stir up old memories.
So he did not remember.
And I remained on my knees, my ichor beginning to drip from my wounds. Pain ripped through me like wet parchment when I drew a shaky breath. It was strange; the discomfort did not stem from the arrows but something inward, as if a bone of mine had fractured, or an organ had been pierced.
I had not felt such agony in a long time, and I willed myself to be cold. To mend whatever seam this moment had torn open. Let ice grow over my bones until they would not break, and I would not feel, and I would not regret what could have been.
Vincent walked to me, ignoring the knocks on his door.The voices that were calling to him, desperate.
Even as he drew close, I did not move. My hair was tangled across one side of my face, down my neck. I was drenched, weighed down by river water, and I swallowed when he reached me, close enough that I could have touched his legs.
I held his gaze, frozen. But a shiver coursed down my spine.
He gave a sharp inhale, as if he had been struck. His posture went rigid; his gray eyes widened like he was drowning.
The dirk slipped from his fingers, clattering on the floor.
And then came his voice again, soft and unguarded. Something I could recognize, as if we had met in a dream.
“Matilda?”
From Wild Reverence by Rebecca Ross. Copyright © 2025 by the author and reprinted by permission of Saturday Books.
Wild Reverence, by Rebecca Ross will be released on September 8, 2025. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:
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