Heavensent & Hellbent

by Sara Jafari

Genres: Young Adult; YA Fantasy; YA Contemporary; YA Romance

Synopsis

In this riveting contemporary fantasy, a teen uncovers a life-altering family secret while discovering that the boy haunting her nightmares is not only an angel but her fated mate.

Roxana wants to relax for the rest of summer. Moving from England to Colorado was exhausting. Especiallywhen she’s been avoiding her dad, grieving her mom, and failing to conquer sleep paralysis. Life couldn’t possibly get any more complicated.

Then Roxy bumps into a beautiful and familiar boy. Zain. In her nightmares, they’re being burned together at the stake. And in the real world, she watches him kill a man, altering life as she knows it. She quickly learns that not only do jinn—demons—exist, but angels too.

Roxy can’t ignore the undeniable attraction she feels toward Zain, even as he triggers new nightmares for her. Ones that come with a warning: Their relationship could lead to their ruin. But isn’t love worth fighting both heaven and hell for?

Release date: August 11, 2026

Publisher: Delacorte Press

Print pages: 416

Sample

1

I hadn’t slept in over twenty-­four hours. For once, this wasn’t a result of my sleep-­paralysis-induced-­insomnia but instead jetlag. As I left the plane with my dad and brother, Colorado heat greeted me. Perspiration gathered at the nape of my neck, my body not accustomed to actual summers, having lived in Yorkshire all my life, where Augusts were typically disappointing.

During the ride from the airport to our new house, my brother, Ehsan, began an annoying game of counting how many pickup trucks he saw. After ten he stopped counting, while Dad chuckled that maybe his next car needed to be a truck. Ehsan then moved swiftly on to jabbing his finger against the car window each time he noticed a fast-­food place we didn’t have in the UK, asking if we could go there one day, his voice becoming progressively more excited and higher pitched.

Dad pandered to him, saying, “Why not?” He probably meant it, too. Dad spent most of his paycheck on Uber Eats. My sister, Azar, and I were the sole reason that Ehsan ate vegetables. We’d learned how to cook because while takeout was fun at first, our bodies started to physically crave nutrients. Azar and I bonded over how to make vegetables taste good to a nine-­year-­old and a middle-­aged man with the taste buds of a nine-­year-­old.

“I wish Azar could have come,” Ehsan said.

“I know. Me too,” Dad said, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He’d trimmed his mustache right before we flew out, so it sat sharp atop his lip. “But she’s busy with summer work and readings for university, important stuff.”

We both knew that wasn’t really it, but it was a nice excuse. Azar and my dad didn’t get along. There was nothing she’d detest more than to be stuck with him over an extended period in a city away from her friends. I shared her sentiments, but as I hadn’t left home yet for university, I had to go. Fortunately, it would only be for six weeks.

As we pulled up to our new home, Dad said, “This will be good for us.” The house was modest, with a large porch wrapped around the front. “A fresh start.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, despite the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

When Dad spoke of America, a glimmer of light returned to his eyes. I hadn’t seen it since Mum died, four years ago. “I always wished I’d held out to move to America, rather than just taking the first job offer I got abroad,” he had said with a sigh when he first told us about his new job as a software engineer for some tech company. He saw this as his second chance at happiness. Or maybe that he was righting past wrongs. Maybe he figured if he hadn’t moved to England, Mum wouldn’t have died.

While initially I said I’d rather drink poison than move the summer before my friends and I went to different universities, I realized I had to be selfless for him. For his chance at happiness. That was why I said I didn’t mind if we crossed the Atlantic for his work. For me, this was only temporary; I was going to university in England in the fall, anyway. I could take a potentially solitary six weeks if it meant he would go back to normal. And besides, it could be an adventure. An extended summer holiday. Maybe.

Not long after we entered the house, I told them I was going to lie down. In my new temporary bedroom, with the door shut, I breathed deeply. Air freshener, an artificial lavender scent from a bottle, lingered.

In the quiet of this foreign room, it became real. I never would have thought I’d live in some random city in America. Somewhere my mum had never even visited, let alone lived in with us. Irritation spilt over inside me, and I punched the bed pillow. Once, twice, three times—­and each time it bounced back, fluffy to a fault. Everything was out to get me—­even inanimate objects taunted me.

The landlord had provided us with the essentials we needed to get started, which explained why my bed had a matching lilac duvet cover and pillow, with a pink lamp on the bedside table. Pastel and sickly. The room was devoid of much else other than a small desk and chair and a dresser. All the furniture was white, with matching white floorboards.

Back home, I had painted the walls a forest green with the help of my best friend, Nic. There were patchy parts in the corners that I covered with furniture. After I learned how to propagate my mum’s houseplants, greenery soon littered my room. Vines lined my windows, with monstera plants sprawling across my bookshelf. Temperamental peace lilies that required far too much attention grew quickly to my delight, and I had placed them on any surface I could find. My mum would have loved my room, loved how her plants had thrived under my watch. It was a point of pride keeping them alive and watching them grow. We couldn’t take her plants with us, so I gave my favorite ones to Nic. I knew she’d take good care of them. Following the advice of the real estate agent, my old bedroom had been professionally repainted “Magnolia,” and the thought that it would never look like mine again twisted inside me.

It was better not to think about it. New beginnings weren’t a bad thing, I reminded myself. I was moving away for university—­ I wanted a change, so it wasn’t unreasonable for my dad to want the same.

I just had to make the most of my time here. I had already saved vintage and thrift shops nearby on Google Maps. While studying for my exams, I had become somewhat addicted to videos of American fashion influencers going thrifting. Charity shops in the UK were not as big, didn’t have the same excitement and possibility as the warehouses in the US with all their treasures (and vintage Coach bags).

I slung my backpack off my shoulders, my bones aching with fatigue. I pulled out my phone to reply to messages from Nic and Azar, and to tell them I’d landed. Nic sent screenshots of the weather in Hull compared to Denver. It was often raining in England, so at least I’d get some much-­needed vitamin D this summer.

I switched out of my airplane sweats and into my pajamas, ones that my mum had gotten me. I had worn them so much they had a small hole in the crotch. They were patterned with black cats, which wasn’t really my vibe, but she’d gotten a pair for each of us so we could match. When I wore them, I felt closer to her.

For months after Mum died, Dad had left her clothes in her side of their wardrobe, untouched. When we were packing for the move, Azar came back from university, and we went through her things together, since our house back in Hull was being rented by another family. Her clothes still smelled faintly of her: sweet and smoky. Warm. Like the oud oil she dabbed on the back of her neck and wrists every day. We packed her belongings into boxes that went into storage, and though neither of us said it, I hoped by not interrupting them too much, her smell would always stay on them.

I brought one of her cardigans with me in my carry-­on. She’d owned a collection of cashmere knitwear in an array of autumnal colors. I retrieved it from my bag and stroked the soft texture. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine she was still here, and I was stroking her arm. I let myself have a moment before I put the cardigan down on top of my backpack.

I drew the half-­drawn curtains shut and crawled into bed. I knew it was risky to sleep when I was emotional. Over the past few years, I had developed a rigid sleep schedule. I had to. I rarely ever skipped it, knowing the consequences of not doing so. But I was so tired, jetlag too strong for me to care in the moment.

I was careless.

As I slid into an almost unconscious state, I realized the extent of my mistake. Snakes appeared, twisting themselves around my throat, and then my wrists, pinning me in place.


Their bodies wrapped around my limbs, scales slithering across my bare skin. Their movements made me jerk—­in my mind. In reality, my body didn’t even shiver. There was a disconnect between what I told my body to do and what it actually did. The snakes scraped against me, and it was futile to resist. Their hissing sharp. My heart finally reacted, pulse quickening as my palms became slick with sweat.

I was paralyzed, stuck in a dangerous space between wake and sleep.

I could see my new bedroom and the sunlight that leaked through the crack in the curtains. But I couldn’t move. A familiar panic rose in my throat. I coaxed myself to stay calm. This was not the first, second, or third time this had happened, and it likely would not be the last.