“No, I don’t. I know you like to hurt me and tear me down,” I said. “I know you want to control me and take from me and make me bow at your feet.” “I do,” he agreed, not even trying to deny any of it. “And I think a fucked-up part of you likes it when I do those things.” “Fuck you,” I hissed, but I still hadn’t left. “I think you like it when I hurt you because on some level you believe you deserve it.” “Why would I feel something that fucked up?” I snarled. “Because we’re the same. Every time my father hits me or hurts me or chains me, a little piece of me relishes the pain. Because I know I
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