I return to my bedroom and sink onto my bed, gripping the edges of the mattress for dear life. It hits me slow, the truth. Not a lightning strike. Not an epiphany. More like blood bubbling up out of a fatal wound: slow, inevitable, and impossible to stop.
I love him.
I love the way his eyes soften when he looks at me. The gentle way he handles the dogs. How his touch can be both devastating and tender.
But I also see the darkness in him. The rage that turns his eyes to steel. The casual way he wields power, like it's his birthright. The violence that lurks beneath every careful movement.
My father taught me that love shouldn't hurt. But he taught me that through pain, so I learned the opposite lesson instead: that love and pain are two sides of the same coin. You can't have one without
