““I hate you," I whisper. I feel it in my gut, and I can't deny it. I can't ignore it. I'm so angry, so hurt, so consumed that the hate feels like lava, settling in the pit of my stomach. My world was a sunny sky before him, a pretty picture my mother drew for me, and he painted it all black with the truth, splattering it with red from the bloodshed. I hate it. I hate him. "I know," he says quietly. "You said you wouldn't… you said you meant it… but I know you do." "But I love you, too… I don't know how I still can. I hate you, but I still love you somehow. It's just… how can I feel both ways?" "Easily," he says. "The opposite of love isn't hate, Karissa. It's indifference. You're a passionate person, and love and hate… it's not a far stretch from one to the other. They both take passion, someone getting under your skin and consuming you. And I ate you alive, sweetheart. You never had a chance.””
