“I Want to Know What Love Is”: Spoiler Alert – It’s Definitely Not This Book

*to anyone who loved that: keep scrolling, guys, nothing interesting here*👩‍🦯 👹TW👹: 1) spoilers ahead; 2) prepare for an exposé on toxic tropes; 3) some thoughts here might actually make sense.

If you’ve ever found yourself singing along to Foreigner’s power ballad, “I Want To Know What Love Is,” yearning for that profound connection, steer clear of seeking answers in the romance novel we’re about to dissect. Because if this book’s depiction is anything to go by, love is a horrifying mess of abuse, trauma, and deeply disturbing misunderstandings.

Let’s cut to the chase: if your romantic ideal involves a hero who initiates their relationship by raping the heroine in a bar bathroom and then escalating things with abduction and further sexual assault, then perhaps this review isn’t for you.

It still hurt like a bitch and I slapped her, hard, in punishment. I heard her gasp of pain, and it sent a shiver of lust through me. If I could hear that sound for the rest of my life, I could die a happy man.

This quote isn’t from a villain’s monologue in a crime thriller; it’s from the “hero” of this romance novel. If you’re searching for literary examples of healthy relationships or even remotely acceptable romantic behavior, you’re in the wrong place. This character’s idea of love is rooted in violence and inflicting pain. It’s a far cry from anything resembling mutual respect, affection, or even basic human decency. Real-life examples of such behavior are called rapists and criminals, not romantic heroes.

Black dots danced in front of my vision again, as his big hand cut off my oxygen. I welcomed unconsciousness, but again, I wasn’t so lucky. When he saw my head start to droop, he released me so quickly the world tilted on its axis.

The heroine’s experience reads like a horror story, not a love story. Concussion-inducing encounters aside, the narrative then attempts to normalize and even romanticize this horrific beginning. This isn’t just crossing lines; it’s obliterating them with a bulldozer.

Now, before accusations of being anti-dark romance are hurled, let’s clarify. There’s a vast difference between exploring morally gray areas and glorifying outright sexual violence. Many readers, myself included, can appreciate narratives that delve into complex themes, even those that include dub-con or morally ambiguous characters. However, the distinction lies in the portrayal. This book doesn’t just feature a character who crosses lines; it presents a protagonist who genuinely revels in rape. This isn’t a nuanced exploration of darkness; it’s a disturbing endorsement of sexual violence masquerading as romance.

I still love to hear her scream. There’s just something about the way her mouth opens and her eyes go wide. She’s so beautiful when she’s terrified.

This isn’t about love; it’s about power, control, and sadistic gratification. The book’s plot essentially revolves around a cycle of sexual assault, followed by… more sexual assault. Consensual scenes feel almost jarringly out of place amidst the pervasive violence.

Instead of dwelling on the gratuitous and repetitive sex scenes, one might find themselves wishing for a more detailed account of the hero’s supposed prison break – anything to escape the relentless focus on sexual violence. The narrative even descends into the bizarre territory of the heroine allegedly masturbating to memories of her rapes and using sex with other men as a form of “revenge” – a concept as baffling as it is distasteful. If pure eroticism was the goal, this book misses the mark spectacularly by confusing violence with desire.

Remarkably, the supposed “meaningful conversation” between the two leads is relegated to the last 10% of the book. “Meaningful” is used loosely here, as anything non-sexual in this context feels like a monumental, almost revolutionary event.

Was there any redeeming quality to the hero? Absolutely not. Despite being positioned as a “villainous” figure, he lacks any charisma or complexity that might make him remotely intriguing. He evokes nothing but disgust. His actions are those of a rapist, plain and simple. Any attempt to find him appealing feels like a dangerous exercise in excusing abhorrent behavior. The idea that a “faithful, devoted, almost totally whipped rapist” is a desirable romantic figure is a disturbing notion, dripping with irony and a profound misunderstanding of healthy relationships.

Hot liquid warmth reared up in me. I basked in the glow of my strength. Of my prowess. Of my power. I’d never, ever felt so powerful in my whole life.

This quote, expressing elation and power, isn’t tied to any achievement or act of kindness. It follows directly after another instance of raping the heroine. This is the book’s idea of a powerful, masculine moment. It equates sexual violence with strength and dominance, a deeply troubling message.

I wanted that night to be the beginning of something really good.

This delusional statement, uttered after abduction and repeated assault, highlights the sheer absurdity of the narrative. It attempts to frame rape as a twisted meet-cute, the foundation of a “beautiful love story.” The book then throws in insta-love, with the rapist hero confessing undying love a mere two days after his initial assault. The heroine’s entirely reasonable rejection is met with a hysterical, almost comical overreaction from the hero.

🤚🏻M E R C Y O N M E🤚🏻

The reviewer and the rapist hero share a twisted desire: both hoped for “something really good” to emerge. For the reviewer, it was the book itself; for the hero, it was a relationship built on violence. Both were profoundly delusional.

Even in the often-problematic vintage romance novels of the ’70s and ’80s, the romanticization of realistic rape wasn’t this blatant or disturbing. While those older tropes had their own issues, they rarely glorified sexual violence to this degree. This book takes harmful tropes to a new, deeply unsettling level.

And if you thought the hero was the book’s biggest flaw, think again. Enter Joan, the heroine, who seems determined to make consistently terrible decisions. If “bad choice” were a person, it would be Joan Vasquez. 💁‍♀️

From the outset, Joan is presented in a way that makes her difficult to root for. Her casual consideration of sleeping with a married bartender early in the narrative paints her as lacking in judgment and empathy.

The author attempts to portray Joan as complex by mentioning her supposed remorse over past silence regarding a molester. She contemplates the potential harm her silence caused, yet almost immediately pivots to finding sexual gratification in the memories of her own rapes and fantasizing about being her rapist’s “sex doll.” This jarring disconnect makes her characterization feel not just flawed, but deeply incoherent and, frankly, offensive.

Adding to the problematic portrayal, the narrative suggests Joan can no longer enjoy consensual sex with “gentlemanly” partners after her experiences with rape. This reinforces the harmful and untrue idea that rape can somehow enhance or redefine a woman’s sexuality, and that “gentle” partners are somehow inadequate compared to abusers. The core message – that a woman can derive pleasure from rape by a “sick creep” – is not only unrealistic but dangerously irresponsible.

The book fundamentally lacks romantic development and a coherent plot. The supposed “bond” between the characters is built on trauma and violence, not on any shared interests, values, or genuine connection. It promotes the disturbing notion that trauma bonding equates to true love, a harmful trope that needs to be challenged, not romanticized.

Joan’s “revenge” plot – sleeping with other men and sending nude photos to her imprisoned rapist – is presented as “dark and vengeful.” However, it comes across as shallow and misguided. Promiscuity does not automatically equate to female empowerment, especially when framed in the context of trauma and revenge against an abuser.

“You’re mine,” he repeated, as he shuddered against me. “Say it.”“I’m yours,” I breathed, knowing it was true as soon as the words left my mouth. I was Elliot’s, whether I wanted to be or not. He had forced himself into my brain, my molecules, and had changed me irrevocably. The girl that I had been before he’d come into my life was officially dead. “Forever and ever,” he whispered.“Forever and ever,”

The ending is a saccharine, cliché-ridden mess. This book offers a bizarre and disturbing blend of unrealistic scenarios, tedious writing, and a pseudo-dark aesthetic that ultimately glorifies a rapist. It perpetuates harmful myths about love, trauma, and relationships. If you’re genuinely seeking to understand “what love is,” look anywhere else. This book provides a definitive example of what love is not: it’s not abuse, it’s not violence, and it’s certainly not romanticizing rapists.

Rating this book one star feels generous. Avoid it at all costs unless you have a penchant for narratives that bite, fry your brain, and drain your will to live. The only satisfaction derived from this experience is the ability to warn others away from this literary train wreck. 💀😂🤡

P. S. This book evokes unwelcome flashbacks to Take Me with You, highlighting a disturbing trend of similar plots and characters: rapists romanticized, and women who are inexplicably drawn to them. It’s a trope that desperately needs to be retired.