I Read It So You Don’t Have To | Depravity by Elle Sanders

Oh, strap in, because this ain't a review—this is an exorcism. I just finished this book and I feel like I need to bleach my soul, sage the room, and write a strongly worded letter to somebody—maybe a therapist? A priest? My poor, unsuspecting eyeballs?

Listen, I’m no stranger to dark fiction. I like my books morally grey, my characters traumatized, and my plots emotionally devastating—but this? This book took the concept of “dark romance” and yeeted it into a pit of despair, set it on fire, then danced on the ashes while cackling maniacally.

Let me be clear: I didn’t just not like it—I survived it. I went in thinking I was signing up for some twisted forbidden romance. What I got was a slow-motion psychological car crash set in hell’s least-regulated basement.

😵‍💫 Let's Talk Characters:

Conrad Blake is not a man. He is a walking red flag that sprouted limbs, got a jawline, and then decided to become a human rights violation. He doesn't seduce; he kidnaps. He doesn't pursue; he stalks. The love interest in this book isn't morally grey—he’s just morally bankrupt.

And the FMC? I want to give her a hug, a cup of tea, a ticket to therapy, and a one-way flight out of the author's brain. She’s been served up like a sacrificial lamb, and by the time Conrad is done with her, she’s got Stockholm Syndrome and two broken legs. I'm not exaggerating—that’s literally the plot.

😵‍💫 Let's talk Plot:

Plot?? WHAT PLOT? You mean the series of increasingly horrific events loosely held together by the idea that if you traumatize a girl enough, she’ll fall in love with her captor?

I kept waiting for a twist. A redemption arc. A glimmer of justice. Something. But no. It just kept getting darker until I started questioning my own sanity. There is edgy, and then there is whatever this was. I like my fiction with teeth, but this book tried to bite my entire head off.

“Oh, but it’s fiction—don’t take it seriously.”

Listen. I don’t need moral purity in my fiction. But if your story involves abuse, rape, and psychological torture as the foundation for a love story, you better have a damn good reason. This book didn’t. There’s no message, no catharsis, no nuance. Just misery, trauma, and one man’s deeply disturbing doll fetish.

What my Braincell Has Spoken!

Zero stars and a restraining order.

If you like your dark romance with actual romance in it, or your anti-heroes with a shred of humanity, back away slowly and pretend this book never happened. And if you do decide to read it? Godspeed, and may the mental health gods be with you.

I need a nap. And therapy.

And a bonfire.

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