Page 16 of Marek

It’s not because I’m messed up and a weird part of me kind of likes how much he wants me and the lengths he’s willing togo to to keep me. I think there is a name for that ... Stockholm syndrome.

I’ll have a lot of work to do when I get home.

“He’ll be looking,” I answer his question. “But I’m guessing he won’t know where to start.”

“I’ve seen it on the news,” Marek informs me, and my heart sinks a little, “they’re offering a decent reward for information.”

They are?

I mean, of course they are. They do love me. They’ll also be loving the press and attention they’ll be getting over this situation. My family would do anything for me, sure, but they’d probably do more for fame and money.

“Does that make you sad?”

I glare at Marek. “Is this some kind of twisted mind game? I know my family is looking for me, Marek, I’m not stupid. Can we get on with it?”

He studies me, those intense eyes raking over my face. “You don’t love him.”

Seriously?

I take another big gulp of wine.

Remember the plan, Ellie.

“I love what he can give me,” I answer, blandly.

“And it’s not a wonder you don’t know passion.”

“I know passion,” I snap. “He does fuck me, you know.”

Marek grins. “I assure you, Ellie Mae, that you haveneverbeen fucked.”

“Whatever,” I grumble because he’s probably right.

I’ve only been with two men, one before Carter who was clumsy and young. Carter is a good lover, but he’s very textbook. So, I suppose I haven’t been fucked in that sense. Taking another sip of wine, I decide to open myself up a little to Marek. It’s all part of the act, of course, but I want him to sleep soundly withme beside him and the only way he’ll do that is if he thinks he’s safe.

“Carter is the man my parents want for me,” I say, reaching for the bottle of wine and filling up another glass.

“Rich.” Marek nods slightly. “Isn’t that the dream?”

I snort. “Depends who you are. For me, no, it isn’t.”

“Then what is, Ellie Mae?”

I wish he’d stop using my name like that, it only makes it harder to remember why I hate him so much.

“Dancing,” I say, pointedly, “my way.”

“What is your way?”

“A way that no elite schools or programs like,” I huff, taking another sip. “My turn. Why don’t you treat those girls better?”

Clearly I’ve hit a nerve because he flinches. “It’s better than the dirty streets I got them from.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but only barely. You don’t think they’d do more for you if you were kinder to them.”

“Have you tried to work with addicts?”

I shake my head.

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