Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I reach for my glass of water with an unsteady hand, the childish taunt ringing in my ears as if it’s been minutes instead of years since I’ve heard it.
“Emma.” A large, warm palm covers my free hand. “Are you okay?”
I nod and force a smile to my face. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Maybe because you suddenly looked like someone spit in your plate,” Marcus says dryly, withdrawing his hand.
“No, I just…” I take a sip of water and set the glass down. “People here know who you are, don’t they?”
“Ah.” His gaze clears, as if he’s solved a mystery. “Yes, they do—at least the owner and the staff. Is that what’s bothering you? You’re worried some of them might think you’re with me for my money?”
I flinch instinctively. Marcus is either eerily perceptive, or my hang-ups are more obvious than I thought. Unless… “Do you think I’m with you for your money?” I blurt, horrified. “Because I promise you, it’s not at all what—”
“No, of course not.” His jaw flexes. “I don’t think that at all.”
“Oh, okay.” I chew on my lip, studying his closed-off expression. “Are you sure? Because I understand why you’d be concerned, and I can assure you that I would never—”
“I know, kitten.” His hard face softening, he reaches across the table to cover my hand again. “I know you would never use me like that.”
Use me.
I stare at him, the air in my lungs thickening until it feels like I’m sucking in water.
User. Whore. Sociopath. Manipulative bitch.
“How do you know?” My voice sounds as choked as I feel, all the epithets hurled at my mother playing in my mind on a loop. “What makes you so sure?”
“You.” His gaze is steady on my face as his thumb rubs a circle on the inside of my wrist. “The way you are.”
“But you don’t really know me. We’ve just met and—”
“I know enough.”
I stare at him, the pressure in my lungs intensifying. His trust is both heart-warming and crushing. Because he doesn’t know—not really. If he knew the full truth, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this possibility.
I certainly wouldn’t in his shoes.
Shakily, I withdraw my hand from his hold. “My mother… she was a user,” I say, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. I don’t know why I feel compelled to tell him this, but I do.
If he walks away, I want it to be now, before I can fall any deeper under his spell.
His gaze turns inscrutable. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that she used people—all people, but especially men who were interested in her.” I swallow the growing knot in my throat. “Once, when I was nine, she slept with my science teacher so he wouldn’t give me a bad grade on a test. And before you ask—no, she didn’t really care about my grades. She just wanted to show a decent report card to her parents—my grandparents—so they’d stop accusing her of neglecting me while she partied all over the city, dragging me from one boyfriend’s place to another’s whenever she got bored.”
Marcus’s expression doesn’t change, so I plow on, determined to make him understand. “They said she had an antisocial personality disorder, lacked empathy and all that. A sociopath, but not a particularly smart one, you know? Because the smart ones get far in life, and she didn’t—though she wasn’t hampered by anything like morals and ethics. The only person she cared about was herself, and she did whatever it took to get her way—lying, cheating, stealing… and always, always using people.”
“You included?” he asks quietly, and I shrug, though my throat feels even tighter.
“I suppose, though I was too young to be of much use to her. She did like to dress me up and parade me in front of her boyfriends—kind of like a pet. Mostly, though, she ignored me—but that’s not the point.” I drag in a breath. “Look, Marcus, the reason why I’m telling you this is—”
“You are not like her.” His gaze drills into me. “Do you hear me? You are nothing like her.”
I stare at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. “I know, but—”
“You are nothing like your mother,” he repeats in a softer tone, and something inside me—a cold knot I never knew was there—begins to melt, a warm feeling creeping in.
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely, and then I have to look away as our waiter comes by, bringing the main course.
I don’t want him or Marcus to see the sheen of tears in my eyes.
33
Marcus
Guilt, strong and unfamiliar, flavors every bite of the buttery branzino that is my main course. Emma got herself a Greek salad, and my chest aches as I watch her eat it, her manner unusually subdued.
She opened up to me.