17. Ivan

17

IVAN

T his is a chance, and I know it. An opportunity to tell her what I really wanted, to emphasize that it was never my plan to steal her away to go with me. That she was a wrench in what I'd imagined for myself for a long time.

I think about what I want to say as the waitress comes back and takes our orders—a Belgian waffle with fruit and a side of scrambled eggs for Charlotte, and corned beef hash with fried eggs and toast for me. Charlotte asks for orange juice as well, amusement in her eyes as the waitress brings it.

"I suppose I need to keep myself healthy if we're going to be on the run." She takes a sip from it, looking at me with a hint of curiosity that gives me hope. "Well? Tell me what you want to say."

I hesitate for a moment. "You know I have three brothers," I say finally. "You've met them."

"Met." She makes air quotes with her fingers, rolling her eyes. "It wasn't exactly the introduction to my new boyfriend's family that I would expect. Although I guess by then we were broken up, weren't we?" The humor in her voice is tinged with sarcasm.

She's not going to give me an inch. It impresses me, in the same way that it strangely turns me on. I've never sought out especially combative women before—although I swear when Charlotte yells at me, it makes me hard—but I do like strong women. Women who know their own minds. And while Charlotte might have started out being uncertain of her own desires, all of this has brought out a strength in her that's making me fall even faster down the slippery slope to being in love with her.

The sound of her calling me her boyfriend, even with sarcasm, even when following it up by saying we're not together any longer, does something strange to my insides. It makes me want to reach for her, pull her across the table to me, tangle my fingers in her hair, and tell her to say it again, even if it's not true any longer.

Even if it never really was.

The waitress comes back, setting our plates down in front of us, and I clear my throat. "I'm the youngest," I say slowly, as the woman walks away, glancing up at Charlotte as she unrolls her silverware. "And my brothers are my half-brothers. I'm my father's fourth son, and a bastard."

She presses her lips together. "That's an archaic word."

"Crime families can be archaic. Arranged marriages, hierarchies, inheritances. We live by codes and traditions and sets of rules that the rest of the world has left behind. And while the Bratva may be more blatant about their brutality, we're far from the only organization like this."

Charlotte swallows hard, but she nods slowly. "That seems so strange," she says finally. "So you were never going to inherit anything from your father, then."

I shrug. "Some money, probably. He's a hard man, and a cruel one, and if he feels any love for me, it's wrapped up in expectations and pride that smother love. But I think he would probably leave me some remnant of his legacy—not that I want it. As far as the wealth and businesses he's built and most of what belongs to him, as well as his position, that would go to Lev when my father—Dima—is gone."

Charlotte winces. "From the little I saw of Lev, I can't imagine he would be good at running anything."

"He wouldn't." I can say that confidently. "He's cruel, and not particularly smart, vengeful and someone who takes pleasure in hurting others."

"You don't?" She looks at me, that same curiosity in her gaze. "Isn't that what men like you do?"

"I can't say I've never taken pleasure in it." It's the closest I can get to telling her the truth about the kind of man I've been without horrifying her so deeply that she won't even want to ride in the same car as me. "But I don't look forward to it. Sometimes—there are some people who deserve it, Charlotte. I don't think you can understand that, and I don't really want you to."

Her jaw tightens. "I'm not a child, Ivan."

"I know." I press my hands against the edge of the table, wondering how I can explain these things to her and coming up empty. It's not that I think she's stupid, or a child, it's that I don't know how to begin to explain to her the difference between looking forward to hurting someone and being good at it. The reasons why a man might deserve the kind of pain I've meted out.

"I'm not so sheltered that?—"

"No, but you've lived a very different life. And I've already made you have to acknowledge more of the world I live in than I ever wanted to." I let out a heavy breath. "You mentioned who would inherit from my father."

What I want is to change the subject. Charlotte nods, jabbing her fork into her waffle. "Does that have something to do with—all of this?"

"In a way." I'm not about to be rushed, not when I finally have a chance to explain some of myself to her, with her listening. I've wondered if I should try at all, if it would only make things worse. But that ticking clock makes me feel like I have to try. If only to hope that when she leaves, it will be with a clear picture of who I am. Or as clear of one as I can paint, anyway, without her running from me before we even get to Vegas.

"Lev is my father's heir," I explain slowly, as we work our way through our food. "The other three of us are tools. Niki and Ani especially, because they are legitimate products of my father's union with his wife, Katya. Niki and Ani do as they're told, out of a slim hope that one day Lev will anger my father enough that one of them will be put in his place, instead. If one of them was, they'd quickly turn on the other, just as Lev easily turns on them if they don't obey."

Charlotte draws in a slow breath, her lips pressed together as she nods. "And that leaves you—where, exactly?"

"If Lev is my father's right hand, I've been his left. The one he uses for vengeance, to keep others in line, to enforce his rules, because while Lev is brutal and a bit stupid, and Niki and Ani are weak, I'm none of those things. And I think, deep down, he wishes that I were legitimate enough to inherit from him. He—" I pause, thinking of how much, exactly, I should say. "He often reminds Lev of it. Niki and Ani, too. That if they're not careful, he'll give it all to me, and a bastard will inherit instead of them."

Charlotte's eyes widen. "Could that really happen?"

"It's complicated. Technically, my father can do as he pleases. But he's not a monolith. There are other pakhans —patriarchs of other crime families, who would see it as a reason to move in and try to take what he's built. I'd inherit a war, that's for certain, if he made that choice. But it doesn't matter, because I don't want it. I never have."

"Then why stay? Why did you ever do anything to help him?" Charlotte's brows draw together. The expression on her face could be read as judgment, but I choose to interpret it as curiosity. Mostly, I imagine, because the thought of her judging me for the life I've led feels painful.

"There's no leaving the Bratva, Charlotte," I tell her quietly. "There's no leaving any crime family easily. Long before I was old enough to understand, or make these choices for myself, I was being implicated in my father's crimes. It's difficult to leave, without coming up against the law—or other members of the organization. They're more dangerous than any police officer or FBI agent. And fleeing requires connections and money that take years to build up." I let out a breath, holding Charlotte's gaze for a moment. "There's no easy way out. I've planned my exit for years. It wasn't until my father started doing things that I deemed unconscionable that I decided to try to take him out on the way. The drugs, the warmongering, I could handle that. Those are sins that plenty of men, all over the world, participate in every day, and I can't stop them all. My own freedom was more important to me—take that as you will. But selling women was a step too far. So I stepped in."

"Which is why you were working with Bradley." Charlotte sets her fork down halfway through her waffle, as if her appetite has failed. "But he doesn't think you've given him enough. He said so himself."

"He resents that I could get out of this scot-free, if I provided enough information to them. So he keeps moving the goalposts for that." I run a hand through my hair. "He wants to see me go down with my father. And I have no intention of letting that happen."

Charlotte chews on her lower lip, and the ache to kiss her sweeps through me again. I imagine her mouth tastes like syrup right now, like fruit, and just the thought makes my cock twitch in my jeans. I want her so badly that it hurts all of the time. I want her to be mine. That obsession, that feeling that she's the only thing that can ease my need, that sensation of needing a hit that only she can provide—none of that has gone away. I've just been keeping a tighter grip on it, and like any addiction, the withdrawal hurts.

"You're not a good man," she says quietly, and I feel that raw stab in my chest, that pain that only she seems to be able to deliver.

"No," I agree. "I'm not. But I never wanted to hurt you. I never meant for you to get caught up in all of this. I've lied to you, Charlotte, and I'll admit it—but that's always been the truth."

"So you were going to make me fall for you and then leave me behind. Use me and break my heart." She twists her napkin in her fingertips. "That's not any better."

"No, it's not." My heart feels heavy, listening to her, because she's right. And I have no idea what I can do to redeem myself in her eyes. What would make her feel that what I've done is forgivable?

I glance up, about to tell her that we should ask for the check and get moving—as much as I don't want to—and stop. The words die on my tongue as I see a black car at the far end of the parking lot—and a too-familiar figure getting out of it.

"Shit." I dig in my pocket for enough cash to cover the meal and then some, tossing it on the table. "We have to go."

Charlotte freezes with her glass of orange juice still touching her lips. She swallows hard, dropping it with a thud on the table, and follows my gaze out of the window.

"Shit," she echoes, and I stand up, reaching for her elbow.

She shakes me off before I can tug her out of the booth, standing up on her own as she quickly turns her back to the large window. I'm impressed by her quick response, but there's no time to tell her that. Bradley is striding towards the diner, and I have no idea if he actually thinks we're here, or if it's just bad timing that he decided to stop and eat at the same place that we did. A hell of an unfortunate coincidence, if so, but not impossible.

Charlotte moves quickly towards the back entrance, not bothering to wait for me. I catch up to her in two strides, my hand brushing against the small of her back, but she once again shakes me off. It makes me grit my teeth, because there's nothing more I want than to protect this woman. I want to keep her safe, to make sure that men like Bradley never get to lay a hand on her.

I'd hoped that what I just told her would have softened her towards me a little. But it only seems to have made her more determined to push me away.

"We'll loop around the diner once he's gone in," I murmur, as we burst out of the side door of the diner, the door closing behind us just as I hear the chime of the front door opening. I can't be sure that was Bradley, and I pause, wrinkling my nose against the smell of the dumpster next to us. There's a stand of trees just ahead, the dumpster to my left, concrete under my feet littered with cigarette butts from the staff. It's hardly pleasant, but I hesitate, moving slowly toward the corner to look and see if Bradley is still in the parking lot.

He's not. I turn to Charlotte, about to tell her to take a stealthy peek around the back to see if he's slipped back there to lie in wait for us, but she's already pressed to the corner, glancing ever so slightly around it.

Once again, I'm thoroughly impressed. That feeling tangles up with every other complicated emotion that she makes me feel, and I curl my fingers into my palms, suppressing the urge to cross the space between us, pin her to the diner wall, and kiss her until she forgets her name and only remembers mine.

The setting is less than romantic, but right now, I couldn't fucking care less.

Charlotte glances back at me. I mouth do you see him , and she shakes her head, chewing on her lower lip. I glance towards the parking lot once more, and when she looks again, she still raises her hands as if to say she doesn't know where he's gone.

He's inside. And our car is parked out front.

Stupid . But I wasn't thinking about Bradley being right on our heels when I made that mistake. I was thinking about an hour with the woman who seems to be the only one in the world who addles my better sense, and makes me do things solely because I want a few more seconds with her.

She could very easily be the death of me. But I can't seem to bring myself to care.

Not enough, anyway.

I move towards her carefully, poised for the side door to open and for Bradley to come bursting out. "When I tell you," I murmur quietly, "go around the far side to the car. I'll go around this side, and get it running. Run as fast as you can, and jump in. Bradley is going to see us, and we have to get a head start. Just run. Don't stop."

Charlotte nods, and I can see her pale slightly. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line, but she says nothing, looking around the corner again. I move slowly back to the other side, and when I see the parking lot still empty of people, I glance back at her.

" Go ," I mouth, and she darts off without arguing, jogging behind the building as I take off for the car.

There was no other side door, so I feel confident she won't be surprised on that side. I bolt for the car from my side, and I see a glimpse of Bradley sitting in one of the vinyl booths. He hasn't looked up yet, and my breath catches in my throat as I yank the door open.

I've had to hotwire cars in a hurry before, but never under this kind of pressure. I fling myself into the driver's seat just as Charlotte comes running from the other side of the diner, allowing myself one more look to see if Bradley is still staring at his menu before I duck down and reach for the wires to start the car.

Charlotte flings herself into the passenger's side just as the engine turns over. I sit up, and the moment I do, I see Bradley's eyes lock with mine through two sets of glass.

The sound of the engine alerted him. "Lock your door!" I snap, throwing the car into gear just as I see Bradley rising from his booth, already reaching for his keys. My heart is hammering, adrenaline flushing my entire body, and I can hear Charlotte panting next to me. Out of the corner of my eye, as I swing the car hard to the left, I see her gripping the side of her seat with one hand, the car door with the other. She's frozen straight, and I think I hear her shuddering gasp as Bradley's voice shouts across the parking lot.

I can't hear what he says, and I don't fucking care. All I care about is getting us out of here.

Charlotte is trembling in her seat next to me. I can hear her trying to breathe, in through her nose, out through her mouth, and I want to stop and comfort her. But right now, all I can focus on is getting us as far away from him as possible.

I've been taking surface roads and back roads, making our route as far off the beaten track as possible to throw off any scent. But it hasn't been good enough, apparently, and I take the highway instead this time, if only to put as much distance as I can between us and the chase that's started.

"He's going to catch us, isn't he?" Charlotte asks, her voice trembling, and I shake my head sharply in a quick jerk.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," I tell her grimly, flooring it as we merge into traffic on the highway.

Charlotte lets out a high-pitched squeak as the car jolts forward, and I grit my teeth with frustration. I'm pushing the little sedan we're driving to its limits, and I'd give anything right now for my Mustang, or the Aston Martin, or that RSX I had to leave abandoned in the trees. This car isn't any better than Bradley's, maybe worse, and the only benefit we have is that I got a head start.

I keep looking in the rear-view mirror, watching for Bradley's black car to come up on us. I think I see one that could be his, but it's too far back to tell. Instead, I veer in and out of traffic, trying to get as far ahead of any possible pursuit as I can. Charlotte is white-lipped next to me, both of her hands clutching the seat now, but I can't think about that.

At the next exit, I get off of the highway, my pulse in my throat as I wait for a black car to do the same. But as I turn right, driving onto a side road, nothing appears in my rear-view. After another ten or fifteen minutes, I feel my shoulders start to come down from around my ears, my pulse slowing down. We're not safe by any means, but we're out of the woods for a little while.

When I look over, Charlotte is chewing on her lower lip, agitated. "Are you alright?" I ask quietly, and she's quiet for a long moment before she finally nods.

"That was terrifying," she says softly. She looks out of the window, her nails scratching at the edge of the seat, like a nervous tic. "And thrilling."

The last is said softly, so softly that I almost don't hear it, so softly that I think I'm meant not to. I see a faint flush on her pale skin, and I realize it's something she's grappling with. She feels that she should be horrified by all of this. But there's a part of her—a small part, that found it all exciting. That didn't hate it. And I know her well enough by now to see the guilt written on her face because of that.

She licks her lips, staring out of the window, but she doesn't say anything else. "What about your brothers?" she says after a little while. "We haven't seen them since the first attack."

"I think Lev's figured out where we're going." I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, rotating my hands back and forth. "I imagine they're waiting for us in Vegas. And that's something I'll have to deal with when I get there." I glance over at her. "I won't let them hurt you, Charlotte. No matter what."

"You keep saying that." She still isn't looking at me. "But you're one man, Ivan. They're three."

She goes silent again after that, and I don't know what to say in response. I want to convince her that I'm better than the man she thinks I am, I want to protect her, and yet every effort to do that feels as if it's pushed to the side. As if none of it is good enough, convincing enough, to make her believe me.

Is it obsession, to want to keep trying? There's never been a woman in my life before that I would go to such lengths to make her want me. To make her trust me. But with Charlotte, I can't let go. I can't accept that she'll always think of me as the villain in her story, as someone who destroyed her life, as a mistake .

There's a way to fix it, and I just have to figure out what it might be.

We drive until it's well after dark, and I find another small, shady motel for us to spend the evening at. Charlotte remains quiet as I pay for our room, and my pulse beats a quick staccato in my throat, the need to touch her after the day we've had so strong that it feels painful.

It's not just a sexual need, either. I want more than that from her. And I want her to feel it. I want her to know that it's more than just how much I want to fuck her.

I fight that urge all the way up to our room. But the moment we step inside, and I feel her brush against me as she goes to close the door, her warm scent filling my nose—I can't stop myself from reaching out for her.

My arm slides around her waist, pulling her in against me. I don't push her up against the door; I don't move fast or rough at all. I just hold her, one arm wrapped around her, and I slide the other into her hair before she can do more than let out a small gasp of surprise, lowering my mouth to hers.

It's not a rough kiss or a passionate one, although the need and desire churning through me wants to demand both. Instead, I kiss her in a way that I'm not sure I ever have before.

I brush my lips against hers, softly, running my tongue over her lower lip as I draw it between mine, my hand splayed over her hip as I hold her close. The kiss is tender, sweet, and I pour every bit of emotion that I feel into it, my fingers tangled gently in her hair, my chest rising and falling against hers. I'm falling in love with her, and if I said it out loud, she'd turn away from me and call it another lie. But this isn't something I can fake—and so I want her to feel it instead.

I expect her to pull away, to fight, to slap me. But instead, I feel her tense, her lips parting under mine, and my tongue sweeps into her mouth. She tastes as sweet as always, like ginger soda and candy, and I deepen the kiss, tangling my tongue with hers as I breathe her in.

I'm so fucking hard, just from kissing her. I know she can feel it pressed against her belly, but I don't push it further. I just want to kiss her right now, and I know she's going to stop me in a minute, when she regains her senses. There's no way she's going to fuck me tonight, and I don't think I would, even if she begged. I want to believe that I wouldn't, at least, that I'd stick to what I told her the last time I had her wet and coming on my fingers.

The next time I fuck you, it's going to be because you want me to fuck you. Not this fantasy that you want to hide behind.

I meant it then, and I still do, even if every cell in my body is screaming that I need to be inside of her. If that's ever going to happen between us again, I want it to be because it's real. Because she wants me, exactly as I am, exactly as the man she now knows me to be.

For the briefest moment, I feel her tongue drag against mine, feel her fingers dig into my biceps as she kisses me back. I feel her arch against me, the press of her hips to mine, the way my hard cock rubs between us as a small moan spills from her mouth into mine.

And then she jerks back, as I knew she would, panting as she drags her hand over the back of her mouth. The unintentional lewdness of the gesture makes my cock jump, and I grit my teeth against the wave of desire that threatens to drag me under, as Charlotte shakes her head violently.

" No ," she says sharply, just the one word, bit off as if it tastes bad in her mouth. And then she pivots on her heel, stalking towards the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

I sink against the cracked desk on one side of the room, reaching down to adjust myself in my jeans. I groan under my breath as I feel myself shift against the fabric, just that sensation enough to make me throb, pre-cum dripping down my shaft. I hear the shower turn on, and for a brief second, I consider slipping my cock free and giving myself the relief I so desperately need.

But the last thing I need is for Charlotte to come out and catch me doing that. So instead, I give myself a reluctant squeeze, sinking down into the nearby chair with a sigh.

One thing is for sure, though.

I'm definitely going to be taking a shower after she's done.