2. Charlotte

2

CHARLOTTE

" W ha—what's going on?"

I stammer as I stare at Ivan, confusion blocking out every other thought. I know what I saw right before I was knocked out—a man in black clothing, wearing the same mask that Venom was wearing when he sent me those pictures online. I'd expected to see a stranger come out of the bathroom, but instead, Ivan's all-too-familiar frame is filling the doorway, distracting me for more reasons than one. He looks like a chiseled statue, all smooth pale skin overlaid with those swirls of dark ink, all the way down to where the towel is hanging indecently off of his hip bones, showing the deep lines on either side, and the strip of dark blond hair in the center just below his navel.

It's worse because I know what's under the towel. And I know just how good it feels.

"What are you doing here?" I demand, trying not to think about how close to naked he is or how there's a perfectly good bed right in between him and me. "I was—you weren't?—"

Ivan swallows hard. I see his throat move, see the sudden uncertainty in his face, and a cold feeling slithers down my spine.

"Ivan." My voice drops, harder than I've ever heard it before, more serious. There's a faint tremor of fear, still, but I see his eyes widen slightly at the sudden demand in it. "Tell me what's going on."

There's hesitation in his face. I don't know him completely—we've only been on a few dates and slept together once. But I can read it there. He's holding something back, and I need to know what it is. My hands tighten on the windowsill, my heart beating hard enough that I feel sure he must be able to see my pulse.

" Ivan ."

He clears his throat. "There was a man in your apartment."

"No shit." I feel my nails scrape against the paint on the windowsill. "He knocked me out. Why are you here?"

"I brought you here." He lets out a sharp breath. "To keep you safe."

"Safe? From what? Who? From Venom? The—the man in my apartment?" My cheeks flush suddenly, heating at the idea that I might have to explain to Ivan who that man was and how I knew him. Or why I called him Venom , from his username on the chat site, the only way I can think of to refer to him. I wasn't doing anything wrong, Ivan and I have never been exclusive, but still?—

It was foolish behavior. It got me here. And the thought of trying to explain all of it to Ivan makes me feel beyond embarrassed.

He presses his lips together, letting out another sharp breath between them. "From him. I got there just in time, Charlotte. I—I got you out of there. But it's not just him. It's?—"

"It's what ?" I shove myself off of the windowsill, some of my fear receding, quickly replaced by frustration that borders on anger. "It's what , Ivan? Stop talking in circles. Why am I in a hotel room? Why didn't you just take me back to your place and call the police, if you got me away from him? And what—" I frown, my thoughts in such a scramble that they're catching up to what's going on a little at a time. "What were you doing at my apartment?"

"I—" Ivan rubs his hand across the back of his neck again. "I needed to see you. I understand how that must sound right now, especially after what's happened. I needed to talk to you, and your door was unlocked. I heard a noise?—"

Everything he says seems to come out haltingly, as if he doesn't really want to say any of it. As if he's struggling to tell me. I walk around the bed, slowly, sinking down on the edge of it as I look at him. There's less space between us now, and I can't help but wonder, as I sit down, if that was a good idea. Being closer means I have an even better view of his near-nudity, and it's distracting. This close, I can see that there are beads of water on his skin still, trickling down his tattoos, making me itch to trace their path with my fingers. Or my tongue?—

Fuck. Charlotte, concentrate.

"You needed to see me," I repeat slowly. "What does that mean, Ivan? What could have possibly been so important that it couldn't have waited until the next day? Or that you couldn't have texted, or called, or—" I trail off, seeing his jaw tighten. He looks away, his dark blue eyes fixed off in the distance for a moment, and then he looks back at me.

"My family is Bratva, Charlotte."

I stare at him for a moment, not quite comprehending. "Bratva? I—what does that mean, Ivan? I don't understand."

"It's—" He swallows, looking away and back again. "Like—Russian mafia. An underground criminal organization."

"Like—in John Wick, or something?" I blink at him. "You can't be serious."

"Yes, if that gives you a better frame of reference." He reaches up, running his fingers through his still-damp hair. His muscles flex, rippling over his chest and stomach distractingly, and I glare at him.

"Could you put on a shirt?"

That all-too-familiar smirk quirks the corners of his mouth. "Why? Am I distracting you?"

"Maybe if you hadn't just told me you were part of some Russian crime syndicate. Or your family is?—"

"I am." The words come out flat, clipped, his jaw tightening again as if forcing them out. "That's why I needed to talk to you, Charlotte. I needed to get you out of there. But then—" He takes a deep breath, and I stare at him, trying to comprehend what he's saying.

"You're telling me that you showed up to my apartment to tell me about your family—you—being part of this…Bratva. Only for you to find me being attacked by a masked man, who you what—beat up? Got me away from him somehow? And then, instead of literally anything else, you took me to some hotel, and waited for me to wake up, so you could tell me all of this?" I rub my hands over my face, burying it in them for a moment.

This is a dream. A nightmare. Someone roofied me at the bar. Any second now, I'm going to wake up in my apartment or at Jaz's place, and I'm going to realize that none of this is real. It's going to all be okay.

I count to five, and drop my hands. When I do, Ivan is still standing there.

Frustratingly, he's also still in nothing but the towel.

" Please , put some clothes on." I look at him helplessly, and he smirks, shrugging as he pushes away from the doorframe and turns, dropping the towel as he does so.

" Ivan. "

He ignores me. I stare at him, helpless to not look at the muscled curve of his ass, where the tattoo on his back ends just at the top of the muscle, trailing down slightly over the sides, or at his thick cock, hanging between his equally muscled thighs, slightly swollen as if this conversation is turning him on.

He glances over at me as he takes his boxer briefs off of the pile of clothes, and his cock twitches, stiffening a little. My cheeks flush as I look away sharply, my pulse suddenly beating harder in my throat, a tingle running over my skin all the way down between my thighs, tightening my nipples as it goes.

I know how good his cock feels. I know how good all of him feels. But I refuse to be distracted—any more than I already am, anyway.

"There." Ivan clears his throat, and I look back to see him dressed in a pair of tight black jeans, frayed at the cuffs and pockets, with a short-sleeved, cream-colored henley. He shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorframe again. "Can we talk about this now, Charlotte?"

I swallow hard, still blushing as I nod. "This is crazy, Ivan," I whisper, and he drops his gaze for a moment before looking back up at me.

"I know. But I needed to tell you. And once I saw what was happening—well, I had to get you out of there. This was a snap decision. Charlotte—my family knows about you. They know I've been seeing you. And I—I'm not on the best of terms with them. They're threatening you, and?—"

" What?" I feel my eyes widen as I stare at him. "They're— threatening me? For what, why—" I shake my head. "I don't even want to know. Just take me home. Leave me alone, and they'll leave me alone, too, right? I want to go home."

When I tell him to leave me alone , I see him flinch, as if I've slapped him. As if the idea is unthinkable. But his face smooths just as quickly, and he shakes his head.

"I can't do that, Charlotte. They're almost certainly watching your apartment. As soon as I leave you there, they'll grab you."

It feels like everything he says clicks a moment after he says it. Like there's a lag between his words and my mind comprehending them. I blink at him, shaking my head.

"I want to talk to Jaz," I demand, pushing myself up off of the bed. "You have my phone, don't you? I want to talk to her. Give me back my phone." I'm pacing at the foot of the bed, firing off rapid demands as an increasingly helpless look crosses Ivan's face.

"I don't have your phone?—"

"You're lying!" I whirl to face him, emotions bubbling up fast and thick in the face of something that seems so incredibly impossible. "You're lying about all of this. I don't know why, but?—"

"I'm not lying." Ivan's voice is infuriatingly calm, the kind of measured calm that only seems to throw my panic into overdrive.

"You are lying!" I fling myself at him, shoving him hard as my palms connect with his chest. He barely budges; he's a wall of muscle, and I'm not all that strong. "Give me my phone! I want to call Jaz! I want to go home!"

Dimly, I can hear myself. I'm aware that I'm crossing into tantrum territory, that I'm losing it, but in a strange sort of way, it feels good . I've never lost it. I don't think that, other than that night when I found out Nate was cheating on me, I've even ever yelled at anyone. It's not just this that's bubbling up out of me, it's years of shoving things down, not speaking up, keeping the peace, keeping quiet . And god, it almost feels good .

"Charlotte—" Ivan tries to catch my hands in his, but I slam them against his chest again, and again. "Charlotte, please . Listen to me. I'm doing this for your own good?—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" I screech, that last sentence tipping me entirely over the edge. Rearing back, I swing, slapping him across the face hard.

The crack of my palm against his flesh startles even me, the hot sting of it burning into my hand, too, as if I've hurt us both. Ivan's eyes are wide, and he freezes, as if he can't believe I did that.

To be fair, I can't believe it, either.

This time, when I go to hit him again, he succeeds in grabbing both of my wrists. "Charlotte!" My name is a whip-crack this time, as sharp as the impact of my hand against his face. "Charlotte, if you go home, they will take you. And what my father will do to you, my brothers—Lev…" he trails off, an expression wrenching his face that's something between misery and hate. "I can't let that happen, Charlotte. Not when it's because of me."

I stare at Ivan, still not completely comprehending what he's trying to say. "What does he want with me? I don't know anything that could help him with…anything. I barely even know anything about you ." I fling that last word at Ivan, and he flinches again.

"This isn't a joke, Charlotte," he warns me, his hands still gripping my wrists. They feel delicate in his broad, rough palms, his fingers wrapped around them. "My father isn't someone to trifle with. He sells women, Charlotte. Do you understand me?"

I freeze, blinking at him. "He?—"

"He trafficks women. Do you get it now? Why I don't want him to get his hands on you? What he could do to you?"

I can feel my blood running cold, my mind trying to catch up to what Ivan is saying. Sex trafficking is one of those things that I know, theoretically, happens. But it happens to other women, women who go on vacation alone to places they shouldn't, women who trust the wrong men?—

Oh god. I did that. I trusted the wrong man. I think of the site I was on, on the corners of the internet where a man can get away with things like that, a place I knew better than to go, and my stomach turns over.

"Is that what that man was doing in my apartment? He works for your father? He was going to take me to—" I can't even finish the sentence; the idea is so horrifying.

Ivan blanches. "I don't know about that. But I've been trying to stop him. I've—" He sucks in a breath. "I've been working with the feds. Trying to get information, enough that they can put a stop to what he's doing. It's incredibly dangerous, working with the law against a man like my father. And I think he and my oldest brother have started to catch on to what I'm doing. So, they want you, so that they can use you against me. To hurt me."

I shake my head, yanking back against Ivan's hold on my wrists, but he doesn't let go. His grip feels like iron bands. "I don't get it," I seethe, glaring up at him. "How could I possibly be used to hurt you ?"

Ivan goes still, his hands still holding me tight. With one quick jerk, he pulls me up against him, his hands holding mine against his chest, and when he looks down at me, there's an expression on his face that makes me go still, too. It makes the entire room go quiet for a moment.

An expression that I can't quite put a name to—or maybe I just don't want to, because right now, I couldn't possibly accept what that means.

"You should know by now," Ivan murmurs, his voice soft suddenly, like a caress. "After that first night we spent together, you should know."

His hands on me, his touch, the way he's looking at me—it's enough to bring it back, even in this moment. Enough to bring back the way he looked at and touched me that night in my bedroom, the hungry look in his eyes, the way it felt like he was devouring me.

Whatever else is happening here, that was real. That was something that couldn't be faked.

And I know, when he lets go of one of my wrists and buries his hand in my hair, dragging my mouth to his for a vicious, almost painful kiss, that's real, too.