20. Charlotte

20

CHARLOTTE

I f you're willing to listen.

There's a part of me that wants to say no. That wants to push him away. I don't know if I want to hear this, if I want more of my worldview to be challenged, if I want to hear the rest of the terrible skeletons in Ivan's closet.

But I can also see this for what it is. I know we're not far from our destination, not far from the place where my identity will be scoured clean, and I'll be cut loose to do as I please, a new woman with a new identity, and a terrifyingly blank slate for a life. This is Ivan, baring himself to me, stripping himself not only naked but raw, and asking me to listen. To hear him tell me who he really is, at last.

For better or for worse.

I nod slowly, wrapping my fingers together as if they're cold. The fire is surprisingly adequate against the chill, actually, but I need to do something with my hands. "Okay," I say softly. "Tell me."

"I told you that I was my father's enforcer," he says, his voice low and rough. "But I'm not sure you know what that means, really."

"You said you enforced his rules. I assume with violence." I twist my fingers tighter together, feeling the quick beat of my pulse form a ball of dread in my stomach. "I assume—a lot of violence."

"I gathered information for him." Ivan swallows hard, the movement of his throat visible in the firelight. "Lev is cruel and vicious, but he lets that brutality run away with him. I'm capable of controlling my emotions, precise and detached. I don't take pleasure in pain the way he does. And that's what—" He swallows again, his fingers digging into his jeans at the knee as he looks straight ahead at the flames. "That's what a man who tortures other men for the Bratva needs to be able to do."

A chill that has nothing to do with the temperature runs down my spine. I can't even repeat what I just heard aloud. "Oh," I whisper softly, my throat so tight that I'm half afraid I won't even be able to speak. "That's?—"

"Horrible. Beyond what you imagined, I'm sure. And it wore on me. You remember that I told you I didn't kill that mountain lion, when I went on that trip?" He waits for me to nod, and then continues. "I'd gotten so tired of death, Charlotte. So exhausted with violence."

"But you did it. For a long time." I try to keep the judgment out of my voice, but it's difficult. I can't imagine being willing to do that. I can't imagine what it would take for someone to be faced with that task, and not run in horror. What kind of person it takes to do it.

"I was horrified at first. But there was no way out. I was seventeen then, and there was no running from my father. No money that belonged to me, no path to freedom." Ivan's jaw tightens, and I feel a sudden pang of guilt at my own judgment.

"Seventeen? That's—that's awful." I sink my teeth into my lip. I can't comprehend the kind of father who would tell his teenage son to do that. The type of world Ivan has been immersed in. We're from two such different lives—we might as well be from different planets.

And yet we're both sitting here, in the cold October night, the world silent except for the two of us, as if we're the only ones that exist at this moment.

"It's normal, for Bratva." Ivan blows out a sharp breath. "In time, I became numb to it. And then the fact that I was numb became horrifying, in its own way. I started to think of a way out. I started to make plans, seek out my own contacts, lay a foundation to escape. It took years. Enough blood that I can't ever stop seeing it. But eventually, I was close. And then I found out that my father had started trafficking women." He turns his hands over, palms up, lifting them and dropping them again. "I couldn't leave that alone. I couldn't run, knowing that new horror was something my family was a part of. So, I set out to stop him. I made a deal with the FBI. Information, for my own record wiped clean, and a new identity. All of my money was transferred over to accounts I could still use afterward. A clean slate for me, and my father's operation brought down."

"But you hadn't managed it yet." I think of Bradley, saying that Ivan hadn't brought him enough.

Ivan shakes his head. "I was close," he says quietly. "But I also got distracted."

The emphasis on the last word leaves no doubt as to what he means. "With me."

He nods. Slowly, he angles himself towards me, his chiseled silhouette glinting in the firelight as he looks at me. "You were the one thing I didn't account for, Charlotte," he says quietly. "The thing I didn't plan. I went to Masquerade that night because it was a place I went with my friends. Somewhere, I could blow off steam without anyone knowing who I was. There, I wasn't a bastard son of the Bratva, or Dima Kariyev's torturer, or an FBI informant. I was just a man, seeking pleasure, like everyone else there. I planned to go there, enjoy myself, and leave, like every other night."

He draws in a slow breath, looking down at his hands. "I've never tried to find the identity of anyone I met there before. I've never tracked down any woman, the way I tracked you." He swallows hard, and I can tell that he can't quite meet my eyes. "You caught me off guard. I can't even entirely explain why. The reasons you were there, the way you reacted to me, the sounds?—"

Ivan breaks off, his hands tightening on his knees, and I see the shudder that goes through him. He looks up at me, his eyes finally meeting mine, the blue as dark as the night around us. "Just thinking about that night still turns me on, Charlotte. I could get off just remembering the way you moaned. The way you tasted. I could spend the rest of my life using that as my only fantasy, and never get tired of it. You are?—"

He shakes his head abruptly. "I wanted you to understand," he says finally. "That's all. I never planned to ruin your life. I never planned for you at all. I just—lost control. I saw you, and all that precision, all that patience—I lost it. And it's my fault, not yours."

"This world you're describing to me—it doesn't seem real," I whisper, looking at the fire. It sounds like something from another place, foreign and unimaginable. A world of such violence, such brutality, full of traditions and hierarchies that don't make sense in the world I live in—none of it feels real. But Ivan lived it. And now he's out here, with me.

Because of one night. One night that dominoed into so much more.

"I should be afraid of you," I say quietly, still staring into the flames. "You know I should."

His hand flexes as if he wants to reach out for me, but he doesn't. "I would never hurt you," Ivan murmurs. "I wanted out of that life, not to compound it. I don't want to hurt anyone any longer, not if I don't have to. And I would never, ever hurt you. Not in any way that you didn't want."

A flicker of heat runs up my spine at that last, that reminder of his hand against the curve of my ass, that burn warming my skin that had turned into a different kind of heat. I bite my lip, shoving back the unwanted desire.

"You keep asking me to believe you," I whisper. "And I want to. But?—"

"I know."

As we sit there, the fire flickering next to us, I feel something cold on the back of my hand. And then, a moment later, another, and another, until I look up and realize that it's started to softly snow.

"Oh my god." I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. "I would decide to go camping, and it would snow."

"It's not ideal," Ivan agrees with a chuckle. "But it's not the worst thing. And the fire is warm."

"It's—beautiful, actually." I move closer to him without thinking, leaning into his body heat, as he leans forward to put a little more wood on the fire. It flickers up, sending a few sparks onto the ground, illuminating the slow, drifting snowflakes that shimmer through the air.

It probably won't even stick, I know. In the morning, all evidence of it will be gone. But somehow, that makes the moment feel even more magical. The transience of it, the fact that it's only here right now, for us, makes me feel something so dangerously close to an emotion that I shouldn't name that I try to push it away abruptly.

But I can't. The night is beautiful, and the moment is romantic, and I've never experienced anything like it with anyone else before. I can't stop myself from reaching out, sliding my fingers over the back of Ivan's hand and slipping them between his, and I feel him tense next to me, hesitating before his fingers curl around mine.

My heart is beating hard in my chest, and I feel a little breathless, just from that small touch. We're going to be sleeping next to each other, out here in this peaceful silence, so isolated that it feels as if nothing that happens here is real.

And that's a dangerous, dangerous feeling.

"I know I'm going to be glad when I get back to a city," I say quietly, thinking of all of the things Vegas will have that I've missed. "But for now—this is really nice."

"It is." Ivan's fingers are still wrapped around mine. "And I still have to impress you with my outdoor cooking skills."

"That is impressive." I let him take his hand away from mine as he reaches for the insulated bag of food, complete with a grill pan meant to be used over a campfire. "Wait—are you actually going to make me a steak? That doesn't seem like a skill that a man with an Aston Martin should have at all. Aren't you supposed to have a cook who does all of that for you?"

"Actually, no," Ivan says with a smirk. "Truthfully, I've lived off of takeout most of the time. But occasionally, when I've decided I want a meal that doesn't come in a Styrofoam container, I've learned to make it myself."

"I'm already impressed." I can't keep the smile off of my face. I've been trying not to smile at him this entire trip, trying not to let him see that I take any pleasure in his company, but right now, in this setting, I can't help it. I know that he's doing this all for me. That all of this is to make me happy, when Ivan would have just pushed through to the next town, and the next, for as long as he could manage it before exhaustion overtook him.

"I only grabbed a couple of spices. It can't compare to what I could make for you at home. But it'll be something better than what we've had on the road so far." Ivan reaches for a small container of some sort of steak spice, dusting it over the meat, and the smell of the crackling oil and the chopped garlic that he put into it makes my mouth water.

"I'm sure your penthouse in Chicago is full of every spice and condiment and cooking utensil known to man," I tease.

Ivan's hand goes still on the pan, and I see his jaw tense suddenly. It's not the reaction I would have expected, and I look at him curiously.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Ivan shakes his head. "I just—there's somewhere I wish I could have taken you, Charlotte. From the very start." He stares at the pan as he drops the meat into it, not looking at me. "I wish I'd told you who I was, let you make up your mind for yourself—and then, at the same time, I'm glad I didn't, because you would have run the moment you heard the first few words. I would have never gotten to share any of what I did with you. It's something I've never experienced before." His jaw tightens further, the muscle there twitching. "Regret, and at the same time, not regretting it a bit, even if I should."

"What are you talking about?" I rub my palms on my jeans, feeling as if my hands are sweaty despite the chill of the evening. "The Bratva?" I hate to admit that he's right. If he'd told me the truth about who he was from the start, I would never have given him a chance. I would have bolted, and written him off as a dodged bullet. And I would have missed out on?—

On him, awakening feelings in me that I never knew were possible that night at Masquerade. I would have missed out on laughing in my kitchen while he peeled apples. On walking through the orchard while we picked them. On him, kissing me on my couch with Beetlejuice playing in the background. On, for once, feeling like being myself was enough. Like I wasn't boring, or just being tolerated, or too basic for someone interesting to want.

Ivan made me feel, for that brief time, like I was everything he could possibly want in a woman. And he keeps insisting that it was real. That out of all of the lies and deceptions, how he felt about me was the one truth. The reason for all of the lies in the first place.

I don't know how to let myself wrap my head around that. Because if it's true?—

How do I just walk away from a man who feels that way for me? Who is exactly what I wanted—except for the part where he couldn't tell me who he really was.

But if he had, I would never have found out.

It makes my head ache. Ivan has gone silent, seemingly aware of the struggle that I'm enduring in my own head. He flips the meat, then glances over at me.

"Not the Bratva," he says quietly. "I told you about all that. But—" He swallows hard, taking the pan off the flames and setting it aside to let the steaks rest for a moment. "You joke about a penthouse, but I do have one. On the Gold Coast, all fancy and looks probably exactly the way you would expect. But I don't really spend any time there. Not unless I think my father or brothers are watching me, or my father's driver needs a place to pick me up or drop me off. It's where I like him to think I live, but it's really not."

I frown at him, thoroughly confused. "What do you mean? Where do you live, then?"

Ivan sits back, dusting his hands off on his jeans. "A place I wish I could show you pictures of, if I still had my phone. I wish I could've taken you there. I should have, and maybe you would have given me a chance after all, if only because it's not what you would have expected."

I'm still lost, and Ivan can see it on my face. He sighs. "A house, Charlotte. Out in the suburbs. Just a normal place. Two stories and a basement, typical Midwestern ranch, the whole thing." He heaves a deep sigh, lifting one shoulder as he turns back to the food. "I imagine I'll never see it again, now."

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to wrap my head around what he's saying. A normal house. His home , from the longing in his voice, the same way I know I sound when I talk about my friends, or my apartment, all lost to me now. But once again, it doesn't fit with my image of who Ivan should be.

"Why would you have a house like that? When you also have—" I can feel myself frowning so hard it's almost giving me a headache. Everyone wants the kind of luxury Ivan is claiming that he has, and doesn't use. Everyone . Jaz would do filthy things for a man who had a penthouse.

Or almost everyone, I suppose—I don't particularly want that. And Ivan is making it sound as if he doesn't, either.

"Was it because you were hoping to have a family? To raise them more—normal?" It's the only explanation I can think of. But Ivan shakes his head.

"No. To be honest, when I said I didn't expect you, Charlotte—I didn't expect what I feel for you with anyone . I've never wanted more than a few nights with any woman. Even the ones I've spent more than that with, it's always been a casual thing. I never saw a long-term relationship fitting into my life, and definitely not a family. Before I decided to make plans to leave, I couldn't imagine how that would happen. No woman associated with the Bratva would want to marry Dima Kariyev's bastard son, not when so many better men would be on offer. And I didn't want to drag a woman outside of it into that hell." His jaw tightens. "And once I left, I didn't imagine I could ever rationalize putting anyone I cared about in the kind of danger that would always follow me."

That stings. "Except for me." I move away from him, the harsh reality settling in, all of the warmth I'd felt dissipating and leaving me painfully vulnerable to the cold inside and out. "Or you don't actually care about me, then."

"No. That's not—" Ivan scrubs a hand through his hair, looking at me as if he's desperate for some way to make me understand. "You were inevitable, Charlotte. I couldn't resist you. I knew it was wrong, I knew I shouldn't do what I was doing, and I couldn't stop myself. It's no excuse, but—" he shakes his head violently, looking up at me with those dark eyes. "I have that house because it's my haven, Charlotte. It's something of mine that my father doesn't know about. That no one knows about, other than you, now. You're the first person I've ever told about it. And you're also the only person who's ever made me feel the way that place does."

The admission shocks me into momentary silence. I stare at him, the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of the wind fading into an echo, and I swallow hard.

"I think the food is done."

Ivan's jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he's going to snap at me. I can feel the weight of what he's just told me, and I pushed it aside. But I don't know what to do with it.

I don't know how to hear a man that I'm supposed to hate tell me that I feel like his home.

Especially not when he's made me feel that way, too.

Ivan turns, putting the pan between us. "I got some plasticware," he said. "Forgot to grab plates. And we don't really have sides, except this." He pulls out a bag of chips sheepishly. "Not exactly a five-star dinner."

"The steak is delicious." I'm startled by how good it is, actually, the meat is tender and flavorful. It tastes different from anything I've had before, as if something about it being cooked outside like this, in the open air over a campfire, has made it better in some way. I tear through mine hungrily, not bothering to worry about looking ladylike as I eat. I don't think Ivan cares, and I want the distraction of the food. It's also the best thing I've eaten in days.

"I'm glad you like it." Ivan eats his more slowly, and I can feel the tension in him. I can't pretend that I don't know where it's coming from, that it's not because of what he said, and my lack of response. "We should probably get some sleep soon. It's going to get colder, and we need to be up early tomorrow, before anyone else shows up here."

I nod. A part of me wants to say something, anything, to make this better. But I have no idea what I could possibly say in response. The knowledge of what Ivan feels for me is terrifying. My reaction to it, how it makes me feel, is terrifying.

Inside the tent, Ivan has spread out a soft memory foam mat, covered in a sheet. There are two pillows and a couple of heavy blankets, and I swallow hard, realizing how closely we're going to be sleeping. It's not really any different from last night—but it feels different, all the same. It's something about how far out we are, how isolated, that feels romantic and terrifying all at once.

Ivan follows me into the tent a few minutes later, and I realize he was giving me privacy to change clothes while he cleaned up outside. I slip into my sweatpants and t-shirt as quickly as I can, given the chill inside the tent, and I feel an uncomfortable tightness in my chest as I see him unzip his duffel bag.

Turning away, I slide under the blankets, but I feel painfully aware of every movement he makes behind me. The sound of his zipper, the shift of clothing over skin, the knowledge that an arm's length away, he's half-naked. I want to roll over, slide my hands under his shirt, feel all that hard, muscled flesh against my palms. But I stay firmly rolled away, thinking of what he said, and how impossible that is for me to even begin to face.

He can't really feel that way about me. And I definitely can't feel that way about him.

But my breath catches when I feel the blankets shift, Ivan sliding into our makeshift bed on the other side of me. My pulse lodges in my throat, beating hard in the hollow of it, and I curl my hands into fists, fighting the urge to roll over and look at him with everything in me.

He's tense, too. I can hear it in his breathing, feel it in every line of his body. I can feel him fighting off the same desire, and suddenly, I can't remember why we're both fighting it at all.

I want him. Emotions aside, my anger with him aside, I can't grasp onto the certainty that I had before that we shouldn't enjoy each other's bodies at least once more before we get to Vegas and split off forever. Ivan has made me feel things that I never thought I would, that no other man has ever accomplished. And right now, the craving feels so intense that I can't remember why it's a bad idea to do it just one more time.

Is this what it feels like to be addicted to something? I wouldn't know, but I can imagine that it must be. It feels like a hunger, and it feels like one that I can't fight.

This must be what addiction feels like, what Ivan means when he says I became an obsession for him. Because right now, I can't recall why this is a bad idea.

Before I can stop myself, I roll over to face him. Ivan is on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his arms crossed over his chest. I can see him breathing, see the tense set to his jaw, and a hot jolt of desire crackles through me at the thought that he's fighting the same urges I am.

With more success, apparently.

"Ivan," I whisper his name, but it sounds loud in the silence of the tent. He shifts, his jaw tightening further, and it's not until I whisper it again that he turns to look at me.

There's a warning in his eyes when he does. "Charlotte?—"

I shift closer, across the soft flannel sheet that he put on the mat, towards the hard warmth of his body as if drawn by a magnet. "I'm cold," I say softly, and I think it's the first time I've ever lied to him .

I'm not really cold. The rampant arousal running through me wouldn't let me get cold, even if Ivan's body heat hadn't already radiated beneath the blankets enough to warm us both. But I want to be closer to him, and I want him to give in.

That muscle in the hollow of his cheek leaps. I see his throat move as he swallows, shifting slightly closer to me, his arms still wrapped over his chest. He doesn't look at me, and I reach out, resting my hand against his chest as I move closer, my breasts brushing against his arm.

Ivan turns so quickly, I suck in a startled breath, his hand sliding into my hair. One hand braces against the mat as he rolls me onto my back, his knee pushing my legs apart as he leans over me.

He looks down at me, something fierce and hot in his eyes, and his mouth crushes against mine.

Yes. This is what I want. Not the complicated emotions or long conversations about what happened before. This . Ivan's kiss drives every thought out of my head, every feeling out of my chest other than that tight, desperate need for more . I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer, moaning into the kiss as I feel him press against me, hard and as eager as I am.

His teeth nip at my lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, the hand that was in my hair dropping to cup my breast through my t-shirt. He groans when he feels that I'm not wearing a bra, molding the soft flesh through the fabric, his hips grinding against me as if he can't wait to get inside me.

I'm panting against his mouth, all thoughts of being embarrassed about any of it fleeing under the onslaught of his lips and hands, his body against mine. He feels so fucking good, hard and virile and masculine, and I tighten my legs around him, arching my hips into his as I rub myself along the clothed length of his cock.

"Fuck me," I gasp against his lips, too desperate to feel ashamed any longer. This need has been steadily coiling inside of me since that afternoon at the hotel, when I went down on him in an effort to throw up a wall of sex and nothing else between us, and he forced me to confront how much I wanted him. That memory has been haunting me, the need to feel that kind of pleasure, that kind of release again, building until there's no longer any reason for my begging other than sheer desperation. I'm not toying with him any longer, not trying to use his lust against him, not attempting to reduce us down to our basest, filthiest desire for one another.

I just need him inside of me.

"Ivan, please." I run my hands under his shirt, over the ridges of his abs, nails scratching up his back as he groans against my lips, breathing raggedly. He feels so fucking hard, wedged between my thighs, and I want to wish away the layers of clothing between us. Even like this, I can feel the pressure of his thick length against my clit, rubbing the fabric of my panties against me in a way that could make me come if he just doesn't stop. "Please. Fuck me."

I buck against him again, digging my nails against his shoulders as I squirm in an effort to get more of that delicious friction, and Ivan lets out another helpless moan, bucking into me as his forehead presses against mine and his tongue slides into my mouth.

And then, just as his hand slides down my waist, fingers hovering at my waistband, just as I think he's going to yank down my sweatpants and slide his fingers inside of me—or better yet, yank down his too and make it his cock instead—he pulls away, panting so hard that I can see his breath misting in the cold air.

"Tell me you believe me," he growls. He looks down at me with that dark blue gaze, his eyes so intense that it makes me shudder. "Tell me it's real, Charlotte. Tell me you believe that what I feel for you is real. Tell me you feel the same way."

I stare up at him, trying to process what he's saying through the fog of lust clouding my mind. I'm dripping wet, my panties clinging to me, soaked through. My entire body is throbbing with unfulfilled need, and I'm on the verge of saying anything if it would make him get me off. If he would give me his tongue, or his fingers, or—God, please —his cock. I can see it straining against the front of his pants, rock-hard, and I sit up halfway, reaching for the waist of them. My fingers graze against his skin, between his shirt and the pants, and Ivan jerks back as if I've burned him.

"I told you," he breathes out raggedly. "The next time I fuck you, it will be real, Charlotte. It'll be because you want me . Just as I am. Because you believe that even though I lied, what I felt for you has always been the truth."

I swallow hard. "And if I say yes?"

His expression darkens, and he surges forward, pinning me back against the mat again, his fingers running through my hair. "If you say yes," he breathes, "I don't know how I'd ever let you go again."

His mouth presses against mine, and the kiss is different this time. It feels more like that kiss just after we ran from Bradley, the one that felt like he was saying he loved me without ever saying the words, a kiss so intense and tender all at once that it made me wonder if I'd gotten him all wrong. His mouth slides over mine, nipping, licking, savoring me, and I feel the hard length of his cock trapped against me, his body pinning mine down.

"Please," I whimper against his mouth. "I need you in me, Ivan. Please."

His hands slide down my arms, and I feel him heave another breath. "Say it," he whispers against my lips, his eyes opening. "Say it."

A beat passes. Another. I open my eyes, and look into his. And I can't make the words slide past my lips.

I'm too afraid to say yes. I don't know for sure what I believe.

I can't lie to him.

"I'm scared," I whisper, and the look on Ivan's face is like I just slapped him.

He pulls back, staring down at me with a look of abject hurt, of desperation, like he's starving and I've just told him he can't eat. His jaw clenches, and he lets out a long, shuddering breath before he wrenches around, yanking the tent flap open and stepping out into the night.

I hear it close behind him. I can see his silhouette, walking back towards the banked fire. I hear the sound of him groaning and see him turn his back—I know what he's doing.

Something like jealousy rips through me. I want his pleasure. I want him to make those sounds with me, to come because of me . But sex isn't enough for him. One more night of giving and taking the unimaginable pleasure we seem to find with each other isn't enough. He wants something I can't give.

Something I'm afraid to give.

And why ? I know the answer before I'm even done thinking the question. All my life, I've been the one who does the safe, rational, measured thing. I've checked off boxes and made lists, and always, always done what I was supposed to.

Letting a criminal love me, running away with him, loving him back isn't what I'm supposed to do. It's not on any checklist, not on anyone's five-year plan. Fucking one is bad enough, but hearing him say that he's obsessed with you, that you're his home, that he can't let you go, and believe it? Wanting it?

That's so far removed from how I've always been that I don't know how to let myself admit that it might be exactly how I feel. And if I can't admit it to myself, I definitely can't say it out loud to him.

My body is begging for release. I'm wound tight, still breathless, and it wouldn't take much to tip myself over the edge. To give myself exactly what Ivan is doing right now, out in the cold.

But it isn't my fingers that I want making me come. It won't be good enough. And the emotions in my chest, knotted up and hurting, make me roll over instead, curling in on myself under the blankets as I close my eyes and wish for him to come back.

It feels cold without him.

And I have a feeling that it always will.