22. Charlotte

22

CHARLOTTE

I t's not until a shadow falls over my passenger's side door that I realize Bradley is standing there. I look up when I see it, thinking that Ivan has come back to ask me if I want something, when I see the tall, dark-haired FBI agent, and my stomach plummets to my feet.

Shit .

My first reaction is to look and see if the doors are locked. My second is to flinch back as I hear the sound of him trying to yank my door open.

Thank fuck. Ivan always locks the doors when he leaves me alone in the car for even a few seconds. I didn't think anything of it before, but now I'm so grateful that I could almost cry. Bradley can't get to me now, and by the time Ivan sees what's happening?—

Bradley's fist hits the window with a hard sound, and his face leans close to the glass, so menacing that he's almost more frightening to me than Ivan's brothers were.

This is all wrong. My stomach tightens, my thoughts grappling with the confusion over how Bradley instinctively makes me feel, and how I know I should feel. He's an FBI agent. He's supposed to be one of the good guys. He's supposed to help me. But as I look at the expression on his face—the clenched jaw, the fury that he's directing at me, I'm terrified.

"Open the door!" he growls, his voice muffled but still audible. "Now!"

I shake my head, my hands trembling as I knot them in my lap, swallowing hard as I think desperately of what to do. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else. I glance towards the store entrance, silently willing Ivan to hurry back. How long has it been? Surely, he'll be out any second now. But what is he going to do? He can't shoot an FBI agent. That would be suicide.

But is it ? I think of what Ivan told me last night, the things he's done for his family. A Bratva torturer . It still doesn't seem real—if it did, I don't know how I would have gotten in the car with him this morning. But after that, shooting someone like Bradley seems small in comparison. I can't imagine Ivan has that much respect for the law. And there's no love lost between them, I'm sure of that. Besides, when we get to Las Vegas, his contact is going to scrub his identity clean, if what he told me is correct.

So does it matter what he really does to Bradley, then?

Ivan, hurry up .

Bradley's fist connects with the window again, harder this time. I jump, a small yelp escaping my lips. For a horrifying moment, I think the glass might actually shatter.

"I said open the door!" he snarls, and I flinch back again, my heart still hammering painfully in my chest.

I don't know if Ivan has seen him yet. I don't know what he could possibly be waiting on. But despite everything, in this, I trust him. I trust him with my safety—that as soon as he sees what's happening, he'll put a stop to it. I just have to be brave until then.

I tilt my chin up, glaring back at Bradley. "I don't want to go with you," I tell him flatly. "I've made up my mind about that."

Bradley raises an eyebrow, that barely controlled anger still on his face, but it's clear he's trying to soften it. Trying honey instead of vinegar. "Look, Charlotte, whatever you've been told—whatever you're thinking?—"

"What I'm thinking ," I snap, "is that you brought my ex with you to the handover. A man who cheated on me, who?—"

"That's hardly a crime," Bradley snickers, and I feel my throat tighten, my own anger threatening to overtake my better sense.

Ivan might be a fucking criminal, but he hasn't talked over me. He hasn't told me that he knows better. He hasn't treated me like I'm a child that needs coddling, something breakable to be tucked away until it's needed. And between Nate and Bradley, I'm sick to fucking death of it.

"—who sent me text messages that verged on stalking," I continue, as if he hadn't spoken. "Who made me feel uncomfortable and unsafe. Who you made it clear I'd be going back with, since he was working with you. You're an FBI agent. You know the statistics for domestic violence. This entire setup makes me think that I'd be ripe for that if I went back to Nate. If he was allowed anywhere near me. And I don't think you'd protect me from that. I don't think I'd trust a single goddamn fucker with a badge to protect me at this point. So?—"

Bradley's eyes narrow, his face contorting with rage. He slams his palm against the window, making me jump again.

"You don't know what you're doing," he hisses. "You have no idea who you're dealing with. That man is a killer, Charlotte. A monster. You think he gives a shit about you? You think he won't do worse to you than you can imagine when he finally gets bored of whatever game the two of you are playing?"

The cold certainty in his voice sends a chill down my spine, but I force myself to stare right back at him, my jaw set, too. I don't want him to see how afraid I am of him, how confused I am about Ivan, about this situation, about everything . "I know exactly who I'm dealing with," I lie, my voice steadier than I feel. "And I'd rather take my chances with Ivan than with you."

Bradley's laugh is cold, humorless. "You stupid girl. You have no idea what you're doing. When he's done with you, you'll wish you'd come with me." He stares at me through the glass, his muffled voice every bit as menacing as if it were clear and unfiltered. "You'll wish you had the kind of protection I can offer you. Because if it isn't him that makes you realize what a stupid fucking choice you've made, it'll be his family."

That shiver spreads over my skin, making me feel cold down to the bone, and from the way that humorless tone spreads into the smirk on Bradley's face, he can see it. I might not be scared of Ivan, but I'm fucking terrified of his family. His brothers didn't seem like the most capable apples on the family tree, but I've seen enough of Lev to know that I should be terrified of him. And I know what Ivan's father, Dima, wants to do to me if they manage to get ahold of me.

I'd rather die than let Ivan's family sell me to some billionaire. I'd rather take Ivan's offer of the clean identification and a fresh start in Vegas. At least that's a real chance. Because if the Bratva catch me and sell me off, who is going to save me?

Agent fucking Bradley? Unlikely.

I open my mouth to respond, my throat tightening until I'm not sure I can get the words out. My instinct is to defend Ivan, and that feels insane. Because from everything he's told me—he is a killer. He is a monster, or at least, he's one by the standards of the life I've always lived.

But a part of me, the part I keep running from because it terrifies me more than anything that's happened so far to admit, can't stop the thought that runs through my head.

He's my monster.

And in a way, it's absolutely true. I created him, unwittingly, as thoroughly as Victor Frankenstein ever created his, if what Ivan has said to me is to be believed. According to him, he never even thought of stalking a woman the way he stalked me before we met. Whatever this thing is between us, this chemistry, this magnetic pull that keeps dragging us to each other again and again—it created everything Ivan has done. And now I feel so thoroughly tangled up in it that when I look back and imagine never having met Ivan, never having felt any of the things that I have with him, even if it meant getting my life back?—

I don't know what choice I would make any longer. I should know, but I don't.

And that's why I can't tell Ivan that I believe him. I can't say yes to any of his questions. Because saying that out loud would make it real.

"Charlotte." Bradley's voice is coaxing now, and I see him glance up at the gas station window, as if he's wondering why Ivan hasn't come out yet, either. He leans in, propping his forearm against the edge of the window as if we're friends, just catching up. "Look, just come with me. Nate isn't here. I'll explain more to you about Ivan and the Bratva, and why you're in danger here. Why I've kept pursuing you. It's for your own good. And you can tell me more about Nate. Maybe you're right, and I should give him a second look?—"

He's cut off mid-sentence as Ivan comes into sudden view, his hand going around Bradley's throat and flinging him back against the unmarked FBI vehicle, his body weight leaning into the arm that keeps Bradley pinned. My heart leaps into my throat at the one glimpse of Ivan's face that I get as he lunges forward and rips Bradley away from my window, his expression a mask of cold fury.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Ivan growls, his voice low and dangerous.

Bradley struggles against Ivan's grip, his hand fumbling for his gun. Ivan knocks Bradley's hand away, sharply, the edge of his hand connecting with Bradley's wrist. The agent yelps in pain, and his face reddens with embarrassment, that furious hate filling his gaze again. I'm frozen in my seat, my breath caught in my lungs, my hands gripping my thighs hard enough that I can feel the press of my nails through the denim.

"Let go of me, you Russian piece of shit!" Bradley snaps, spit bubbling from his lips. Ivan leans in, his forearm sliding over Bradley's windpipe as he holds him against the car. "Someone—will—see you?—"

His words come out choked, even more muffled now, and I feel a sense of satisfaction that startles me. I shouldn't be happy to see Ivan pinning an FBI agent to a car, hurling threats at him. This is, as far as I've been taught my whole life, not what I should want. Ivan is a criminal, and Bradley is the one I should run to for help.

But Ivan is the only one who has ever made me feel safe.

Ivan leans in closer, his back ramrod straight. I can barely hear what he hisses at Bradley; the words are faint, but I can still make them out.

"Stay away from her. She made her choice."

Choice? What choice is he talking about? A little bit of that unresolved anger I still have for the situation Ivan has put me in flares up, because the truth is, my choice was gone when I became Ivan's obsession. When that obsession made me a target for his family. My choice was gone when he attacked Nate, and made him even more a part of all of this.

It was gone when scrubbing my life clean and starting over became my only option.

Or does he mean himself? Because I haven't chosen him. I haven't .

I'm going to leave, as soon as I have what I need.

Last night didn't change that. Nothing will change that. But the voice that whispers it feels more fragile than ever.

Bradley snorts. "She doesn't know what she's choosing, if that's true," he spits out. "But she's as stupid as I thought, if it really is."

I watch in horror as Ivan switches his grip so quickly that I almost don't see the movement, his other hand gripping Bradley's throat so tightly that his knuckles start to turn white. He reaches with his other hand for Bradley's gun, yanking it out of its holster and throwing it onto the pavement, kicking it away as Bradley's face starts to turn an alarming shade of purple. His eyes bulge, and he reaches up, clawing at Ivan's arm as he struggles. It's never been so clear to me how strong Ivan is, until this moment. His arm is flexed, muscles taut under his shirt, and it would be arousing if this moment wasn't so fucking terrifying.

Why the fuck did I just think that? What is wrong with me?

"Ivan!" I shout, my voice muffled through the glass. "Stop!" I can see him on the verge of strangling Bradley, about to make a choice that he can't take back. I know rationally that he's made dozens of those before, hundreds—that he's been walking down a road that's been disappearing behind him as he goes for a long time. But this is the first time I'm seeing it personally. The first time I'm witness to something that he can't undo.

It might be hypocrisy, but I'm genuinely afraid for him.

For a moment, I think he hasn't heard me. He doesn't move, and I catch a glimpse of his face in the side mirror of Bradley's car. His eyes are locked onto Bradley's, a cold fury in them that sends a fresh wave of chills down my spine. He looks entirely capable of killing a man, of killing this man, and I can see the side of him that he told me about last night. The brutal enforcer capable of torture and murder.

I open my mouth to shout at him again, terrified of what happens if Ivan steps over the line of killing a cop, an FBI agent —when Ivan's grip loosens slightly, and Bradley sucks in a ragged breath, gasping as he lets out a flurry of violent coughs.

"You listen to me very carefully," I hear Ivan hiss, his face inches from Bradley's. "You come near her again, you so much as look in her direction, and I will kill you next time. If you try to convince her of your bullshit, I will shoot you dead. I will end you and your miserable existence, and my only fucking regret will be that I didn't have time to do it more slowly. Do we understand each other?"

I doubt Bradley would agree. But I don't find out. Ivan kicks the gun again, sending it spinning out across the parking lot pavement far enough that it would take Bradley several strides to catch up to it. He grabs the front of Bradley's jacket, yanking him forward and slamming him back against the car hard enough that Bradley's head bounces back against the glass, and then he gives me one quick look over his shoulder before he darts to the front of the car.

It's still running. I'm hoping with everything in me that I'm reading his signals correctly as I lunge over and hit the lock for Ivan's side, unlocking the door just as he grabs for it, flinging himself into the driver's side.

He doesn't even finish closing his door before his hand is on the gearshift, flinging it into first as he hits the gas, the tires spinning as we burn rubber across the parking lot with a high-pitched squeal. The smell is acrid, making me cough, and I don't dare look back as Ivan drags his door shut, accelerating across the parking lot as he heads for the road.

"Does this ever get old?" I try for a joke, feeling myself starting to shake as Ivan lurches out onto the road, speeding for the exit. "These constant car chases? We've had what—three in as many days? Or am I miscounting? Is this a new record for you, or?—"

Ivan's eyes flick to me for a split second before returning to the road. His jaw is clenched tight, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "This isn't a joke, Charlotte," he says, his voice low and tense. "That was too fucking close." His voice has the same hard edge that it had this morning, when I tried to talk to him when we first woke up. Like what happened last night threw up a wall between us.

A wall that, ironically, a few days ago, I was trying desperately to put up. Last night, I tried to take it down. To have a moment of connection with him, to meet what he told me with what I could give him. But it wasn't enough.

I swallow hard, my attempt at humor dying on my lips. He's right, of course. My heart is still racing, the adrenaline coursing through my veins making me feel jittery and on edge. I've felt this way for days, and no amount of nights spent in the quiet, cold Montana wilds can drain it out of me, I'm starting to fear. I'm wondering just how long it will take after my ‘new life' begins for me to feel safe again. To feel normal.

Maybe never.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I just—I don't know how to process all of this."

Ivan takes a sharp turn, the tires squealing against the pavement. I grab onto the door handle to steady myself, my stomach lurching. "You need to understand something," he says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. "These people, they're not playing games. Bradley, my family, they'll hurt you, Charlotte. They'll?—"

I stare at him for a moment, uncomprehending. "I know that," I whisper. "Of course, I know that, or I wouldn't be?—"

His jaw tightens, his gaze fixated on the road ahead as he swings towards the next exit, and I realize he's not saying it to me. Not really. And he's not angry with me, either.

He's angry with himself. He's angry that he left me alone. That Bradley had a chance to get to me at all. I see the muscle in his jaw working, the hurt in his face, and a part of me that I haven't managed to quell cuts through all the anger and all the hurt, wanting to comfort him.

I reach out, my hand touching his forearm. "Ivan, I?—"

The words are ripped from my mouth as a hard weight slams into our car, knocking me sideways, stealing all the breath from my lungs. And then we're flying, rolling, falling —and I'm certain it's all over.

That I won't ever know what I was going to say next.