25. Ivan

25

IVAN

T he movement tugs at my injured shoulder, and I wince, trying not to think of how the long hours of driving still ahead of me will feel. Charlotte's eyes widen as I toss the shirt aside, and as much as I'd like to think it's on account of my muscled chest and long-acquired tattoos, she's seen those before. I know it's because of what else she's seeing.

"Shit," she breathes, and I glance down, following her gaze. There are bruises blooming across my chest and ribs from where Ani and I scuffled, and I can feel the gash on my forehead starting to trickle blood again, breaking through the dried blood there.

Somehow, seeing the bruises makes it all feel worse. I suck in a breath as Charlotte silently reaches for an antiseptic wipe, ripping it open and starting to swipe it over the scrapes and scratches on my skin. She goes for the one on my forehead last, wincing as she begins to lean in.

"This is going to hurt more," she apologizes, ripping open a fresh wipe. "But I need to clean it."

"I know," I mutter grimly, trying to focus on anything other than the raw alcohol she's about to press against my open wound. Unfortunately, the closest thing to focus on is Charlotte's breasts, round and soft-looking under the thin cotton of her t-shirt, and very close to my face as she leans in to dab the antiseptic against my forehead.

I can recall with perfect precision how good they feel in my hands—how perfectly they mold to my palms, hard nipples rubbing against my skin, the sounds she made when I leaned down and ran my tongue across?—

My cock twitches, stiffening at the same moment that Charlotte wipes the pad firmly across the bloodied gash, and for a moment, the abrupt clash of arousal and pain makes my brain stutter fully to a stop, my body unsure of how to process it. I've never liked to have pain inflicted on me in the bedroom, and the white-hot burn of the alcohol on my raw flesh isn't arousing in the slightest. But for a brief second, my cock throbs, still stuck on how close Charlotte's breasts are, before the pain takes complete focus, and my arousal fades instantly.

That , I think grimly as Charlotte continues to clean away hours' worth of crusted blood, will go down as one of the more confusing moments of my life.

"This might need stitches," Charlotte says with a frown, as she pulls back and looks at my forehead. "But we'll have to make do with butterfly bandages. Hang on?—"

She turns, digging around in the first-aid kit, and I feel briefly dizzy as the shift of her body brings a wave of her scent, warm and sweet, directly to my nose. She's not wearing any perfume—it's just her own skin and sweat, but it triggers something primal in my brain, and it takes everything in me not to reach out and grab her hips, pulling her down into my lap.

Charlotte straightens, and I grit my teeth, willing my erection not to make a comeback. She leans in once more, her breasts shifting under her shirt distractingly, and I grip the edge of the bed as she spreads antibiotic ointment over the gash with her thumb, stretching the butterfly bandages over the skin a moment later.

"There." She steps back, surveying her work. "That'll do." She bites her lip, as if she wants to say more, but she turns away a second later and starts putting the first-aid kit back together, her back to me.

I move my shoulder experimentally. It's not dislocated, which is good, because as quick of a learner as Charlotte is, I don't think she could put my shoulder back into its socket if need be. "Thanks," I say quietly, looking at her back as she seems to take longer than strictly necessary putting the first-aid kit back together. The air between us feels thick with tension, and I know she can feel it, too. I know that's why she's not looking at me.

Charlotte goes still for a moment. "Of course," she says softly. "You needed help."

It feels like there's so much more to that statement. More than I can begin to try to unpack, exhausted and in as much pain as I am. I swallow hard, wanting to ask her what she's thinking right now, what she's feeling, and if anything has changed since last night.

But that question is only going to hurt when I get the answer that I know is coming.

"We should get some rest," I say finally. "We've got another long day ahead of us tomorrow, and another after that, before we get to Vegas."

Saying it out loud sends a jolt of pain through me that has nothing to do with my injuries. Two days . Two more days with her in a car, driving across the country, pretending that ticking clock isn't growing louder with every passing hour. Two more days before we get to Vegas, and then it's no longer a ticking clock, but a countdown until the moment she leaves me.

Charlotte closes the first-aid kit, crossing the room as she unpacks the bags onto the small table, laying out our supplies —folded clothes, granola bars, beef jerky, a bunch of bananas, and several bottles of water. She doesn't say anything else as she retreats to the back of the cabin, a pair of folded sweatpants in her hands, and I instinctively look away as she starts to unbutton her jeans.

That jolt of desire prickles along my skin again, my cock twitching as I lie back on the bed, reaching for one of the blankets with my good hand and shaking it out over myself. The fire has made the cabin toasty, and I can feel my eyelids getting heavy, sleep claiming me before I even see Charlotte cross the room to the other bed.

I'm not sure, exactly, what it is that wakes me several hours later. It might have been Charlotte's soft footsteps on the wooden floor, because when my eyes flicker open, I see her standing at one window of the cabin, her arms wrapped around herself as she looks out. It's dark, the fire burned down to embers, the moonlight the main source illuminating her as she stands with her back to me.

"Charlotte?" I push myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the throb in my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

She nods, and I see her shoulders draw up and drop again with a heavy sigh.

"You should get some rest," I tell her quietly. "Tomorrow is a long day. You'll have more long days, before this is all over. You need as much sleep as you can get."

Charlotte is quiet for a moment longer. "I can't sleep," she murmurs. "I tried. I think I drifted off for a little while. But I keep dreaming about—" She breaks off, her voice cracking slightly, and I think I can guess what she was dreaming about.

I should tell her again to go back to sleep. I should be sleeping, gearing up for what is doubtless going to be a painful and tiring day tomorrow, but instead, I find myself sliding out of bed, walking silently across the cabin to join her at the window.

When I reach out, touching my fingertips to the small of her back, she doesn't pull away.

"I miss them," she whispers, still not looking at me. "Jaz, Sarah, Zoe. I miss my apartment. I miss my life . Hell, my job was boring a lot of the time, but I even miss that. At least I wasn't—" She swallows hard. "I wasn't afraid all of the time. I didn't feel as if I'd been beaten within an inch of my life because of a car wreck. I didn't feel?—"

She shakes her head, her arms tightening around herself. "I even miss you," she whispers. " Us . Back when I thought there would be an us. Isn't that crazy?" She twists around, finally looking at me, and I think I see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. "You stalked me. Lied to me. Hurt me. Kidnapped me. And I was still laying there, wishing—wishing that you were next to me. That I wasn't sleeping alone."

The vulnerability in her voice threatens to break me. To undo all the walls I've tried to build up since last night. My hand is still resting on the small of her back, and the urge to wrap my arms around her, to pull her close despite my injuries, and not let go of her until the morning, is almost overwhelming.

But what point is there in that? It will change nothing. It will only prolong the hurt for us both. And I've spent my whole life avoiding this exact feeling, only to be swept under by it for a woman who wants to have nothing to do with me once my temporary protection has served its purpose.

"You said you were sorry," she whispers. "In the car, when you were getting me out. You said you were sorry for all of it. Did you mean that?"

I know what she's asking. And I know I can't give her exactly the answer that she wants.

I guess, at this point, that neither of us can do that for the other.

"I'm sorry that it turned out like this," I say softly, my hand brushing up her spine despite myself. I feel her shiver, and desire prickles through me. "I'm sorry that we're on the run. That it's my fault you've had everything you care about snatched away."

"But you're not sorry for finding me. For meeting me. For dragging me into your web—" Charlotte breaks off, looking away sharply, and I close my eyes briefly, that pain, wedging itself into my heart.

"I can't be sorry for meeting you. For all the time I had with you. For—" For falling in love with you. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can't bring myself to say them. I can't bear to see them brushed away, ignored because Charlotte can't let herself believe that anything I say about how I feel for her is the truth, any longer.

"What are you going to do after all of this is over? After we have our new identification, and we?—"

And we go our separate ways. She doesn't want to say it out loud, but that's the truth.

I think about it for a moment. I've been thinking about the answer to this for years, really, and it's always felt a bit like a mirage, shimmering just out of reach. I've never been entirely sure what I would do when I finally got there, when I had my freedom from my family, only that eventually I would have it.

And recently, I haven't been able to think very much at all, beyond Charlotte. Being with her. Wanting her. And now, getting her safely to Vegas, so I can undo what I've done wrong. Make it right, as best as I can. All of my focus has been on keeping us both alive, on outrunning the dangers pursuing us, on getting to my contact. Everything beyond that has been hazy.

"I don't need money." I shrug, thinking of what I have tucked away in my many bank accounts. "So I always thought I'd do something for fun. Make friends with some tattoo artists and talk them into giving me an apprenticeship. Learn to surf. Take up woodcarving. Open my own mechanic shop, just because I like to work on cars. Have a small place of my own, somewhere near water, where I can smell the salt." I let out a long breath, running a hand through my hair. "All that's really mattered to me all along was that I had the money and contacts to get free of my family. After that, I figured I'd stay on the move for a while. Stay off the radar until I decided where I wanted to settle, once the heat died down."

Charlotte swallows, her throat moving as she nods, still staring out into the dark forest through the window. Her gaze is distant, far-off, as if she's looking for something and not finding it. "I keep thinking about what I might do. Where I'd want to go. But none of it feels real. I can't want any of it. It feels like—like I'm planning someone else's life."

I wince, the knowledge once again that this is my fault settling heavily on my shoulders. I want to tell her that it doesn't have to be like that, for either of us. That if we're going to be lost about what our future entails, we could be lost together. We could find a way to make it work. Before all of this, before she knew the truth, we were happy in all the moments that we spent together.

But I lost her trust. She might trust me when it comes to our mutual safety, but she doesn't trust me with her heart. And I don't know what I can do to win it back again.

"I know the plan," Charlotte says slowly, still staring out at the trees beyond the window. "I know that we're going to Vegas, and that some man is going to give me a new social security card, and driver's license, and anything else I might need to start over fresh. Unfindable by anyone—even the people who I would want to find me." Her voice trembles a little, and I suppress the urge to pull her close once again.

"I'm supposed to move forward from all of this, but I don't know how ," she whispers. "Everything feels…tainted. I feel like I can't trust my own judgment." She twists around finally, fully, looking at me as she leans back against the window sill, her arms wrapped around herself. "You lied to me, Ivan, but I let myself believe all of it because I wanted to. And now I find myself second-guessing everything I think."

That stabbing pain slices through my chest again, guilt welling up in me, hot and thick and suffocating. "I'm sorry," I whisper. "I never meant to make you feel like this."

Charlotte swallows hard, a bitter smile curving the edges of her mouth. "What is it they say about good intentions? And yours weren't even all that good to begin with."

There's nothing I can say to that. The silence hangs between us, as thick as the guilt weighing me down, and I want to tell her that it will be okay. That everything will be fine in the end. But I have no way of knowing that—and I'm long past being able to make those kinds of promises to her.

"We should go back to sleep," I say finally, shoving my hands into my pockets and stepping back. I don't know how much longer I can resist her pull. It's like gravity, begging me to hold her, to touch her, to pour everything I feel for her into her—and that is exactly what I shouldn't do. "We have a couple more long driving days ahead of us. And I'm sure you feel as bad as I do."

My shoulder is aching. I know from previous injuries that the second day is always worse than the first. Tomorrow will suck, but I'd endure any pain to make sure she's safe. I just don't want her to be hurting, as well.

Charlotte nods. "I can't ever remember having been this sore," she admits, and my heart twists in my chest. "I'll try to get some sleep."

She brushes past me, and it takes everything in me not to reach for her, to hook my hand in her elbow and pull her into me, to slide my fingers into her hair and draw her lips down to mine. Every part of me is aching to kiss her, but I let her go, standing there as she retreats to her bed.

I watch her slide under the blankets, rolling over to face the wall. I look at her face in the dim moonlight, and my chest hurts, my body crying out for a hit of the drug that I finally got hooked on.

Withdrawal is going to be a bitch. And I don't think I'll ever really get over her.