4. Charlotte

4

CHARLOTTE

WHAT DID I DO?

R eality, cold and unwanted, comes rushing in, in the moments after Ivan rolls off of me for the second time. Everything feels like a blur as I grab my clothes and retreat to the safety of the bathroom, closing the door behind me and locking it as I twist on the taps of the shower and wait for it to run hot.

What was I thinking?

I can't pretend that I didn't want it. That from the moment he kissed me, savage and hungry, I didn't want everything he was offering. That I didn't want to be horribly, inescapably bad for a little while.

I wanted him, and I let him have me. Twice . I can feel the evidence of it, sticky on my thighs, and my face blushes red as I drop the stack of clothes on the small, chipped sink counter. I let him fuck me without a condom, something I've never done with anyone before. Even though I've been on birth control since I first started having sex, I've always insisted on being extra careful. Something I was grateful for when I found out that Nate was cheating on me—I would have been a lot more worried at my first gyno appointment after that if I hadn't always made him use condoms. But I was all clear, and I'm sure it had something to do with that.

I'd always thought it would mean something, if I let a man fuck me without using protection. If I let him actually come inside of me. I'd always thought it would be more than?—

More than what? I bite my lip, thinking of what he said just before he kissed me. That I should have known, after that first night, why it is that his father believes I can be used against Ivan. That hurting me would hurt him.

I told myself what happened between Ivan and me that first night was just sex. Just a hookup. But it felt wrong, even then. The way he touched me felt like more than anything I've ever felt with anyone before. And what just happened between us?—

I swallow hard, walking quickly into the small, cramped shower and yanking the shower curtain shut over the lip of it. The water is almost too hot, but I step under it anyway, wishing for it to wash away the feeling of intimacy. The feeling that Ivan and I shared something that won't be easily forgotten when this nightmare is all over.

You fucked a criminal. I rake my hands through my hair as the water soaks it, unable to believe how quickly I let myself fall into his hands. After you already knew, you still fucked him. And I can't pretend that I didn't want it. I can't pretend he forced me. I know what he is, at least to some extent, and I still fell into bed with him because I wanted to experience how good he makes me feel one more time before I figure out how I'm going to get out of all of this.

Twice more, apparently.

My face is burning red, and it has nothing to do with the hot water. I'm utterly ashamed of myself, but that's not enough to stop the shivers of pleasure that run through me every time I think of what Ivan did to me. The way he touched me.

Letting him fuck me without a condom wasn't the only thing he did that I'd never done with anyone else.

I grab one of the washcloths off of the rack at the end of the shower, and the bar of citrus-scented soap that's on the small dish attached to the wall. I scrub the washcloth with it until it lathers, hard, as if I need to focus on that and nothing else, and then scrub myself clean. Over and over, until there's no trace of Ivan on my skin anywhere that I can feel, and I can't smell him on me any longer, that delicious combination of his cologne and warm skin.

I won't let it happen again. That was the last time. I tell myself that, firmly, as I wash my hair and get out of the shower, toweling off and slipping my underwear and jeans back on. Ivan's dark grey t-shirt is a size too big for me, and I gather it up at the hem, tying it in a knot just above the waist of my jeans. A sliver of pale skin peeks out between the shirt and my jeans, and I realize that far from looking like a disheveled mess that's just been kidnapped, I look— sexy . In my jeans, Ivan's knotted-up shirt, and my wet hair, I look wild. Unkempt. Like a woman on an adventure that could end anywhere.

A small, unwanted thrill of excitement churns through me. I let myself imagine, just for a second, that I'm going along with whatever happens next. That I'll stay with Ivan, wherever it is that he thinks we need to go to get away from his family. That I'd leave everything behind to let myself just live for once in my life.

But that's going too far, isn't it? I look at myself in the mirror, pressing my lips together tightly, reaching up to brush my fingers against the spot where Ivan left a small red mark at the base of my throat. I wouldn't have ever even given him my number, if I'd known the truth from the start. If he'd told me, that day that he sat down at the cafe, that his confidential job was confidential because it involved working for a criminal organization.

One that his father is apparently very influential in.

That's why he was at the gala, I realize suddenly, some of the pieces are starting to click together, although there are still huge, gaping holes in what I actually know for certain. Sarah had mentioned to me that sometimes members of various criminal organizations in the city show up, trying to seem like more above-board members of the community. That must have been why he was there, why he had a date with him, the woman that he'd said he was there with because it was easier to tell his father ‘yes' instead of ‘no.'

That makes sense now, too.

I grip the edges of the sink, feeling more and more like a fool with each realization. I don't know how I could have ever come to the conclusion that he was a part of some Russian crime syndicate, and yet?—

Now that I know, I need to get away. It doesn't matter that he makes me see stars when he touches me or that I feel more alive than I ever have before when we're together. It doesn't matter that I'm going to think about the way it feels when he touches me for the rest of my life, or that that life feels horribly dull and mediocre now compared to the thrill I feel right now, looking at myself unkempt and flushed in the mirror.

Ivan is a drug. An addiction that he's gotten me hooked on, and with every hit, I'll sink deeper into the mire of this world that he's already started to drag me down into. I need to get out, while I still can.

Swallowing hard, I unlock the bathroom door, looking out into the bedroom. Ivan is lying atop the duvet, head pillowed on his arm, still naked and fast asleep. I can't help but think that, like that, he looks younger, even with all his carved muscles on display, swirled with black ink. He looks more innocent, and it's hard to believe that this man is a criminal. That he's done things I can't begin to let myself imagine. Things I won't ever really know the truth of, because I need to leave.

And I need to leave now .

If I can get out of the room while he's still asleep, I can run somewhere. I don't know if whoever is at the front desk of this hotel will help me, but someone will. I can get to a restaurant or a gas station, and beg to use the phone. I can call 911, or maybe I can find a police station?—

And do what? The thought of turning Ivan in, makes my chest ache. But he said he was working for the FBI. If that's true, then maybe they'll go easy on him. Maybe he won't get in trouble, if I tell them that he was trying to protect me from the same people he's working with them against. That I just need to get home.

Ivan doesn't stir as I carefully pad out of the bathroom, stepping lightly across the carpet. I crouch down where he shoved his jeans off just before we had sex the second time, reaching into the pocket. It takes three tries before I find the one that has the keycard to the hotel room in it, and I slip it out, hoping that it will unlock the door from the inside, overriding whatever that little black box does.

Barely breathing, I tiptoe to the door, not bothering to get my shoes. They're on the other side of the bed, close to Ivan, and I'm afraid I'll wake him if I try to get them. I'll just have to make a run for it barefoot.

I can barely breathe as I turn my back on him. I hold up the keycard to the door, waiting for the click—and just as I hear that small grinding sound that tells me the door is unlocked, I feel an iron grip around my other wrist.

On instinct, I yank away, dropping the keycard as I slam my free hand down against the door handle and shove the door open. It opens, but just a crack as I feel Ivan's hard, naked body cage mine in as he grabs the handle and slams it shut again.

I flail, trying to open it once more, but he wheels me away from it, pushing me face-forward against the other wall in a hilarious parody of someone being patted down by a cop. Or at least, later, it will be hilarious.

Right now, I'm torn between impotent fury that I was so close to escaping, and frustrated distraction by the fact that I can feel every inch of his body pressed against mine…naked. I can almost feel him searing hot through my clothes.

"Charlotte." His voice is calm, hard, brooking no argument—which just makes me want to fight him all the more. "We talked about this."

"No." I buck against him, and he chuckles, grinding his hips closer to my ass. I can feel him getting hard again, and a flush of heat washes over me. Ignore it, Charlotte. Don't end up in bed with him again. " You talked about this. I told you I wanted to go home. And?—"

"And, what?" His mouth is close to my ear, his breath warm against the shell of it, and I can feel desire pooling warmly in my blood. "And, wait for my brothers to come, and kidnap you all over again? But this time, with much less pleasant results." There's a thread of anger in his voice, and I realize, with a shiver that runs down my spine, that it's because of me. He's frustrated with me , maybe even on the verge of getting angry with me, and somehow, that adds to that warm feeling spreading through my veins.

It makes me wonder what it would feel like for him to fuck me when he's angry. To take it all out on me. What I would do if I fucked him angry. I've never had angry sex before. I've never been that angry with someone, or them with me, and still wanted them.

I wonder what that says about the relationships I've been in. And I know the answer almost immediately, even though I don't want to admit it.

They've all been bland. Boring. Relationships that check off boxes and look good on paper, but lack desire. Passion . Things that I didn't understand until Ivan showed them to me.

But that doesn't mean that what we're doing is good, or right.

"Or maybe you were going to go to the cops," he continues. "And find out what they could do for you. I promise you, Charlotte, that there are two options. Either they're already in my father's pockets, or they won't be able to protect you from him."

"So, what?" I buck against him, still trying to get free, and immediately regret it. I can feel how hard he is, pressing against me, and I think with another shiver of his finger sliding inside of me earlier, somewhere that I've never let anyone touch me before. I shove it away, hard. "Am I just supposed to go on the run with you?"

"No," he says shortly, the word clipped. It sounds angry, almost as if he doesn't want that, and I wonder why. Is it because he does, and can't? But why not? He's taken everything else he wants, so far. "I have a plan. But we need to get moving. I'm going to make a call."

He lets go of me, shoving himself away from both me and the wall, and for a brief moment, I feel my stomach drop, regretting the loss of the feeling of him against me. I want him there, more than I should.

Before I can try to grab the keycard again, Ivan bends down, scooping it off of the carpet. "Nice try," he tells me, a little of that humor back in his voice. "You almost made it. But it wouldn't have done you any good."

That cold certainty in his voice makes my stomach swoop. I turn to face him, staring as I wrap my arms around myself, and for the first time since I woke up, his nudity doesn't distract me. I'm too focused on those last words and what they mean.

"What's your plan?" I manage, and Ivan ignores me for a moment, pulling his clothes back on.

"I'll tell you in the car," he says finally, shoving the keycard in his pocket. "I've got burners in there; I'm going to go use one of those to make the call. I'll come get you in a few minutes. Don't bother trying to get out again," he adds. "You won't have any luck, and you'll just hurt yourself going out the window."

He already thought of everything, then. It makes me feel embarrassed, remembering the minutes I spent frantically looking for an escape after I woke up. It was never going to do me any good.

"I'll be right back," he says, and holds the keycard up to the door, opening it before slipping out and letting it slam shut behind him.

I flinch at the sound, sinking down onto the foot of the bed, trying not to think about what we did there less than a half hour ago. It's useless, and I get up instead, pacing to the armchair in the corner of the room and trying not to look at the bed at all.

It won't happen again. No matter how many hotel rooms we stay in. It won't happen again.

By now, Jaz will know I didn't show up for work. She will have tried to call me, texted me, and gotten no answer. She might even have left work early, used her spare key, and gone to my apartment to find out that I'm not there. My boss will know that I didn't show up and didn't call in, something that I never do. They will have alerted authorities. The cops. Someone will be looking for me.

Ivan said the apartment will be watched. My stomach clenches, thinking of his brothers watching my place and seeing Jaz go in there. Of what they might do to her instead. My stomach drops again, nausea flooding me, and I blurt it out as soon as Ivan walks back into the room, shutting the door heavily behind him. His face looks grave, as if every bit of humor has leached out of him, but I can't bring myself to care why. I'm too worried about Jaz.

"You have to call Jaz and tell her not to go to my place. If you don't want me to call her, that's fine, but you?—"

"Why?" he interrupts me, and I stare at him for a moment.

"You just told me that your brothers would be staking out my place. Waiting for me to come back. She has a key—once she realizes I didn't come to work, and she can't get ahold of me, she'll try to come check on me. And you said they traffick women—" I trail off, the reality of what might happen to her too horrible for me to even say out loud. But Ivan is already shaking his head.

"They won't take her."

I stare at him, uncomprehending. "Why not?"

"Because she means nothing to me." He says it so bluntly that my mouth drops open, and he lets out a heavy sigh. "I don't mean that I wouldn't care if they did take her. Of course, I would. I care about any of the women that my father is trying to sell. That's why I've been risking my life working with the FBI." He gives me a long-suffering look. "But I wouldn't put you in danger to save her. And they know me well enough to know that. So they won't take her, because it wouldn't serve their purpose of getting to me."

My mouth clicks shut abruptly. "I would want you to risk me in order to save her."

"All the same." Ivan takes a deep breath, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I wouldn't. And while she's beautiful, I doubt she's a virgin, and she doesn't have an influential family, as far as I know. So they wouldn't be able to get a high enough price to make it worth it, not with the other concerns they have right now. Namely, dealing with me."

The way he says it is so flat, so matter-of-fact, that anything else I might have said flies straight out of my head. It feels like a shock, like cold water thrown in my face, and I think Ivan sees that, because he holds out a hand. "We need to go," he says gently, and just like that, I can feel the intimacy, the hunger from earlier fading away. I can't remember how we got there, how I let this man touch me like that. He doesn't seem like the same Ivan, passionate, heated and vulnerable. This version of him seems cold and closed-off, and I stand up without taking his hand, resigning myself that I'm going to have to go along with his way, for now.

"Fine," I tell him, every bit as flatly. "I'll follow you."

He leads me out to a car that isn't the black Mustang I expected. "My brothers would have known to look for the Mustang," he says, seeing the surprised expression on my face, and I hear the hint of regret in his voice. "I couldn't risk taking it. It's a rare car."

The car that's waiting outside for us is a burnt orange Acura RSX. Ivan opens the door for me, and I hesitantly slide in, wondering if I should make a break for it while he's going over to his side. But he'd catch me before I could get far; I feel fairly certain of that. By now, I feel sure that he's already thought five steps ahead of any escape I might try to make.

"Is this one yours, too?" I ask as I click my seatbelt, looking over at Ivan. "Or did you steal it?"

He pauses, taking in a slow, deep breath. "Whatever you're thinking of me right now, Charlotte," he says slowly, with that same hint of regret and a tinge of bitterness in his voice, "I promise, you don't know the half of it."

And then he puts the car into drive, as we pull away from the hotel.