14. Ivan

14

IVAN

I was a little afraid that my declaration might have scared her off. And I saw the shock in her face before she quickly hid it, saw the moment that she heard me say that, and wondered if I was crazy.

I’m pretty sure I am crazy. I’d have to be, to say that to a woman I’ve only talked to three times, a woman who would never, ever want me if she knew who I really was. But it’s the truth.

I didn’t mean to say forever . But when it slipped out, I didn’t want to take it back.

And that’s how I know I’ve really lost my mind to this woman.

Of course, I have every intention of making sure that no one else goes on a date with her. I’m not going to allow anyone to manage even coffee with her. But she doesn’t need to know that. And if she needs the illusion of having the freedom to explore until she’s fallen for me, then giving her that can’t be any worse than what I’m already doing.

I’ve committed sin after sin already against the way a relationship should happen. I’ve already crossed lines that she doesn’t even know she needed to draw. But I keep telling myself that it’s fine. That she doesn’t need to know. That I’ll figure out the consequences when the time comes.

I’m willing to play whatever game I need to in order to buy myself the time I need to win her over.

The rest of the evening goes off without a hitch. We get our seats at the theatre, and the hardest part of all of it is keeping my hands off of her in the darkened room. I can barely pay attention to the play, because so much of my attention is wrapped up in her. Every breeze wafts her scent towards me, the smell of coconut from her shampoo, and the sweet honey scent of whatever fragrance it is that she’s wearing. It brings back a memory of Masquerade that is entirely inappropriate for where we are, and I feel my cock stiffen abruptly, thickening along my leg and straining the fabric of my suit trousers. I shift in my seat, trying to push away the memories of how she felt on my mouth, hot and wet and sweet. The memory of her taste on my tongue, like the honey that she smells like.

God, I want to pull my cock out right here, yank her onto my lap and fuck her in front of all of these people. That fantasy only serves to make me harder, thinking about Charlotte impaled on my cock in the middle of this theatre, the man behind me a front-row witness to the pleasure on her face as she comes all over me.

I’d have to kill him after that.

The thought is so sharp, so unexpected, that it quells my arousal a little. This possessiveness is unlike me. I’ve fucked women on the public play floor at Masquerade before without a thought. Their screams of pleasure as everyone else witnessed how well I fucked them only adding to my own enjoyment. Charlotte shouldn’t be any different—-but the thought of anyone else seeing her eyes flutter and her mouth drop open with pleasure, the thought of anyone else witnessing her climax…it makes me feel murderous.

Like it should belong to me, and only me, ever again.

My hand tightens on my leg, curling into a fist as I fight not to reach over and touch her leg. I haven’t touched her at all tonight, which has required an immense amount of restraint on my part, but now I wonder if it’s been too much. If she’s going to think I’m uninterested, because I haven’t tried to touch her at all.

If she only knew how hard it is for me not to fuck her right here.

Slowly, I reach out, resting my hand on her knee. A jolt runs up my arm, like touching an electric wire, the feeling of her silky dress against my bare fingers making me ache. A touch that simple shouldn’t make me hard, but my receding erection comes back to life in an instant. I’m painfully stiff just from the curve of her knee against my palm.

I hear her soft, indrawn breath, and I wonder if she’ll pull away. But instead, she reaches out, her fingers grazing along the side of my hand—and then her hand curves over mine, resting there.

For the remainder of the play, we sit there like that, holding hands. And not even when I was a fucking teenager have I ever been so painfully turned on by that alone.

—

When I drop her back off at her apartment, I walk her to the front door. I wait to see if she’ll try to lean in for a kiss, and when she doesn’t, I don’t push it. I just smile at her, taking in the shy, almost hopeful expression on her face, and let the moment pass.

“I’m going to hold you to that apple-picking date,” I tell her, and the smile that spreads over her face, one that tells me she’s impressed that I didn’t push her for a kiss, makes it all worth it.

When I get home, I head straight downstairs to the basement, before even changing out of my suit. I have a strange conflict about whether I hope she’ll be online or not—on the one hand, my arousal is raging out of control, and I desperately want her to tell me what she’s fantasizing about right this moment, so we can get off together. But at the same time, that would mean that right after our date, she would have gotten online hoping to talk to who she believes is another man.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that, after an hour of waiting and checking my camera logs, she never comes online.

I’m supposed to go with Leo, Jonas, and Brad to Masquerade again tomorrow night. But my usual anticipation for it isn’t there. Charlotte has invaded my mind so completely that the thought of doing anything to another woman—or having anything done to me—doesn’t hold the appeal that it usually does. When I think of sex, all I can think of now is her.

That will change, after I’ve had her. It has to. Maybe it will take a little while to fuck her out of my system, but sooner rather than later, I’ll get tired of her. The obsession will wane, and I’ll come to my senses and remember that a woman like Charlotte has no place in my life long-term.

But for now, it’s painfully clear that she’s all I want. It’s clear after my shower, when I go to bed and can’t fall asleep until I get off to the thought of her coming on my tongue, and it’s clear the next night at Masquerade, when I turn down every advance, choosing instead to watch the show on the main floor while sipping vodka, and then get a private room to stroke myself alone to that same memory.

I haven’t been inside a woman for weeks now. And it’s all because of her.

It’s even more clear Sunday morning, when I follow her to her brunch. She’d mentioned on our date that she has a standing weekly brunch with her girlfriends, and the text thread that pings on my phone from hers tells me all the details. They’re going to a place called Amuse-Bouche, a trendy brunch spot that I’ve passed a number of times but never had any interest in going to, and I take an Uber from my house to downtown, waiting until I get a ping from their group chat mentioning where their table is before going in. I’m wearing black cargos and a black t-shirt, with a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses, and thankfully, the chill in the air means that I can add a jacket to that, which only adds to my ability to shroud myself in a corner on the outside patio.

With my laptop in front of me, I’m able to keep myself hidden enough that Charlotte and her friends shouldn’t notice me, and if they do, neither she nor Jaz will figure out who I am. There’s a small risk, of course, but that’s a part of the rush, I’m realizing. Just like the two other identities I’ve shrouded myself behind to keep tabs on Charlotte, both of which aren’t completely foolproof. But they’re close enough to it that the odds of her figuring it out are low.

There’s no real reason for me to be here. It’s another symptom of what I know is becoming an increasingly concerning obsession with every passing day. But I feel a need to see her. To know if she likes sweet or savory. If she orders a mimosa or a Bloody Mary or doesn’t drink alcohol at brunch at all. To watch her.

I wish I understood it, because it would make me feel slightly less insane. I’m not a voyeur, normally. I’m not someone who has ever become obsessed with a woman. And I’m not someone who is prone to addiction. I’ve smoked cigarettes, and I drink, and I’ve done drugs now and again, and it’s always been easy for me to pick them up and put them back down without issue. But for the first time in my life, I understand that craving for a hit.

I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but it doesn’t really matter. What I want is to watch her . And that’s exactly what I do, for the next hour and a half. I watch her order a mimosa, watch the server bring her a plate of eggs Benedict with smoked salmon, and study her face as she talks. As she laughs. I shift under the table, angling myself so that no one else out here on the patio can see that I’m rock hard just from watching this woman’s lips move.

Lips that I want so desperately around my cock.

I’m disappointed that I have to leave before her brunch is over. But I have a meeting with the FBI agent that I’m feeding information to, and I can’t push that off. The last thing I can afford to do is get on their wrong side. All it would take is one misstep, and they could bring my entire world crashing down in an instant.

I pay for the waffles I barely picked at, stow my laptop away, and leave out of the side gate so that I don’t have to walk past the table that Charlotte is at. And then I call an Uber to the South side diner where I’m supposed to meet Agent Bradley.

Adam Bradley is a massive thorn in my side. He knows the barrel they have me over, and he doesn’t seem to think that my informing on my father over the trafficking of women pays for a lifetime of other sins. If he had permission from his higher-ups, I have a feeling that he’d find some reason to throw me in prison anyway faster than I can say laundry list of felonies.

But he doesn’t have that permission, and I have no intention of giving him a reason to ask for it. It just makes me curse my father even more, because it’s his crimes that have sent me to the other side, anyway. If not for this, I would never have come this close to an FBI agent. Not in a million years.

He’s sitting in the back of the diner when I arrive, in plainclothes, wearing a baseball cap not entirely unlike the one I wore to watch Charlotte at the restaurant. I’ve taken mine off, which feels better—I’m not really a hat guy. I stroll into the diner as if I don’t have a care in the world and slide into the booth opposite him, even though my insides feel wound tighter than a violin string.

“That’s bad for your gut.” I point at the mug of black coffee in front of him. “Especially on an empty stomach,” I add, noticing that there’s nothing else there. Just the coffee, and the unpleasant expression on Bradley’s face.

“This whole job is bad for my gut.” Bradley’s frown deepens. “What do you have for me, Kariyev? Make it good.”

“Was the entire shipment of women that you managed to get out of there before my father’s buyers showed up not good enough for you? Or are you not really in this for the women, and the only joy you get out of this job is not actually helping people, but taking others down?” I raise an eyebrow. “And here I thought better of you.”

“No, you didn’t.” Bradley gives me a look that tells me that he’s not interested in my sense of humor, which isn’t a surprise. He never is. “I want information, Kariyev. Real information. Or I might have to start putting the screws to you instead, if I think you’re holding back on me.”

“You get what I know. I don’t know exactly who in my father’s employ is setting these deals up. I also don’t have client names. Not yet. And I’ve been a little preoccupied with making sure that no one who isn’t involved in this starts squealing about me, because I keep getting dragged out to the warehouses to cut pieces off of guys who don’t actually know anything. Makes it hard to spend time figuring out who does.”

“So get involved.” Bradley’s glare doesn’t diminish. “Tell your father you want a cut of the flesh trade. Tell him you want to buy a girl for yourself. I don’t fucking care how you do it, but get in there and get me names.”

“I handle the drugs.” I let out a sharp breath, pausing as the pretty waitress walks over to ask me if I want anything. On another day, I would have enjoyed the view more than I am—she’s way too pretty to be working here, with gorgeous chocolate-brown eyes and mounds of thick dark hair that are meant to have a man’s hands buried in them. It’s piled up on her head, a few pieces falling free, and her uniform is just a bit too tight on her.

Not all that long ago, I’d have left my number on the receipt. But I look at her, and all I can think is that while she’s drop-dead gorgeous, she’s not Charlotte. And Charlotte is all that I want.

Nothing is stopping Bradley, though. He’s looking at her like he wants her to melt all over his mouth, and I find it amusing. For all that he works as one of the government’s righteous avengers, he’s at heart just a dog like the rest of the male species.

Not that I’ve ever been much better. I do at least manage to keep my tongue in my mouth until I’m asked not to, though.

“I’ll have coffee,” I tell her. “Cream and sugar. And some scrambled eggs with a side of salsa, if you don’t mind.” This diner has surprisingly good salsa, and I could use some actual food. The lemon-berry waffles at Amuse-Bouche were good, but not all that filling.

“Coming right up, handsome.” She winks at me, and I search for the desire to flirt back. It should be there. It’s almost always there. But once again, all I see is the image of Charlotte’s laughing mouth, her head tossed back as she sat across the patio from me earlier without even knowing it.

A tingle of heat runs down my spine, and I push it away. My libido has been out of control lately, and I don’t really want to be sitting across from Agent Adam Bradley with a hard-on.

“I handle the drugs,” I repeat. “And my father knows I don’t like the trafficking. He’s not going to believe me if I suddenly say I want in on it. He knows I’m not particularly motivated by money, and he already considers me a pain in his ass, for the most part, because I don’t kiss it like my brothers do. He’s not letting me in on that.”

Bradley listens to me with the bored air of a man who really doesn’t care what I’m saying, but is going to let me finish. “I don’t give a shit,” he says, when I’m done and the waitress has left again, this time after depositing a cup of coffee in front of me, liberally dosed with cream and sugar. “Figure it out, Karyiev. That’s your problem, not mine. Mine is to make arrests. Yours is to get me the information I need. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.”

He throws down a ten-dollar bill on the table, gets up, and strides out of the diner.

Shit . I rub my temples, looking down at the plate that’s slid in front of me, my appetite entirely gone. It’s clear the feds are getting impatient. And why wouldn’t they? They’re not going to be skinned alive if my father gets wind of what I’m doing. They’re not going to prison to get a shiv in the kidney if I don’t deliver the information I’ve promised. Nothing is going to happen to Adam Bradley except a good talking-to from his boss, and maybe a reduction in his Christmas bonus.

Meanwhile, I’m staring down the very real possibility of looking at a grave from the wrong side.

I gulp the coffee, poking at the eggs for a minute before giving up on eating anything additional, and toss some cash down on the table with a generous tip for the pretty waitress, before getting up and heading for the door.

I very nearly run face-first into Lev on the way out.

For a second, I think my heart is going to stop. It takes every bit of self-control I have to keep my face schooled into an expression of neutral surprise, and not the bone-chilling fear that sweeps through me at the sight of him, at the thought that he might have been watching. Waiting for me.

At the thought that I might be the one in manacles before the day is out, bleeding onto a filthy concrete floor.

“Lev.” I raise my eyebrows, looking for any hint of anger. Any satisfaction from him that he’s about to be the end of me.

“Brother.” He crosses his arms. “Why am I not surprised to find you here?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re looking for me?” I shrug, leaning back against the stained wall as I reach into my pocket for a pack of cigarettes. I don’t smoke often, but right now, I feel sorely in need of one.

“ Otets has a message for you. He sent me to track you down and let you know.”

That cold feeling in my gut spreads outwards. Once again, it takes everything in me to school my expression into something neutral, that doesn’t give away the feeling churning in my stomach, threatening to send that coffee and two bites of eggs right back up.

I don’t care what anyone says; it’s not cowardice to have a healthy fear of pain and suffering, even of death. And I have far too intimate a knowledge of Bratva torture methods not to feel fear at the thought of them being applied to me.

“What’s that?” I raise the cigarette to my lips and light it, at this point more for the sake of having something to do with my hands and mouth than anything else.

“He has a job for you.”

The fear eases a little. What remains is not because I’ve been caught today—clearly, I haven’t, but because it’s apparent that someone is tracking me. There would have been no reason to know that I was at the diner otherwise.

Lev might have seen Bradley leaving, or he might not. He might have noticed him and later figure out that a federal agent was at the same diner I was, or not. All I can count on is that Lev isn’t smart enough to add two and two together, which I’m grateful for right now. His stupidity often frustrates me, but just now, it’s a boon.

“Okay.” I suck in a deep lungful of smoke, letting the nicotine buzz through my veins. “Spit it out, Lev. I’m on pins and needles here.”

As usual, the expression on my brother’s face tells me that he wants to hit me. The fact that I’m quicker than he is probably the only reason he doesn’t—he lost many a fistfight to me throughout our childhood.

“There’s a charity gala coming up next Friday night. Some nonprofit.” Lev waves his hand, clearly not giving a shit about that part of it. “Petrov’s daughter is going.”

“Yuri Petrov?” I frown at the mention of his name. Yuri Petrov is another Bratva patriarch, the pakhan of a family that my father considers to be his direct rival. The fact that his daughter is already being brought into the conversation sends an uneasy prickling sensation over my skin. “I don’t kill women, Lev. Otets knows that.”

“Ah, lighten up.” Lev cracks a sarcastic smile. “You’re not going to be asked to kill anyone, Ivan. What you are going to do is take Sabrina to the gala, as her date.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?” If it were anyone other than my father requesting this, I’d assume this was some kind of start to an arranged marriage, one I would strenuously object to. Not because there’s anything wrong with Sabrina—I’ve met her before, and she’s a pleasant enough woman, beautiful and tolerable to talk to. But I’m not about to be roped into any union against my will.

I already know it’s not that, though. It’s going to be something worse than that.

“Our father has settled on his revenge for the injuries Petrov has done him over the years.” Lev smiles coldly, leaning against the wall opposite me, as if this were a normal conversation to have outside of a local diner. “She’s going to be taken and sold. And you’re going to ensure that happens.”

Shit . I manage to keep my face blank, but my mind is already spinning ahead. If Sabrina Petrov is going to be kidnapped and trafficked, then I’m gong to have to do something to interfere in that. I have no particular affection for her, but I’m not about to allow her to be sold because of our fathers’ rivalry. But more than that, this is a possible opportunity.

Before my little chat with Bradley, I would have done everything in my power to get out of this. But it’s clear that I need to provide some kind of information that he considers valuable, and soon. This might be a way to do exactly that.

I groan, stubbing out my cigarette on the wall, because Lev will be suspicious if I agree too quickly. “I’m not going to be able to get out of this, am I?”

Lev’s smile widens. “No,” he says with satisfaction, and I can tell he’s enjoying this. “And she’s a virgin, Ivan. So no playing with her before she’s handed over.”

I grimace. “Not even a hand job in the bathroom?”

“Absolutely fucking not. She’s to be handed over exactly as she is now, pure as the driven snow.”

“Fine.” I push myself off of the wall. “It’s not like I had any other Friday night plans,” I add sarcastically, and Lev’s expression grows even more pleased.

“You do now. Don’t fuck it up,” he adds, calling out after me as I start to walk away. “ Otets patience is waning.”

“So is mine,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that?” Lev asks, and I grit my teeth, not bothering to turn back around.

“I said, send me the details. I’ll adjust my calendar accordingly.”

And with that, I start to walk down the street, back in the direction I came. I’ll call an Uber before too much longer, but for right now, I need the fresh air.

If I can pull this off, I might both be able to save Sabrina Petrov, and get Bradley enough information to get him off of my ass for a while.

If not?—

That doesn’t bear thinking about.