20. Ivan

20

IVAN

I knew Charlotte would be upset that I had to cancel our date. I was upset that I had to cancel our date. But there was no way I could go looking the way I did after my father’s “lesson” in his office.

Still, even the pain of my injuries couldn’t keep me from logging on Saturday night, wondering if she’d get on. If she’d end up there, since she wasn’t out with me. Safely back in my own familiar home, in the glow of the computer screens, I’d gone from soft to rock-hard the moment I saw her name pop up.

It felt strange, to commiserate with her about a date that I was supposed to be on with her. It also felt strange, knowing that instead of that date, she was talking to who she believed was another man. And what I said was the truth. I felt like an idiot for missing out on the date with her. I felt like I could have somehow avoided all of this, even though the truth is that there really was nothing I could have done. Trying to get out of taking Sabrina to the gala would have ended badly for me, too. And going along with my father’s plans for her was unthinkable.

I’d tell you to run, dove. Run through the orchard while I chase you.

I look up at my ceiling in the morning light through my swollen eye, groaning at the memory. Despite the aching, stabbing, bruised variety of pains ricocheting through my body with every passing moment, just the memory of that conversation is enough to make me hard. And I can’t help wondering how many of Charlotte’s secret fantasies are things that she would actually want to become a reality.

It’s no secret that plenty of people fantasize about things that they’d never want to do in real life, and there’s nothing wrong with that, in my opinion. But Charlotte has been so good all her life, so proper, and I desperately want to know how much of what she’s talked to me about in the secrecy of our online chats is what she actually wants.

If she wanted me to chase her through an apple orchard with a mask on, pin her to the grass and fuck her right there, I’d gladly do it. It would be one of the tamer things I’ve done, actually. And just the thought is enough to make my cock ache, adding that pain to the list of everything else on my body that hurts.

Gritting my teeth, I reach down and push my sweatpants down to my thighs, freeing my already-dripping cock. A quick swipe of my thumb over the thick pre-cum dripping from the swollen, tight head, and I have enough to create a slick, hot slide of my fist over the straining flesh that has my toes curling in seconds.

I imagine Charlotte between my legs as I feed my cock into her pretty mouth, cooing at me that she just wants to make me feel good as I lay back. Obeying my every demand as I wrap my hand in her thick, soft, dark hair, sucking me off until I fill her mouth with my cum.

“ Fuck!” I growl aloud as my cock explodes, sticky heat coating my fingers as I come in what feels like record time. At this rate, I think grimly as I fumble for a tissue on the nightstand, I’m going to need to jerk off a couple times before our date just so I don’t come in my pants the first time I kiss her, like a fucking teenager.

If I still get a chance for that date. Charlotte is clearly in her take no bullshit era when it comes to men, and I can’t blame her. Her ex fucked her over in a way that no man should ever treat a woman, and between not telling her about the gala and then missing the date, the rational part of me says that she should tell me to fuck off.

But the part of me that’s entirely, wholly obsessed with her refuses to allow that to be a possibility.

My phone goes off next to me, just as I’m finishing cleaning up and tucking myself back into my sweatpants, and I reach over for it, groaning as every movement sends pain rocketing through my body. When I look at the screen, I see red.

The tracker that I put into her phone when I gave her my number, the one that allows me to see her phone activity, is coming in handy. Because I can see that she downloaded a dating app—and that she has messages from no fewer than ten guys this morning, all wanting to find a time when they can meet up.

And three of them she’s actually messaged back.

I grit my teeth so hard I’m worried they might crack, cursing my father and his bullshit under my breath as I force myself to sit up despite the pain in my ribs. If I’d made it to that date with her yesterday, this wouldn’t be happening. She’d still be thinking about me , not talking to Joshua, Bryce, and Rick.

All stupid fucking names. All men that I don’t intend to let within speaking distance of her. There’s no way she’s going out with any of them.

I set the phone down, breathing sharply as I try to think. She hasn’t set anything up with any of them yet, so there’s nothing I can do. Not yet.

I let out another sharp hiss of frustration as I run a hand through my hair, feeling utterly helpless. I don’t want to lose her, but the circumstances are working against me, and I can feel her slipping out of my grasp before I’ve even really had a chance to try to make her mine.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear the rational part of me murmuring that that should remind me of why she and I aren’t meant for each other. Why this can only end with someone getting hurt—her, or me, or both of us.

That if I really cared about her, I’d let her go.

But I can’t . And I’m far past being rational when it comes to Charlotte.

—

By Wednesday, she still hasn’t texted me back about rescheduling. And I can see that she’s still talking to Joshua, a reasonably handsome man working in finance who wants to take her out for coffee Saturday morning.

Like hell, is all I can think as I look at the string of messages, pacing back and forth through my house. I haven’t left since I came home on Saturday, and while I like being home, being here like this feels more like confinement than choice.

It gives me plenty of time to formulate a plan for how to foil Charlotte and Joshua’s date, though.

Saturday morning, I dress nicely, putting on jeans and a long-sleeved dark blue henley. I drive my Mustang into the city, parking a few blocks from where I know Charlotte is meeting Joshua for coffee, and walk briskly to the cafe, knowing from the messages that he told her he’d get there a little early to get a table for them. I also know she’s running late—some issue with her blow dryer dying.

I see Joshua the minute I walk into the coffee shop. He’s sitting a little ways towards the back at a small table, a cup of coffee already in front of him, scrolling through his phone. Without missing a beat, I sit down across from him, and he looks up sharply. There’s a smile on his face in the instant that he thinks it’s going to be Charlotte sitting down, and then it drops just as quickly when he sees me.

“I’m sorry,” he says crisply. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. And I have a date meeting me here, so?—”

“Your date is why I’m here,” I tell him flatly. His eyes are roving over my face, taking in the purple and yellow bruises, the still-healing cuts, and the half-swollen eye. I can see his mind spinning, trying to figure out if there’s some connection between Charlotte and how I look, and the panic just behind it. Joshua isn’t the kind of man who handles violence well, I can see that from the way he’s slightly green just looking at my injuries.

“Nothing to do with all this,” I tell him cheerfully. “Just a little mishap, that’s all. But Charlotte and I are just having a little disagreement. We haven’t made up yet, and I know she’s getting back at me by going on this date. So what you’re going to do, rather than insert yourself in the middle of it, is get up and leave, right now. Quick as you can, before she shows up and can see you. And to sweeten the deal—” I slip a roll of bills out of my pocket, nudging it across the table to him. “There’s five grand there. Cash. Now I know you’re worth a good bit more than that, but five grand is five grand, isn’t it? Surely you’re not so flush that you can’t appreciate that amount still.”

Joshua’s eyebrows have risen nearly to his hairline. “I don’t know what this is,” he splutters, red spots appearing on his cheekbones. I fight back a chuckle, because I can already see where this is going. I’ve seen it before, with men I’ve tortured. Joshua’s pride has come out to play, and he’s going to try to make a stand—going to try to convince me that he’s a bigger man than I am.

Unfortunately, I already know that’s not the case.

“This is me telling you to get the fuck out of this coffee shop and take the bribe.” I give him a cold smile. “I don’t want to resort to threats, Joshua. But Charlotte will be here soon, so if you want the money, I suggest you take it and leave.”

“Or what?” His bluster is in full force now, his voice low, but he’s glaring at me as if he really thinks this is a fight he can win.

“Joshua, I can go home right now, and in twenty minutes, every one of your accounts will be drained.” The cold, pleasant smile is still fixed on my face; if anyone looked over, they’d think we were just talking business. “I don’t have to lay a finger on you to hurt you. I could take every cent you have, hack into your car loan, and set it to repossession, plant a fake arrest warrant that would take days and an expensive lawyer for you to sort through, and get it tossed out. I can ruin your life with a few keystrokes, Josh . So I suggest you go. She’s not worth it.”

That last is the first lie I’ve told him. Charlotte is worth it. She’s worth all of it and more, and I feel more certain of that than I have of anything in a very long time. But Joshua doesn’t know that yet, and if I have my way, he never will.

For one brief second, I think he’s going to keep arguing. And then he looks at me—and whatever he sees in my face, he seems to understand that I’m not lying or bluffing.

“Fine.” He snatches the money off of the table. “Not worth all that, for a?—”

“Careful,” I warn him, that cold smile still on my face. “Violence is still on the table, depending on what you say next about Charlotte.”

The chilly viciousness in my voice seems to convince him. He shoves the money in his pocket, leaving his coffee as he strides to the front door. I watch as he goes outside, half-jogging down the sidewalk, and reach for the mug, downing it as I watch him go. A cinnamon latte—not half bad.

By the time Charlotte arrives, I’ve ordered my own coffee—a pumpkin spice latte, because they’re good, regardless of what anyone says—and I’m in a corner armchair by the stone fireplace, pretending to read a book I brought along. Instead of actually reading, I’m keeping a covert eye on the door, waiting for her to walk in.

When she does, I can feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. She looks beautiful, as always, dressed in a rust-colored corduroy skirt that stops a couple inches above her knees, a soft-looking cream-colored sweater, and tobacco brown knee-high equestrian boots. Her hair is down, so thick and wavy that I can feel my palms itching with the urge to touch it.

I feel a moment’s guilt when I see her look around, and the bright smile that was on her face drops. It’s clear she was expecting Joshua to be here, and he’s not. I’m also willing to bet he didn’t text her—he wasn’t a stupid man, and I have a feeling that he was aware I’d know, somehow.

If I was a good man, I would have left her alone. I would have let her have her coffee date with the safe, good, normal choice, and I would have quietly exited her life. There is no good ending to this, I know that. None .

But as I look at her from over the top of my book, I know that there’s no real choice for me . Not anymore. Because the hunger I feel when I look at her isn’t safe, normal, or good. I need her, crave her, and I have a feeling that it’s because she’s so much different from what I live with day in and day out.

My world is brutal. Ugly. Violent. Charlotte is innocent and good and sweet, and I want to revel in that, to get so close to her that I can’t help but feel all of it on my skin—and at the same time, I want to ruin her completely.

She’s still standing there just inside the door, looking slightly forlorn, and I close my book, getting up quickly before she can leave.

“Charlotte?”

Her head whips around at the sound of my voice, and her mouth drops open when she sees me—out of shock at seeing me there or at my bruised and battered appearance, I can’t be sure which. “Ivan?” Her voice has that same disbelieving quality it had when she found me on the balcony at the gala, and my chest tightens at the thought of that night.

“I was just having some coffee and reading.” I hold up the book, and she glances at it for the briefest of seconds before looking back at my face. “You look upset. Is everything okay?”

“No, I—” She blinks rapidly, as if she’s trying to get her thoughts straight. “I was supposed to meet someone here for coffee, but I guess he didn’t show.” She bites her lip, her gaze sweeping over my face again. “Ivan, what happened to you?”

There’s genuine concern in her voice. I don’t doubt that she’s still upset with me over what happened at the gala, and our subsequently canceled date, but she’s not so upset that she doesn’t care. That gives me a renewed flicker of hope.

“An accident.” I rub the back of my neck with one hand, looking sheepish. “Dropped my motorcycle. My ribs are pretty banged up, too. Happened the night of the gala, after I left. That’s why?—”

Understanding dawns on Charlotte’s face. “That’s why you canceled our date.” Her eyes widened. “Ivan, why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you lie about it?”

I feel another flicker of guilt. If you only knew, little dove. That’s the least of it. “I was embarrassed,” I tell her instead, leaning into the story. It’s not as if I can tell her the truth, after all—I can’t tell her that my father is a Bratva patriarch, that he punished me for failing to deliver a rival’s daughter to men who would sell her into sex slavery. If I said any of that, Charlotte would run in the other direction, and she’d be right to do so.

In which case, I might as well have left her to her date with Joshua.

“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Charlotte laughs. “I’d fall right off if I tried to ride a motorcycle.” She bites her lip, and it takes everything in me not to reach down and rub my thumb across the spot where her teeth sank in.

“I wish you would have told me the truth,” she says slowly, looking up at me. “I would have understood, if you had. I really would have. We could have just talked everything out. Instead, I thought you were lying about everything. About that woman at the gala. Making up an excuse that you were sick to get out of having to face me.” She lets out a sharp breath. “Maybe that wasn’t fair for me to just assume all of that. But after what Nate did?—”

The guilt is no longer a flicker. It feels like a stab, digging into my chest, reminding me that there is no future here. Because I’m lying to her about so much more than what she thinks, and I can’t keep it all hidden forever. One day, she’ll find out, and it will destroy her.

If I let myself fall too much further, it will destroy me, too. I might already be there.

“I get it. And I’m sorry.” I mean it, too. I am sorry, for things that she doesn’t even know I need to be sorry about.

But not sorry enough to stop.

“Let’s have our date,” I say abruptly, looking down at her. “Let’s get coffee, and go to the orchard, and have the day we planned. Right now.”

Charlotte’s eyes widen, and I can see her old self, the one who plans everything ahead of time and never does anything impulsive, fighting back against the idea instinctively. But I can also see the moment that she pushes it back, her smile widening as she nods.

“Okay,” she says decisively. “Let’s do it.”