Page 61 of Endless Obsession

“He’s also my father.” I put all my attention on Dima, because, at the end of the day, how he feels about this is what really matters. What he believes. Lev can posture and hurt me all he wants, but Dima is the one who holds the keys to my life and death. He’s the one who I really need to convince, when it comes to my involvement in all of this. “I did my job, otets,” I tell him flatly. “I did exactly what was asked of me. I believed that we would let her go before causing a scene that could shed unwanted light on what you’re doing here, so that was how I proceeded. I’m sorry if that was the wrong call.”

I’m not sorry, of course. Not at all. But I sound like I am, enough that I think that surely my acting will pay off. That my father will believe me.

He tosses back the last of his vodka, setting the cut-crystal glass aside as he pushes up his shirtsleeves. “Be that as it may,” he says stiffly, “You were the one who took point on this, Ivan. I gave you an important responsibility. I trusted you with my revenge. With a prize that I valued a great deal. And I see now that I was wrong to do that.”

Dima walks up to me, a few inches from my face, and his smile is utterly cold, without a trace of warmth in it. “You are my son, Ivan, so I will treat your failure more kindly than I would if you were only one of my men. But it is a failure nonetheless.” He nods to Lev. “Hold him, son.”

I barely have time to register the relief that my father at least doesn’t suspect me of something worse than mere failure, before I feel the solid crunch of his fist connecting with the bones of my face.

It hurts. God, it fucking hurts. It hurts every time he hits me, again and again, as Lev’s iron grip holds my elbows, threatening to twist them in ways that will leave me far worse off if I try to fight.

I could fight. I might even win. I’m formidable with my own fists, and I’m quick. My father is old, and I’ve taken Lev in a fight plenty of times before.

But I know there’s no point. If I don’t take this punishment now, like the man that my father wants me to be, then there will be a worse one waiting for me later. So in the interest of my own skin, I let him hit me, again and again, until I can feel my face swelling and taste the blood dripping onto my lips.

Dima steps back, shaking his hand as he looks at me narrowly. “There,” he says, with a satisfaction that no father should get from hitting his son. “Let him go, Lev.”

Lev releases me with a grunt, and I stagger in place, willing myself not to stumble, not to fall. I refuse to end up on my knees in front of my father, no matter how badly he’s hurt me. I’m determined to walk out of this room under my own power, no matter how difficult that is.

“Are we done here?” I ask thickly, through my swollen mouth, and I feel Lev tense behind me. Not out of concern for me, I know, but out of hope that he might get to punish me further. That he might get to enjoy watching me be humiliated even more.

My father’s eyes darken, and for a moment, I think Lev is going to get his wish. But instead, Dima steps back, picking up the decanter of vodka and pouring two glasses. He picks them both up, holding one out to me.

“Drink,” he says, in a commanding voice that brooks no argument. And because I refuse to let my father see me flinch, I take the glass and lift it to my lips as he takes a drink of his.

The pain of the vodka touching my cut and abraded mouth is excruciating. I can feel my eyes watering as I gulp it down, forcing the pain to the back of my head. Reminding myself that this could only be the tip of the iceberg, if I falter. If I let my father see that there’s more to this story than I’m telling.

“This could have been so much worse for you, son,” my father says coldly. “Think of this, the next time you’re given a job to do. And consider the price of failing again.” He takes a deep drink of his vodka, tossing the rest of it back before setting his glass down, and looks at me evenly, an expression on his face that tells me he expects me to drink the rest of mine.

So I do. I ignore the pain, and I drink, refusing to allow so much as a single sound of pain to slip out. And when I swallow the last of it, I hold out the glass, and Dima takes it from me.

“Get out,” he says harshly, jerking his head towards the door.

I can’t obey fast enough, but I leave with a measured pace, striding to the door and opening it. When I step out into the hall, I let out a sharp breath, pressing one hand flat against the wall as I struggle against the wave of nausea and pain that washes over me. One step at a time, I head for the front door of my father’s mansion, my head swimming now that I’m out of his sight.

A black SUV is waiting outside, a uniformed driver standing next to it. It’s then that I understand, with a heavy feeling in my chest, that I won’t be going back to my house tonight. My father wants his driver to take me home—both so he can claim that he looked after me after hurting me and so that he can keep tabs on my whereabouts, undoubtedly—and that means I can’t go where I want to without clueing my father in to my secret house.

I’m not willing to do that, so instead, I end up at my penthouse, walking into the unwelcoming darkness of it as I shut the door behind me and struggle to stay on my feet.

I barely have the strength to make it to the bathroom, let alone turn on the lights as I go. I stumble with my hand on the walls towards my bedroom suite, the apartment unfamiliar enough to me that I might as well be in a hotel room. This place is a front, a cover. I barely spend any time here. And it’s not where I want to be right now.

Where I want to be is with Charlotte.

The thought is so abrupt, so startling that for a moment, it yanks me out of the fog of pain. This, what’s happening right now, is why I shouldn’t be with her. Why all my stalking and all my inappropriate desires can only lead to a brief period of time with her, not forever. Because this life, the kind of life where my night can end with my eyes swelling shut and my nose and mouth bleeding, isn’t the kind of life a woman like Charlotte belongs in.

It’s not one she would ever want, and it’s not one that I want for her.

I find the strength to flick on the light when I reach the bathroom, and I wince as I see my reflection in the mirror. My face is already purpling with bruises, a cut from my father’s signet ring down one cheek, my lips split in a few different places. My nose isn’t broken, thankfully, but it’s damaged. My face is covered in blood, and although I haven’t looked at my ribs yet, they’re either bruised or cracked. I can feel it with every painful breath.

I don’t have the energy to clean it all up. Instead, I stumble to the shower, turning on the hot water as I strip my clothes off. The room swims as I pull my shirt over my head, and I stumble, falling onto my knees on the soft bathmat as I grip the edge of the tub and try not to throw up.

I’ve been hurt before, but never like this. Never this badly. And what I want, more than anything right now, is to not be alone. Not just that, but for it to be Charlotte who is sitting here next to me. I want her soft hands on me, her voice in my ear. I want her. And that realization, when there’s not a chance in hell I could do anything sexual with her right now, makes my head swim for a different reason.

I don’t know her well enough to feel like this. To want her for reasons that have nothing to do with sex. And I can’t think straight enough to try to unravel what it is about her that makes me feel this way, when no other woman ever has.

When my clothes are a pile on the floor, I half-crawl into the shower, sitting on the cold tile floor as I push myself under the spray of water and let it rain down over me. The heat stings, burning as it washes the blood away from my wounds, but I lay my head back against the wall and let it drench me.

I’m tired of this game. Not the game I’m playing with Charlotte, but the one I’m playing with my father. And sooner or later, I’m going to have to come up with a plan to get out.

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