Page 66 of Endless Obsession

“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.”

21

IVAN

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