Page 45 of Endless Love

Ivan breaks off, his hands tightening on his knees, and I see the shudder that goes through him. He looks up at me, his eyes finally meeting mine, the blue as dark as the night around us. “Just thinking about that night still turns me on, Charlotte. I could get off just remembering the way you moaned. The way you tasted. I could spend the rest of my life using that as my only fantasy, and never get tired of it. You are?—”

He shakes his head abruptly. “I wanted you to understand,” he says finally. “That’s all. I never planned to ruin your life. I never planned foryouat all. I just—lost control. I saw you, and all that precision, all that patience—I lost it. And it’s my fault, not yours.”

“This world you’re describing to me—it doesn’t seem real,” I whisper, looking at the fire. It sounds like something from another place, foreign and unimaginable. A world of such violence, such brutality, full of traditions and hierarchies that don’t make sense in the world I live in—none of it feels real. But Ivan lived it. And now he’s out here, with me.

Because of one night. One night that dominoed into so much more.

“I should be afraid of you,” I say quietly, still staring into the flames. “You know I should.”

His hand flexes as if he wants to reach out for me, but he doesn’t. “I would never hurt you,” Ivan murmurs. “I wanted outof that life, not to compound it. I don’t want to hurtanyoneany longer, not if I don’t have to. And I would never,everhurt you. Not in any way that you didn’t want.”

A flicker of heat runs up my spine at that last, that reminder of his hand against the curve of my ass, that burn warming my skin that had turned into a different kind of heat. I bite my lip, shoving back the unwanted desire.

“You keep asking me to believe you,” I whisper. “And I want to. But?—”

“I know.”

As we sit there, the fire flickering next to us, I feel something cold on the back of my hand. And then, a moment later, another, and another, until I look up and realize that it’s started to softly snow.

“Oh my god.” I laugh, covering my mouth with my hand. “I would decide to go camping, and it would snow.”

“It’s not ideal,” Ivan agrees with a chuckle. “But it’s not the worst thing. And the fire is warm.”

“It’s—beautiful, actually.” I move closer to him without thinking, leaning into his body heat, as he leans forward to put a little more wood on the fire. It flickers up, sending a few sparks onto the ground, illuminating the slow, drifting snowflakes that shimmer through the air.

It probably won’t even stick, I know. In the morning, all evidence of it will be gone. But somehow, that makes the moment feel even more magical. The transience of it, the fact that it’s only here right now, for us, makes me feel something so dangerously close to an emotion that I shouldn’t name that I try to push it away abruptly.

But I can’t. The night is beautiful, and the moment is romantic, and I’ve never experienced anything like it with anyone else before. I can’t stop myself from reaching out, sliding my fingers over the back of Ivan’s hand and slipping thembetween his, and I feel him tense next to me, hesitating before his fingers curl around mine.

My heart is beating hard in my chest, and I feel a little breathless, just from that small touch. We’re going to be sleeping next to each other, out here in this peaceful silence, so isolated that it feels as if nothing that happens here is real.

And that’s a dangerous, dangerous feeling.

“I know I’m going to be glad when I get back to a city,” I say quietly, thinking of all of the things Vegas will have that I’ve missed. “But for now—this is really nice.”

“It is.” Ivan’s fingers are still wrapped around mine. “And I still have to impress you with my outdoor cooking skills.”

“Thatisimpressive.” I let him take his hand away from mine as he reaches for the insulated bag of food, complete with a grill pan meant to be used over a campfire. “Wait—are youactuallygoing to make me a steak? That doesn’t seem like a skill that a man with an Aston Martin should have at all. Aren’t you supposed to have a cook who does all of that for you?”

“Actually, no,” Ivan says with a smirk. “Truthfully, I’ve lived off of takeout most of the time. But occasionally, when I’ve decided I want a meal that doesn’t come in a Styrofoam container, I’ve learned to make it myself.”

“I’m already impressed.” I can’t keep the smile off of my face. I’ve been tryingnotto smile at him this entire trip, trying not to let him see that I take any pleasure in his company, but right now, in this setting, I can’t help it. I know that he’s doing this all for me. That all of this is to makemehappy, when Ivan would have just pushed through to the next town, and the next, for as long as he could manage it before exhaustion overtook him.

“I only grabbed a couple of spices. It can’t compare to what I could make for you at home. But it’ll be something better than what we’ve had on the road so far.” Ivan reaches for a small container of some sort of steak spice, dusting it over the meat,and the smell of the crackling oil and the chopped garlic that he put into it makes my mouth water.

“I’m sure your penthouse in Chicago is full of every spice and condiment and cooking utensil known to man,” I tease.

Ivan’s hand goes still on the pan, and I see his jaw tense suddenly. It’s not the reaction I would have expected, and I look at him curiously.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Ivan shakes his head. “I just—there’s somewhere I wish I could have taken you, Charlotte. From the very start.” He stares at the pan as he drops the meat into it, not looking at me. “I wish I’d told you who I was, let you make up your mind for yourself—and then, at the same time, I’m glad I didn’t, because you would have run the moment you heard the first few words. I would have never gotten to share any of what I did with you. It’s something I’ve never experienced before.” His jaw tightens further, the muscle there twitching. “Regret, and at the same time, not regretting it a bit, even if I should.”

“What are you talking about?” I rub my palms on my jeans, feeling as if my hands are sweaty despite the chill of the evening. “The Bratva?” I hate to admit that he’s right. If he’d told me the truth about who he was from the start, I would never have given him a chance. I would have bolted, and written him off as a dodged bullet. And I would have missed out on?—

On him, awakening feelings in me that I never knew were possible that night at Masquerade. I would have missed out on laughing in my kitchen while he peeled apples. On walking through the orchard while we picked them. On him, kissing me on my couch withBeetlejuiceplaying in the background. On, for once, feeling like being myself was enough. Like I wasn’t boring, or just being tolerated, or too basic for someone interesting to want.

Ivan made me feel, for that brief time, like I waseverythinghe could possibly want in a woman. And he keeps insisting that it was real. That out of all of the lies and deceptions, how he felt about me was the one truth. The reason for all of the lies in the first place.

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