Page 46 of Endless Love

I don’t know how to let myself wrap my head around that. Because if it’s true?—

How do I just walk away from a man who feels that way for me? Who is exactly whatIwanted—except for the part where he couldn’t tell me who he really was.

But if he had, I would never have found out.

It makes my head ache. Ivan has gone silent, seemingly aware of the struggle that I’m enduring in my own head. He flips the meat, then glances over at me.

“Not the Bratva,” he says quietly. “I told you about all that. But—” He swallows hard, taking the pan off the flames and setting it aside to let the steaks rest for a moment. “You joke about a penthouse, but I do have one. On the Gold Coast, all fancy and looks probably exactly the way you would expect. But I don’t really spend any time there. Not unless I think my father or brothers are watching me, or my father’s driver needs a place to pick me up or drop me off. It’s where I like him to think I live, but it’s really not.”

I frown at him, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean? Where do you live, then?”

Ivan sits back, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “A place I wish I could show you pictures of, if I still had my phone. I wish I could’ve taken you there. Ishouldhave, and maybe you would have given me a chance after all, if only because it’s not what you would have expected.”

I’m still lost, and Ivan can see it on my face. He sighs. “A house, Charlotte. Out in the suburbs. Just a normal place. Two stories and a basement, typical Midwestern ranch, the wholething.” He heaves a deep sigh, lifting one shoulder as he turns back to the food. “I imagine I’ll never see it again, now.”

I stare at him for a long moment, trying to wrap my head around what he’s saying. A normal house. Hishome, from the longing in his voice, the same way I know I sound when I talk about my friends, or my apartment, all lost to me now. But once again, it doesn’t fit with my image of who Ivan should be.

“Why would you have a house like that? When you also have—” I can feel myself frowning so hard it’s almost giving me a headache. Everyone wants the kind of luxury Ivan is claiming that he has, and doesn’t use.Everyone. Jaz would do filthy things for a man who had a penthouse.

Or almost everyone, I suppose—I don’t particularly want that. And Ivan is making it sound as if he doesn’t, either.

“Was it because you were hoping to have a family? To raise them more—normal?” It’s the only explanation I can think of. But Ivan shakes his head.

“No. To be honest, when I said I didn’t expect you, Charlotte—I didn’t expect what I feel for you withanyone. I’ve never wanted more than a few nights with any woman. Even the ones I’ve spent more than that with, it’s always been a casual thing. I never saw a long-term relationship fitting into my life, and definitely not a family. Before I decided to make plans to leave, I couldn’t imagine how that would happen. No woman associated with the Bratva would want to marry Dima Kariyev’s bastard son, not when so many better men would be on offer. And I didn’t want to drag a woman outside of it into that hell.” His jaw tightens. “And once I left, I didn’t imagine I could ever rationalize putting anyone I cared about in the kind of danger that would always follow me.”

That stings. “Except for me.” I move away from him, the harsh reality settling in, all of the warmth I’d felt dissipating andleaving me painfully vulnerable to the cold inside and out. “Or you don’t actually care about me, then.”

“No. That’s not—” Ivan scrubs a hand through his hair, looking at me as if he’s desperate for some way to make me understand. “You were inevitable, Charlotte. I couldn’t resist you. Iknewit was wrong, IknewI shouldn’t do what I was doing, and I couldn’t stop myself. It’s no excuse, but—” he shakes his head violently, looking up at me with those dark eyes. “I have that house because it’s my haven, Charlotte. It’s something of mine that my father doesn’t know about. Thatno oneknows about, other than you, now. You’re the first person I’ve ever told about it. And you’re also the only person who’s ever made me feel the way that place does.”

The admission shocks me into momentary silence. I stare at him, the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of the wind fading into an echo, and I swallow hard.

“I think the food is done.”

Ivan’s jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he’s going to snap at me. I can feel the weight of what he’s just told me, and I pushed it aside. But I don’t know what to do with it.

I don’t know how to hear a man that I’m supposed to hate tell me that I feel like his home.

Especially not when he’s made me feel that way, too.

Ivan turns, putting the pan between us. “I got some plasticware,” he said. “Forgot to grab plates. And we don’t really have sides, except this.” He pulls out a bag of chips sheepishly. “Not exactly a five-star dinner.”

“The steak is delicious.” I’m startled by how good it is, actually, the meat is tender and flavorful. It tastes different from anything I’ve had before, as if something about it being cooked outside like this, in the open air over a campfire, has made it better in some way. I tear through mine hungrily, not bothering to worry about looking ladylike as I eat. I don’t think Ivan cares,and I want the distraction of the food. It’s also the best thing I’ve eaten in days.

“I’m glad you like it.” Ivan eats his more slowly, and I can feel the tension in him. I can’t pretend that I don’t know where it’s coming from, that it’s not because of what he said, and my lack of response. “We should probably get some sleep soon. It’s going to get colder, and we need to be up early tomorrow, before anyone else shows up here.”

I nod. A part of me wants to say something, anything, to make this better. But I have no idea what I could possibly say in response. The knowledge of what Ivan feels for me is terrifying. My reaction to it, how it makesmefeel, is terrifying.

Inside the tent, Ivan has spread out a soft memory foam mat, covered in a sheet. There are two pillows and a couple of heavy blankets, and I swallow hard, realizing how closely we’re going to be sleeping. It’s not really any different from last night—but itfeelsdifferent, all the same. It’s something about how far out we are, how isolated, that feels romantic and terrifying all at once.

Ivan follows me into the tent a few minutes later, and I realize he was giving me privacy to change clothes while he cleaned up outside. I slip into my sweatpants and t-shirt as quickly as I can, given the chill inside the tent, and I feel an uncomfortable tightness in my chest as I see him unzip his duffel bag.

Turning away, I slide under the blankets, but I feel painfully aware of every movement he makes behind me. The sound of his zipper, the shift of clothing over skin, the knowledge that an arm’s length away, he’s half-naked. I want to roll over, slide my hands under his shirt, feel all that hard, muscled flesh against my palms. But I stay firmly rolled away, thinking of what he said, and how impossible that is for me to even begin to face.

He can’t really feel that way about me. And I definitely can’t feel that way about him.

But my breath catches when I feel the blankets shift, Ivan sliding into our makeshift bed on the other side of me. My pulse lodges in my throat, beating hard in the hollow of it, and I curl my hands into fists, fighting the urge to roll over and look at him with everything in me.

He’s tense, too. I can hear it in his breathing, feel it in every line of his body. I can feel him fighting off the same desire, and suddenly, I can’t remember why we’re both fighting it at all.

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