Page 59 of Endless Love

She nods, grabbing the bags from the floorboard and sliding out into the chilly night air. I hear her draw in a deep breath, and I can’t help but smile, despite the hellish day we’ve had. Itisnice, out here. Clean and fresh, the air cold and crisp, and I want to linger for a moment. But I see Charlotte shiver as she walks around the back of the car, and I hurry to grab the bags out of her hand as we walk to the cabin.

The door is unlocked, as I figured it would be, since these cabins are meant for campers and hikers in need of shelter during emergencies. It’s dark inside, and I stomp my boots as we walk in, wanting to make sure to scare off any creatures. This time of year, stacks of firewood and any cracks in walls or under doors are prime places for snakes to hide.

When I don’t hear the dry whisper of scales across wood or the chittering of any raccoons or other small furry creatures that might not like being disturbed, I fumble for the lantern that I know should be near the door, batteries already inside. My handbrushes against cold metal, and I find the switch, flicking it on and bathing the room in a warm, soft glow.

Inside, the cabin isn’t much, either. It’s sparse—small, with two beds made up with quilts, a rustic table and chairs, and a wood stove next to a fireplace. I glance over at Charlotte, a wry smile on my face.

“Home sweet home?” I shrug, and she manages a small smile back.

“I kind of like it,” she admits.

“Better than our tent out at that campsite?” The question comes out before I can stop it, before I can remind myself that this isn’t a conversation that I want answers to. I had told myself I’d leave this alone, that I’d push aside any further thoughts of how I feel about her. She gave me her answer, when she couldn’t give me one.

But clearly, while I’m done torturing others, I haven’t tortured myself nearly enough yet.

“Maybe a little better,” she says softly, her gaze still scanning the room. “I think this will be nice and cozy, with a fire going. Warm.”

“I’ll get right on that, then,” I promise her. “Look and see if there’s any blankets in that closet while I work on a fire?”

Charlotte nods, setting down the bags and walking over to investigate while I kneel down by the fireplace. I can feel every inch of my body protesting as I arrange kindling and logs; my shoulder is starting to throb again. Whatever adrenaline was carrying me through has long since worn off, and I feel painfully aware of every bruise and scrape.

The fire catches, just in time for me to hear Charlotte’s soft footsteps behind me. “I found more blankets,” she says quietly, and I shift, turning to look at her. In the glow of the firelight, she looks even more beautiful than usual, and my chest aches.

Her gaze sweeps over me, and I see the concern in it as she tugs the corner of her lip between her teeth. “You need to clean up,” she says softly. “That gash on your forehead—and your shoulder.” She looks at me again, assessing. “Come sit on the bed, and I’ll help.”

Something in my chest squeezes tight at the thought of her touching me like that.Caringfor me. Sexual touch is nothing new to me, but affection, caring—those are things I’m not familiar with. Things I’ve never let myself want or have. The desire for affection is dangerous. Addictive.

Much like Charlotte herself.

“I can do it myself,” I tell her, as I push myself up painfully from the floor. But the words come out weak, uncertain. It’s easy to hear that what I really want is for her to touch me. To feel her hands on me again, just for a few minutes.

Charlotte looks at me for a long moment, and shakes her head. “Let me help,” she insists gently, motioning to the bed again. “You’re hurt. You shouldn’t have to take care of it yourself, not when…when I want to.”

Something about those last three words hit me like a punch, like hearing her say she trusted me earlier. I swallow hard, giving her a slight nod as I make my way to the bed, sitting gingerly down on the edge. Charlotte rummages around in one of the large plastic bags, pulling out a first-aid kit and setting it down next to me.

She hesitates as she opens it, glancing over at me again. “Can you take off your shirt?” she asks slowly, pressing her lips together. “So I can see how bad it really all is.”

A beat passes. I can feel how tense she is next to me, as I debate whether or not I should do that. But I’m going to have to change clothes eventually, I reason, even though I know that’s very different from sitting here shirtless in the glow of the fire, while Charlotte helps clean up my wounds.

I look over at her, searching for an excuse to say no. To tell her that this is a bad idea. I see the scratches on her arm, cleaned now but still red and angry, and gesture towards them. “You need to patch yourself up,” I start to say, and she purses her lips, looking at me narrowly.

“I’m fine for now. Just—take off your shirt, Ivan.”

I hesitate for a second longer, but I reach down, slowly peeling off my shirt.

25

IVAN

The movement tugs at my injured shoulder, and I wince, trying not to think of how the long hours of driving still ahead of me will feel. Charlotte’s eyes widen as I toss the shirt aside, and as much as I’d like to think it’s on account of my muscled chest and long-acquired tattoos, she’s seen those before. I know it’s because of what else she’s seeing.

“Shit,” she breathes, and I glance down, following her gaze. There are bruises blooming across my chest and ribs from where Ani and I scuffled, and I can feel the gash on my forehead starting to trickle blood again, breaking through the dried blood there.

Somehow, seeing the bruises makes it all feel worse. I suck in a breath as Charlotte silently reaches for an antiseptic wipe, ripping it open and starting to swipe it over the scrapes and scratches on my skin. She goes for the one on my forehead last, wincing as she begins to lean in.

“This is going to hurt more,” she apologizes, ripping open a fresh wipe. “But I need to clean it.”

“I know,” I mutter grimly, trying to focus on anything other than the raw alcohol she’s about to press against my openwound. Unfortunately, the closest thing to focus on is Charlotte’s breasts, round and soft-looking under the thin cotton of her t-shirt, and very close to my face as she leans in to dab the antiseptic against my forehead.

---