Page 109 of Untamed

Jordyn flinches.

I sit up, pain flaring like lightning through my shoulder, but my focus is already on the hallway.

“Stay here,” I order, voice low and firm.

Jordyn’s hand catches mine. “Ares?—”

“I’ll handle it.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “Stay here.” My hand reaches under the nightstand, fingers closing around cold steel. I draw the Glock out and chamber a round with a clean, practised snap.

I hear Jordyn’s gasp catch like she tries to smother it but fails, and she goes still. Completely and utterly still with fear.

Those blue eyes, wide and startled, flick from my face to the weapon in my hand. Her fingers twitch against the bedsheets.

“You carry a gun,” she says quietly, more observation than accusation. Her eyes are locked on the weapon, but her voice is softer now, like she’s trying to reconcile it with everything else she knows about me.

I don’t answer right away.

After a beat, I say. “Always.”

She shifts, like she’s not sure what to do with that answer. “Why?”

I glance at her, and something sharp twists in my chest.

“Because, bambina, peace is a luxury I don’t get to have.”

She frowns. “That’s not an answer.”

I meet her eyes, steady but cold and honest.

“It is when youarethe thing people run from.”

The silence between us stretches, tight as a live wire.

Then I push off the bed, the weight of the moment settling back over my shoulders like armour. Whatever softness we had, it slips between the cracks again.

I give her one last look, then I’m moving, barefoot, shirtless, and armed, with blood still staining my skin.

Because if someone’s stupid enough to cause a disturbance in my house while I’m still bleeding? Then they’re about to learn exactly what kind of monster I keep caged.

I step into the hallway, gun raised, senses on high alert. Every sound is amplified. The creak of the floorboards, the soft shift of air. My bare feet move silently across the stone floor, eyes sweeping the shadows.

Another soft clatter. It comes from the end of the hall, near the window.

I round the corner, pulse steady but tight… and then I see it.

A kitten.

Tiny, grey and white with a little pink nose. Probably no older than a few weeks. It’s perched by the tipped-over vase near the open window, wide blue eyes blinking up at me like it’s trying to decide whether to flee or purr.

For a moment, I just stare. The gun lowers, and I sigh, dragging a hand down my face before crouching. The little thing hisses, then tries to scramble, but I’m faster. I hook two fingers around the scruff of its neck and lift it up. It dangles from my grip, paws splayed, meowing like it’s ready to fight me.

I frown. “You got a death wish, little stronzo?”

It blinks once. Then opens its mouth and meows louder.

Despite my murderous mood a moment ago, my lips twitch.

The kitten lets out a soft mewl, a tiny, indignant sound that echoes far louder than it should in the silence of the hallway. I’m still holding the little ball of fluff in one hand, its pink paws dangling over my fingers, when I hear the sound of soft footsteps behind me.

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