Page 151 of Untamed

“What were you like as a kid?”

That stills me. Not completely, but enough for her to notice. She stops tracing for a beat, then starts again like she’s trying not to scare me off.

I could lie. I could shrug it off with some sarcastic bullshit. I’ve done it a hundred times before.

But not with her. Since the beginning, I have always been honest with her, and I’m not about to change that now.

“Angry,” I say finally, keeping my voice low. “I think that’s all I was.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t press. Just keeps moving her fingers over my skin like her touch could smooth out everything that ever went wrong inside me.

“Did you have friends?”

A laugh escapes me, dry and quiet. “Not the kind you keep past curfew.”

She huffs against my chest. It’s soft. A smile. But I hear the ache in it.

“What about toys? Books?”

I pause.

“I had a knife.” That makes her still. I feel it in the way her fingers freeze, the way her breath skips. “My father gave it to me when I was six,” I go on, eyes still closed. “Said I needed to learn how to make something bleed before I learned how to spell.”

Silence.

But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tense. Just lets out this slow, shaky breath that sounds a lot like heartbreak. “Ares…”

My eyes open, and I look down at her, this girl who sees too much, asks too much,feelstoo much, and I know I should’ve kept it to myself. But I don’t regret it.

“I didn’t have a normal childhood,” I say, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “I was rarely allowed to play football with my friends, or video games or do any of the things normal kids would do.”

She lifts her head, her chin pressing into my chest, and her eyes meet mine, glassier now, a little wet. “Why?” she questions, and I stare at her for a moment.

“Because I wasn’t raised to be a son,” I admit, trying my best to keep the bitterness from my tone, but it still bleeds through. “I was raised to be a weapon. Bred to be the beast that protects the Russo throne.”

Jordyn sighs, but she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t flinch.

So I go on, my voice low and even.

“My father didn’t see a son, he saw a tool. Something to mould. Control. Turn loose when he needed blood spilled but didn’t want it on his own hands.”

I let out a breath. It feels like glass in my lungs.

“Football didn’t matter. School didn’t matter. He only cared about one thing, making me sharp enough to cut for him. I was bred for blood and violence.”

Jordyn’s hand comes up, gentle, resting over my heart. Her thumb strokes once, slowly.

“That’s the reason behind the hostility between you,” she whispers. “Why you’re so cold and distant, even with Enzo?”

I nod slowly, every muscle in my body bunching.

Her lips press to the centre of my chest, right over my heart, and something in me twists. Not in pain. Not even in guilt. Just…anache. Deep and quiet and unfamiliar.

She rests her head there again, cheek against my skin, fingers still moving gently over me. Drawing shapes, each one drawingmeout. “Did Enzo know?” she asks after a beat, voice soft, hesitant. Like she’s afraid to push too hard.

I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Yeah. He knew.” There’s a pause. I feel her breath stall like she’s bracing herself.

“He didn’t stop it?”

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