Page 274 of Untamed

“Or someonetookher.” The words leave my mouth like venom.

Because this isn’t her sneaking out to get air. This isn’t her being stubborn, slipping past a distracted guard.

This is something else. A gut-deep wrongness wraps around my spine and tightens.

She left without telling me. Unless she didn’t make it far enoughnotto be found.

I swing my leg back over the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me.

I swing back onto the bike, engine snarling beneath me like it feels the shift in my blood.

“Let’s move,” I grit out. “We follow the signal.”

Dante’s already remounting. “Got it.”

The Ducati tears back onto the road, gravel spraying behind me. The blinking dot on my phone guides me, steady, precise. She’s still moving. Still out there.

Still breathing.

But my gut’s a storm. She didn’t answer her phone. She didn’t tell me she was leaving.

And that bracelet? She doesn’t know it tracks her.

This wasn’t a plan. It was a mistake, or a fucking ambush.

I bite down hard, muscles locked. “Track her phone and pull traffic cams,” I bark through the comm. “Every feed from the estate to the airport. I want eyes on the car, the plate, how many men. I want to knowexactlywho took her before I rip them apart.”

Dante doesn’t argue. “Already on it.”

So help me God, if someone’s dared to take her... they didn’t just cross a line this time. They opened the gates to hell, and I’ll be the one dragging them through it.

The signal grows stronger with every mile. Still moving. Slowing.

Then, stopped.

Static.

I lock onto the dot as it steadies on a stretch of road just outside the industrial district. No buildings. No traffic. Just gravel, trees, and silence.

“She’s stopped,” I mutter, voice dark.

Dante’s voice crackles through the comm. “I see it.”

We take the corner hard, tyres shrieking as we tear down the final stretch of road. And then I see it, a car. Bianca’s car. In the middle of the road. The driver’s side door is still half-open.

I kill the engine and jump off the Ducati, boots crunching across dirt as I reach the vehicle. Dante’s not far behind, scanning the treeline.

The interior’s a mess. The passenger door’s ajar. There’s a bag on the floorboard, half-zipped, clothes spilling out.

“Blood,” Dante mutters.

I look down. Smears along the driver’s side. It’s small, but there.

He crouches by the tyre. “Tracks. Heavy. At least four men.”

I slam the door shut, cursing inwardly. “She ran,” I say quietly. “She tried to run.”

Dante rises slowly. “And they caught her.”

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