Page 282 of Untamed

“I don’t know,” I manage, though my own hands won’t stop shaking. “But we’re going to get out of this. We have to.”

One of the men cackles from the front seat, glancing back with a smirk. “You’re not getting out of anything, ragazza.”

I meet his eyes. “You would enjoy that smug little grin while you still have a tongue.”

He snorts and turns back around.

Bianca curls closer to me. “They’re going to kill us,” she chokes.

I press my hand to my stomach. Whether it’s fear or morning sickness, I don’t know, but the nausea is rising fast. Everything is rising, panic, rage, protectiveness that outweighs logic.

“No,” I say under my breath, less to her and more to myself. “No, they’re not. He’s coming. He’ll come for us.”

Bianca notices the way my hand lingers, and her fingers wrap around mine, tight and trembling.

“What do you think they’re going to do with us, Jord?”

I squeeze her hand back, my stomach turning as the SUV speeds into the dark. The road feels endless. So does the silence between threats.

“Nothing good,” I whisper. “I can promise you that much.”

The SUV jerks forward, tyres grinding over gravel. I try to steady my breathing, count the seconds, the turns, the time. Anything to give me a sense of direction.

Bianca shifts closer to me, eyes shining in the early morning sunlight. She leans in, whispers hoarsely, “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

I shake my head once, barely. My throat is tight. My voice even tighter. “No. I’m okay. Your lip is bleeding.”

She hesitates and swipes her tongue across the cut on her lip. “I’m fine… just a small cut.” Then she leans in closer, whispering again, urgent. “Who the fuck are these people. What do they want with us?”

The man in the front passenger seat barks something in Italian, cutting her off.

My spine stiffens.

That voice. It wasn’t the one who shouted before. This one is colder. More cunning.

I catch a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. Sunglasses. A scar slicing through his left eyebrow. His mouth is a flat line. Silent and watching.

The driver mutters something under his breath. And then, another name drifts back to us, spoken low but sharp.“Nicolai.”

The blood in my vein ices over.

Did he just say Nicolai?

I know that name. Everyone in the Russo house knows that name. Whispers and tension. A ghost wrapped in roses and blood. A name that makes even Ares go still.

I glance at Bianca, whose expression has crumpled into something between dread and disbelief.

We’re not being taken by just anyone. We’re being taken byNicolai Moretti.

And whatever reason he has for wanting me, I know it’s not going to be good.

I don’t know how much time passes by, but it feels like we’ve been driving forever. The engine hums steadily as the SUV speeds up, the scenery outside a blur of shadow and trees. I don’t know where we are anymore.

Panic claws at the back of my throat, but I shove it down and reach for the door handle anyway, just to check.

It doesn’t budge. It’s locked. Of course it is.

The man beside the driver lets out a low laugh, dark, condescending. “She thinks she can open the door and make a run for it,” he mutters in Italian. “Cute.”

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