Page 4 of Untamed

With a sigh that’s basically an exorcism, I reach for the tiny glass of amber liquid. I bring it to my nose and sniff. Almonds. Cherry. Possibly regret.

“What is this?” I ask, peering into the glass like it might whisper back.

I swore off hard liquor after an unfortunate incident at seventeen involving too many vodka shots, a karaoke rendition of “Like a Virgin,” and three days of lying in bed convinced my brain was leaking. Turns out, I’m a lightweight with the alcohol tolerance of a Victorian ghost. Wine is safe. Wine loves me. Wine doesn’t judge. This? This is chaos in a glass.

Enzo grins, full of Italian charm. “It’s amaretto, Mio Caro. An almond liqueur. In Italy, we take a digestivo after dinner—to help the stomach, yes?” He lifts his glass with the exuberance of someone who’s already had two.

“Dai, beviamo!”

“Saluti!” everyone echoes, raising their glasses like they’re actors in a champagne commercial.

I hesitate. Then hesitate again. Then hesitate so hard my drink starts whispering insecurities.

Get it together, Jordyn.

I brace myself and glance up—only to find Matteo watching me with a look that could make my knees file for divorce. Dim lighting softens his face, but not the smirk curving his lips. That glint in his eyes is pure trouble.

Of course he would make a toast look seductive.

He tips his glass toward me, silently daring me. I raise mine in return because apparently peer pressure works if the peer is hot enough.

The drink slides down like silk dipped in sugar. It tastes like cherry bakewell tart in cocktail form. I lick my lips automatically; then immediately worry I’ve done it in slow motion like a siren from an old movie.

And then, to make it worse, a satisfied hum escapes me. Rookie mistake.

This tastes dangerously good.Too good.

One drink in and I already feel like my limbs are made of peach cobbler and rebellion.

I glance at Matteo again. He hasn’t stopped watching.

Great. I might have just activated the romantic subplot.

Boy, do Italians know how to throw a party. By eleven o’clock, I’m all partied out, mingled to death, and questioning my life choices. My feet have filed official complaints against these shoes, and I’m definitely tipsy—whether it’s the one shot of amaretto Bianca emotionally blackmailed me into, the four glasses of wine, or this prosecco that’s sliding down my throat like temptation in a flute.

If one more distant relative grins and says, “Welcome to the famiglia,” I’m going to fake a fainting spell and see if that gets me a hotel room with a foot spa.

Overstimulated and mildly buzzed, I slip away like a romcom protagonist who’s just had an epiphany. The music softens behind me, dissolving into background static. I’ve wandered far—past twinkling lanterns and dramatic marble terraces—barefoot, shoes dangling from one hand, champagne clutched in the other like a stress ball made of bubbles.

The reception was too much. Too loud. Too glittery. Too people-y. The alcohol haze is thinning and now I’m left with the soul-deep exhaustion of pretending to be charming for six hours straight.

Out here, it’s quiet. Blissfully, beautifully quiet.

Moonlight spills over the vineyard like someone turned the world into a fashion editorial. The vines stretch beneath the hill, silvered and serene. I don’t know where I am anymore. Possibly on someone else’s property. Possibly trespassing. I’m fine with it.

The breeze lifts my hair, and I tilt my face toward it like I’m auditioning for a fragrance ad. I inhale dew, flowers, and something grapey and nostalgic. It’s poetic. I’m poetic now. Blame the alcohol.

Then I feel it.

Not the breeze.

Not the buzz.

A shift. Like the universe has tilted five degrees and decided I need to meet my dramatic destiny.

“Sembri persa.”

The voice is low. Rich. Italian. Like the amaretto, but more dangerous. There’s a velvet intimacy in the sound that raises goosebumps on my arms.

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