Page 58 of Untamed

I swallow, mind racing. He straightens, that wolfish smile slipping back into place.

“See you tomorrow.”

I step back into the corridor, my heart hammering in my chest. For a moment, I feel as though I’ve passed an unseen trial, their test, whatever it may be, without even knowing I was being examined.

The uniform is tighter than I anticipated. It’s made of black satin, cut high on the thighs and low at the neckline, sleeveless with a halter that fastens behind my neck. With the heels they provided, I feel taller and more exposed, as if I’m pretending to be someone else. Looking in the mirror, I hardly recognise myself. My hair is slicked back, and my makeup is heavier than usual, with lips painted a bold red that demands attention.

The dressing room is compact, lined with sleek lockers and full-length mirrors. Around me, other girls are getting ready, women who move as if they’ve done this countless times. They don’t talk much, just touch up their lipstick, adjust their straps, and smile as if it's their armour. One of them, a tall blonde with stiletto heels, meets my gaze in the mirror. “Hey, it can be a little overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it,” she advises, while applying mascara. “Just remember, don’t fall in love with the regulars.” I smile back politely, though I have no clue what she means.

Why would I fall love with a patron?

The music hums through me the moment I step onto the floor, a deep, bass-heavy rhythm that reverberates through my bones, seductive and commanding. The room is bathed in a warm, opulent glow of gold and wine-red hues, casting an inviting yet mysterious ambiance. The main bar thrums with a gentle, enticing energy, but it's the VIP level, secluded upstairs behind half-drawn curtains, that captures my attention.

Mr. Salvatore stands by the bar, a figure of authority with his hands clasped behind his back. With a subtle gesture, he beckons me over.

“Section C,” he instructs, his voice calm yet firm. “You’re shadowing tonight. Sofia will show you the ropes. Smile, be attentive, and don’t linger.”

Sofia, the blonde from the dressing room, materialises at my side, exuding a confidence I aspire to. Rocco tells her something in Italian and she nods before looking at me. “Come on, novellina,” she urges.

She guides me up the staircase to the VIP level, where the lights are dimmer, casting long shadows that add to the air’s weightiness. Here, the atmosphere shifts, becoming more intense, almost tangible.

The tables are occupied by men clad in sharp, tailored suits, their voices a low, murmuring symphony. They sport expensive watches that catch the dim light, and their laughter resonates like an undercurrent in the room. Most of the women here aren’t servers, they’re adornments, living ornaments.

Sofia slips behind one of the velvet curtains, and I follow, clutching a silver tray as if it were a lifeline.

The first table is straightforward. Polite smiles greet us. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses are requested. One man’s gaze lingers a moment too long on me, but he remains silent.

The second table presents a different challenge.

Two men sit in the booth, both sharply dressed, but the one on the left pulls my attention like gravity. Late thirties, dark hair combed back, olive skin, eyes so piercing they feel like a test. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me with quiet calculation.

The other man, older, flashier, maybe mid-fifties, is the one who smiles. He leans in slightly as I place the drinks down, and when I do, his fingers brush mine. Light but intentional.

“Bellissima,” he murmurs.

I withdraw my hand swiftly, and his lips curl into a smirk.

Across the room, Sofia’s eyes meet mine, and she mouths a silent command. “Don’t react.”

So, I don’t.

I straighten my posture, plaster on a smile, and continue serving. Yet, beneath my composed exterior, something stirs restlessly under my skin, an inexplicable sensation that grips me tight and refuses to be ignored.

The younger one though, keeps his gaze on me. He leans back, arms stretching along the booth behind him like he owns the air I’m breathing. There’s a dark aura around him, not quite as intense as Ares Russo, but just enough to make something inside me recoil.

I take a step back and clutch the silver tray against my torso like it’s protective shield. “Enjoy gentleman. Let me know if you need anything else.” I turn quickly, pretending I don’t hear the quiet chuckle that follows me.

But I feel it. Like oil on my skin.

I make it back to the bar without tripping, shaking, or throwing up, which feels like a win. Sofia hands me a tray of empty glasses, watching me over the rim of her own drink like she’s seen it all before.

“You okay?” she asks, casually.

“Yeah,” I lie. “That guy was... a lot.”

She arches a brow. “The one in the grey jacket?”

I nod. “And the other one. The one who didn’t speak.”

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