Page 6 of Untamed

I blink. Wait.

If he knows Bianca and my family, and he lives next door, that means…

Oh, no.

This isn’t some mysterious stranger. This isAres Russo. Enzo’s younger brother. The one nobody talks about, but everyone somehow knows. Like an ominous rumour with excellent cheekbones.

He steps back, sliding his hands into his pockets, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Careful where you wander off to, bambina. Next time, I might not be there to catch you.”

And just like that, he turns and strolls into the night like some moody novella hero—swallowed by shadows and attitude. I stand there blinking like I’m rebooting.

The breeze feels sharper now. Colder. Rude, honestly.

I grip the now-warm champagne flute like a lifeline. Pretty sure it’s been downgraded to hand accessory because I don’t evenremember drinking it. My arches ache. My pride is missing in action.

His voice loops in my head:Careful where you wander off to, bambina…

I wrap my arms around myself and start walking, trying to shake the tension in my limbs and the heat still humming low in my stomach. I tell myself it’s just the prosecco. Or the stumble. Or the fact that he looked at me like he could see through every emotional firewall I didn’t even realise I had installed.

As I reach the Russo manor again, music and laughter swell around me. Lanterns flicker like fireflies overhead. I step onto the gravel path leading back to the garden, crunching softly beneath my bare feet—because yes, I ditched my shoes ages ago. They were plotting my demise.

Then I hear it.

A whisper. A giggle. Muffled and breathless.

I stop.

It’s coming from behind an ivy-covered wall on the far side of the garden, tucked neatly between two dramatic olive trees like something out of a suspicious fairy tale. Curiosity taps me on the shoulder. Or maybe it’s lingering adrenaline from nearly performing a face-first trust fall into Ares Russo. Either way, I tiptoe closer.

Another laugh. Soft and feminine. Followed by fabric rustling and a low, familiar voice muttering Italian that sounds like it was designed to ruin moral integrity.

I peek around the wall.

And immediately wish I hadn’t.

Matteo.

Of course, it’s Matteo.

He has a girl in a tight red dress pressed against the wall, legs tangled with his, lips locked like they’re trying to consume each other. His right hand is between her legs and she’s moaning as she rocks her hips up, her fingers are buried in his hair while they kiss ravenously. His voice is smoother than usual, dripping with amusement and intention. Her fingers are tangled in his hair like she’s afraid he might escape. He’s murmuring something low and seductive, and she moans in response. Which feels excessive, but I’m not here to kink-shame.

For a second, I forget to breathe.

It’s not shocking. I mean, he’s been tossing charm around like glitter at a music festival. But still. Watching it unfold live feels personal. Like I’m being ghosted in surround sound.

I need to stop watching, but I can’t seem to look away. I’m bloody locked in. The way she’s moaning and grinding her hips, I feel heat rise in my chest. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s something else, something...messier.

The same lips that had me distracted earlier? Busy.

The same boy who made my knees wobble during a slow dance? Occupied.

I retreat in silence, like someone who accidentally clicked on a spoiler thread and now has to pretend they’re fine.

I glance down at my drink. Now useless and flat.

This is how the fantasy dies. Not with betrayal. Not with drama. But with the very clear image of Matteo Russo enthusiastically exercising his jaw strength against someone who isn’t me.

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