Page 63 of Untamed

I nod along, half-listening, eyes skimming the floor below through the part in the curtain. It’s all background noise.

Until I hear it, the subtleclinkof glass.

My gaze flicks toward the movement on instinct.

A tray trembles slightly in her hand. Crystal tumblers catch the light. And as she steps closer to the table, she leans forward, just enough to place a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan down in front of us.

And that’s when I see her. Actually...I smell her. The scent of her fucking perfume wafts toward me and for a moment I feel like I'm hallucinating or on the verge of losing my damn mind.

Jordyn.

Her golden hair is curled down over one shoulder. Lips a deep seductive red. That dress hugging curves she has no business wearing in a place like this.

My pulse doesn’t skip. It slams.

She doesn’t see me at first, not with her eyes cast down, focused, polite, the way they probably taught her to be in training.

But I see her.

And just like that, I forget the deal, the shipment, the entire fucking city of Messina.

What the fuck isshedoing here?

My heels click softly against the polished wooden floor, creating a gentle rhythm as I carry the silver tray toward the dimly lit alcove. Hands steady. Face neutral. That’s what Sofia advised. Smile when spoken to, keep your eyes down, and never linger too long unless they ask you to. Her words echo in my mind as I approach.

The VIP curtain hangs partially open, revealing a glimpse of the opulent interior. The sultry strains of jazz hum beneath the low thrum of conversation, a melody that weaves through the air like a whisper. With each step, my heart pounds harder, a drumbeat that resonates in my chest.

I cast a quick glance at the bottle perched in the centre of the tray, Macallan 30. The amber liquid inside glows under the soft lighting, a drink that costs more than I could ever earn in a month. I swallow hard, feeling the gravity of the situation.

The voices inside the alcove are low, masculine, imbued with a confidence that borders on dangerous. I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself, and step through the curtain. My eyes locked on the bottle rocking unsteadily on the tray.

The first thing I register is the palpable weight of their attention, a force that seems to press against me. One man speaks of business, his voice smooth and cold, while the other listens with an intense, unbroken silence.

I glide to the table, gently leaning forward to place the scotch down, careful not to disturb the delicate balance of the glasses on my tray, which jingle faintly like distant chimes.

And that’s when the silence shifts, a sudden vacuum as if the air has been drawn from the room. I glance up, my gaze captured by a figure in the shadows.

And freeze.

It’s him.

Ares Russo.

Fucking Christ.

He sits there, draped in shadow like a king on his throne, his eyes locked onto mine with the intense focus of a man who’s either been blindsided or set ablaze. His presence is magnetic, commanding, and I feel the room shrink around me.

My mouth goes dry, and my fingers instinctively tighten on the tray. I know I should say something, offer a smile. But I’m rooted to the spot.

And so is he.

His eyes remain locked on mine, unwavering and unblinking, as if I’ve stumbled upon something sacred or shattered something fragile. The intensity of Ares Russo’s gaze is not that of a man simply observing a girl with a tray. No, it’s a look that carries the weight of betrayal, or perhaps something even more unsettling that I can’t even name.

A lump forms in my throat, constricting my breath, and my skin feels searingly hot under the dim, ambient lighting. My heart races with an urgency I despise, a physical betrayal that hints at guilt where none should exist, at least not really. Yet, despite this turmoil, I find myself unable to hold his gaze for much longer.

I force myself upright, ignoring the prickling heat that trickles like fire ants up my spine. Without uttering a single word, I pivot sharply on my heel and stride out of the alcove, maintaining an air of defiance. My head remains high, chin firmly set, the tray steady in my grip. I refuse to look back. I have nothing to feel guilty for. I haven’t done anything wrong.

But even as I walk away, I can feel the weight of his stare on me, like a shadow, dark and predatory, with edges as sharp as teeth.

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