Page 65 of Untamed

Across the room, Ares shifts. Barely. But it’s enough. A flick of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes, like he felt it before he saw it.

I drop my gaze, suck the blood off my finger and walk faster, praying the music will drown out the thunder in my chest, but it doesn’t matter where I move, I still feel him behind me.

Every shift of air. Every time I bend to serve a drink, every laugh I force out at some drunk idiot’s comment… It’s like Ares is right there, breathing down my neck, judging every second I pretend I don’t feel it.

By the time the shift nears its end, I’m trembling inside my own skin.

I haven’t seen him leave. And I don’t know which would be worse, if he’s still here. Or if he’s already lurking somewhere, waiting for me.

I can say one thing for certain: I don’t like the feeling of unease gnawing away in my stomach.

When I walk out of Eden, it’s almost past two in the morning. My eyes scan the area, and I heave a sigh when I don’t see anyone, though I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

My pulse races with a relentless urgency. Each step I take toward home feels like I am descending deeper into an elusive abyss, an unknown that eludes description. My body aches with exhaustion, my mind a chaotic whirlwind, and I cannot escape thoughts of him, the intensity in his gaze, the way it felt like I was on trial without even knowing my crime. Yet, he didn’t comeafter me like I expected him to, didn’t utter a single word, and somehow, his silences feel even more haunting.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I allowing a man to make me feel like this? Who is Ares Russo to tell me what I can and cannot do? I would question why he would even care, but the look in his eyes, his entire demeanour, told a different story entirely.

By the time I reach the manor, the air hangs cool and tranquil, enveloping the space with an eerie calm. The silence inside presses in on me, palpable and unnerving, like a breath held too long.

I slip through the front door of the manor. Even forgoing a drink of water. My sole focus is my room, my sanctuary, where I can collapse into bed and pretend this night never happened.

I push the door open, and a cloak of darkness greets me. Stillness. Solitude. A fleeting wave of relief washes over me until I step inside and close the door behind me.

That's when I hear it. A voice, low, steady, and laced with a dangerous calm. “How long were you planning to hide from me, bambina?”

My breath catches, the air sticking in my lungs. As my eyes adapt to the darkness, I finally see him... seated in the corner of the room, partially veiled in shadow. His legs splayed, forearms resting casually on his thighs, he exudes an air of ownership over the very atmosphere surrounding him.

My spine locks up.

For a second, I almost convince myself I imagined it, that the voice in the dark was just my guilt taking shape. But then hemoves. He steps out of the corner like he’s peeling himself from the shadows, slow, deliberate, each motion calculated like hewantsme to feel the weight of it.

And God, I do. Every fucking inch of it.

My trembling fingers find the switch to the small night lamp in the corner by the door, and I flick it on.

Ares doesn’t even blink as the soft glow spills into the room, casting just enough light to pull him out of the dark—but not enough to soften him.

Ares’s is still dressed in black, but his jacket has been discarded. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms carved in tension and tattoos, veins sharp beneath skin like violence lives just under the surface.

The silver buckle of his belt catches the pale slice of light from the lamp. His boots are silent, soundless on the floor.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold.

Not wild or cruel.

Just…watching.

Burning.

Like I’m something thatbelongsto him, and he’s trying to figure out who gave me permission to forget that.

The air thickens. My skin prickles. A hum starts in the back of my neck and trails down my spine like electricity building toward detonation.

Given the look on his face, I should be afraid—but I’m not. Not exactly.

I’m justaware. Acutely aware of how close he is. How far away the bed is. How fast my pulse is thundering behind my ribs like it wants to break out of me. Every nerve is awake, buzzing beneath the skin, reacting to him like I’ve stepped barefoot into a lion’s cage and dared it to bite.

My hand tightens on the strap of my bag.

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