Page 70 of Untamed

“Jordyn, listen to me. You haveno ideawhat kind of men walk into that club, what they’re capable of. It’s dangerous. That’s not a place for someone likeyou.”

“Someone likeme?” she repeats, almost mocking. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you implying that I can’t take care of myself now? Because I was doing just fine before your family came bulldozing into our lives? And what danger are you talking about? I’m a cocktail waitress, Ares. I serve drinks to patrons, they tip me, and then I go home. That’s it.”

The warmth of her finger pressing against my chest is seeping through the thin material of my shirt and it baffles me how something as small as that is short-circuiting my brain. “That’s not it.” I almost growl. "You have no fucking clue what kind of men crawl through that place. If you did, you wouldn’t have stepped within ten feet of it."

“Men likeyou, you mean?” I stare at her, and she stares right back. “You were there too, Ares. And from what I’m told, you’re a regular patron. Does that make you a sleaze, a danger?”

The accusation lands like a fist. My pulse spikes, heat rushing behind my ribs. She’s daring me to argue. Daring me to lie.

But I don’t.

Instead, I take a step closer, erasing the last inch of space between us. Her breath stutters, and I feel it, that split-second of hesitation she tries to mask with rage. My hand curls around her wrist, I pull it down to her side and yank her until she’s pressed up against me.

“I’m certainly not the type of man you want to provoke, Bambina.” I speak slow and low and Jordyn swallows hard, lips pressed together, trembling with fury. But behind it, I see the shift.

She exhales slowly, blinking like she’s trying to clear a fog from her vision, but I know better. That’s not confusion in her eyes.

It’s conflict.

Emotion wrapped in tension, coated in defiance, but underneath it all? Fear. Not of me. Never of me. But of what thisis. Whatweare or what we’re becoming.

She turns her face slightly, like breaking the stare might give her control back, but I follow the movement, my eyes locked on her lips. My voice lowers to a whisper that still manages to feel like a command.

“If you weren’t family,” I say, my words deliberate, venom-smooth, “and I saw you in that club tonight dressed the way you are…” She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“...we wouldn’t be standing here arguing.” I lean in, just enough that my mouth is near her ear, letting her feel every breath as it brushes her skin. “I would’ve had you down on your knees. My cock so deep in your throat, you’d lose the ability to speak for a fucking week.”

Her breath catches...audibly, and I soak it up. My cock stirs against my jeans.

And for a moment, neither of us moves.

The air thickens, tightens. The walls seem to close in around us. Her chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths, but she doesn’t back down. Her spine remains stiff, lips slightly parted,gaze flickering between my eyes and my mouth like she doesn’t know whether to slap me or kiss me.

I don’t blink.

“If I see you anywhere near Eden again,” I say, my tone razor-sharp and barely restrained, “I won’t just pull you out. I’ll burn the whole fucking place to the ground.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me like I’ve torn open something sacred and dared her to feel it.

And for one breathless moment, the air between us holds steady, crackling with the kind of tension that doesn’t end in words.

Because we both know…if I touch her now, there is no way I’ll scrape up the strength to stop.

Her gaze lingers on me, unyielding and defiant, yet there's a newfound softness beneath the surface. Something within her has cracked open. She ought to shout, slam the door, demand that I vacate her space immediately. But she doesn't. She simply breathes. Her breaths are shallow and trembling, perfectly synchronised with the pounding rhythm of my own heartbeat. The tension between us vibrates like a live wire, drawn tight between the desires we both feel and the reality we know we can't yet embrace.

I let my eyes trace down her face, those slightly parted lips, the delicate contour of her jaw, the elegant column of her throat rising and falling as if she's on the verge of unravelling. My hand is still curled around her wrist, and her skin feels hot under mine. “Get some sleep,” I manage to say, though the words scrape my throat like rough gravel. “You’ve had a long night.”

She blinks, her expression a flickering mix of confusion, frustration, and smouldering heat, all merging into one tumultuous breath. Yet, she remains silent.

I step back slowly. Each inch of distance I create between us feeling like the drag of a blade. Her eyes follow me as I reach for the door, my hand hovering over the knob. “Dormi bene, bambina.”

And before I do something irrevocable, like pressing her against that door and tasting the forbidden sweetness of her lips, I slip out, letting the door click shut behind me. The silence on the other side is deafening, louder than anything else I've heard all night.

Lord, give me strength.

The air hangs heavy with the scent of rare colognes, smouldering cigars, and whispered agendas. Up here on the rooftop of the five-star hotel, every conversation crackles with ambition: soft power plays exchanged over crystal tumblers that chime like bells beneath dozen-armed chandeliers of burnished gold. Beyond the ornate balustrade, the Sicilian skyline shimmers in the fading light, terracotta rooftops melting into vineyards and olive groves.

I lean against the cool marble ledge, half-listening to a nervous councilman droning on about import tariffs. I lift my scotch,peat-smoke amber in the glass, and swallow, tasting nothing but polished veneer.

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