Page 75 of Untamed

I force a smile, but inside I’m already counting down the minutes until I can leave this room.

Because tonight, just like Ares warned me...I’ve walked straight into the lion’s den. And Nicolai Moretti? He’s already baring his teeth.

There’s a razor-edge to his stare, all calculation and control, then lifts a finger with an air of authority. It’s a silent command that speaks volumes. Within moments, the other patrons and staff are discreetly ushered out by his men, leaving a ghostly silence in their wake. Now it’s just us, alone in this intimate setting.

The atmosphere shifts dramatically as the curtain falls shut, sealing us in. The air becomes denser, charged with a sense of anticipation and secrecy. Loaded with unspoken tension.

Nicolai remains silent at first, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling away every layer of composure I’ve painstakingly assembled since stepping into this room. His eyes are dark, enigmatic, as though they hold secrets I can’t begin to fathom.

With a languid, deliberate sip of his drink, he leans in closer, his presence both commanding and unnerving.

“You don’t have to be so nervous, Jordyn. Relax, we’re just going to have a little fun. I’ve had a very shit week. I need to blow off some steam, and something pretty like you will serve as the perfect distraction.” He tells me and reaches out to run the back of his finger along my thigh. When I shrink away from his touch, he smiles.

“Okay, if you don’t want me to touch you...” He trails off, running his tongue along his bottom lip while he gives me a once over. “Dance for me, stellina,” he says, his voice smooth and coaxing.

I blink, my pulse stumbling over itself in confusion. “Excuse me?” I manage to stammer, caught off guard by his unusual request.

His smile widens, a slow, calculated curve of his lips, but it never quite touches his eyes, which remain cold and assessing. “I said dance. There’s music, there’s mood. I want to see how that red looks in motion,” he repeats, his tone velvety yet insistent.

I shake my head slowly, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’m not a dancer. I’m just a cocktail waitress.” I protest, keeping my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’re so much more than that. Which is why I asked for you. Just one song. Come, pretty girl. Humour me.”

My mouth feels parched, and my hands are clammy with nervousness. My body, however, is already in survival mode, instinctively calculating the safest way out of this unexpectedly charged situation.

I square my shoulders, feeling the tension coil within me. “If you’re looking for a stripper, Mr Moretti, you’re in the wrong place and definitely asking the wrong girl.” My voice is steady, but the atmosphere in the dimly lit room seems to constrict, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

“Am I?” Nicolai's expression remains impassive, yet a threatening glint flickers in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, calculating. “Fine, if you don’t dance, then how much for the whole night with you?” His words hang in the air, heavy and bold.

I stare at him, my mind reeling in disbelief. Did he seriously just proposition me? Acting on instinct, my hand rises and I slap him hard, the crack reverberates through the intimate confines of the private lounge. “You’re disgusting,” I declare, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

I slide out of the plush booth, my movements brisk and purposeful as I turn to leave, the soft velvet brushing against my legs as I make my hasty exit. But my escape is short-lived.

Nicolai’s men stationed at the door block my path, and I feel his grasp, abrupt and firm as he grabs my arm, the pressure akin to a vise, yanking me backwards with a sudden jerk. I stumble, colliding into his sturdy chest, my balance thrown by the unexpected turn of events. His body is as unyielding as a stone wall, and I feel the shock reverberate through me.

Before I can regain my composure and push away from him, his hand clamps firmly around my chin, his intentions unmistakable as he leans in swiftly, aiming to claim my lips with his own. I twist my face away, a surge of panic igniting in my chest, sparking a visceral fight-or-flight response within me.

“Let go of me!” I shout, my voice echoing in the dimly lit room as I plant my hands on his chest and shove him back with every bit of strength I can muster.

Nicolai stumbles back a couple of steps, his feet scuffling against the polished floor, but he catches himself. I can see the anger flare in his eyes, a dark fire flickering beneath his cool exterior, and before he takes a step forward, I snatch the bottle of Vodka off the table and hold it up like a weapon, the glass glinting menacingly in the low light. “Take one more step and I’ll smash your damn skull in, you piece of shit,” I warn, my voice steady with determination.

Nicolai smirks, rubbing his jaw, the flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes despite the tension in the air. “That’s very cute.” He states, his smirk turns wicked. “Lucky for you I like my woman feisty.” And then he pulls his jacket back and flashes the gun holstered at his waist. “The more you fight and defy me, the more appealing you become to me, stellina.”

I jerk back abruptly, but Nicolai’s fingers clamp around my wrist with the force of iron shackles.

“You don’t want to do that, stellina,” he murmurs, his voice now stripped of its previous silkiness, leaving only the steely edge behind. “You don’t want to make me look like a fool.”

I tug harder, trying to free myself. “Let go.”

Instead, he pushes me backward forcefully, enough to leave a mark on my arm, with enough pressure to assert his dominance.

“Sit,” he snaps, and I stumble into the velvet bench behind me, the plush fabric swallowing my fall.

My heart pounds violently against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing my rising fear.

Nicolai remains standing, towering over me with an indomitable presence, his eyes gleaming with the kind of entitlement only men like him possess... men who don’t ask. Men who take.

He lifts the glass I poured earlier and extends it toward me, a silent demand in the gesture.

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