Page 77 of Untamed

I flinch, heart in my throat.

Ares is on him in a breath, his hand around Nicolai’s throat, lifting him half a foot off the floor. His other hand digs into Nicolai’s shoulder like he could rip it clean off if he wanted to.

And judging by the look on his face... he absolutely does.

“You put your hands on her again,” Ares growls, low and lethal, “So much as breathe her fucking name and I’ll carve out your tongue and make you swallow it, inch by inch.”

Nicolai chokes, his hands clawing at Ares’s wrist.

I should speak. I should move. I should stop him.

But I don’t. Because the truth is, in that moment, I’ve never felt safer.

Not with anyone.

Not even myself.

Ares finally drops Nicolai with a shove, and he crumples, coughing, gasping, hand still clutching his throat. And dismisses Nicolai entirely, as if the man no longer warrants another second of his attention. The sudden burst of violence, quick, precise and deadly still lingers in the air like settling dust, but his focus is solely on me now. His eyes are dark and unwavering, convey something intense and undefinable.

And then he approaches me with a measured, intentional stride that never fails to make my heart skip a beat. His entire body is taut, brimming with tension. Without a moment’s pause, he grasps my hand, confident and decisive as though it was always his to hold. The moment our skin meets, his grip tightens with quiet intensity, his fingers threading through mine like they were always meant to be there. The heat of his palm scorches against mine, anchoring me in a way I hadn’t realised I needed.

He pulls and I move, without hesitation. We move together, step by step, towards the exit of the private lounge.

And then I see them.

Bodies.

Scattered across the plush carpet like discarded puppets. One man is slumped against the wall, his face bloodied and almost unrecognisable. Another facedown beside an overturned table. A third groaning faintly from the floor, cradling his ribs like he’safraid they’ll crack open if he lets go. Two more lie unconscious near the entrance, limbs twisted awkwardly, their suits rumpled and stained.

“Oh, my God...” I utter under my breath as I take in the massacre around me.

Glass crunches beneath Ares’s boots as we step over a shattered tumbler. My stomach turns. My breath stills in my throat.

He did this.

Every single one of them left for dead—for me.

Ares doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even glance at the carnage around us. His hand remains locked with mine, his body a fortress of control and quiet fury as we pass through the curtain.

Rocco stands by the bar, white as a sheet, his eyes flitting between the wreckage and Ares like he’s caught in the middle of a nightmare. He opens his mouth, perhaps to protest, or maybe apologise, but one look from Ares silences him instantly. Whatever he was going to say dies unspoken.

We walk through Eden like gods striding off a battlefield, silence rippling in our wake, slicing through the whispers and stares. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, my back straight, but I feel everything. The eyes. The shock. The tension.

And his hand, bloodied and still clutched in mine like a lifeline.

Outside, the crisp night air crashes over me.

I suck in a breath, the chill tightening my chest, but it doesn’t extinguish the inferno burning in my blood.

Because tonight, I didn’t just get a glimpse of who Ares Russo truly is… I saw who he becomesfor me.

I’m fucking irate. There is an inferno blazing in my chest, yet I don’t speak.

Not when I haul her out of that dank, fluorescent-lit room, her boots snagging on the blood-slick floor. Not when her trembling fingers curl around mine, small and warm, as if they were forged to latch onto mine forever. Not when we step over the crumpled bodies of Nicolai’s men, bodies twisted in agony, stained crimson, each laboured breath a ragged plea.

I don’t look at her, either.

Because if I catch the glint of fear or relief in her eyes, my chest will cave in.

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