Page 82 of Untamed

“Wait,” Ember says, giving me a curious look. “This isn’t the way to the airport.”

“Who said we’re going to an airport?”

“Ummm…”

“Not interested in commercial airports. We need privacy, speed, and discretion.”

Ember blinks. I hint at the deer-in-the-headlights look she gets when I remind her that I’m not one of the book boyfriends but a real made man.

“…and maybe not the discerning eyes of TSA?”

“Exactly.”

“So we’re going…”

“To a small private airstrip nearby. It’s a place that caters to private jets and helicopters.”

“Oh, wow. Okay. And this is safe?” As soon as she asks the question, she snorts and shakes her head. “What the hell am I talking about? Of course it is. This isRodion,after all.”

My brother would laugh his ass off at that. I’m the most reckless one in our family, but when it comes tohersafety? I’m not fucking around.

The SUV rumbles to a halt just inside the gates of the airstrip. The gravel under the tires crunches loud enough to echo in the quiet, open expanse. Dim lights buzz from overhead fixtures, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cracked asphalt. The air smells faintly of jet fuel and oil.

“Wow,” Ember says softly, peering around. She takes it all in—the squat hangars with peeling paint, the hulking shadows of private jets sitting idle under pools of light, the Bratva muscle standing near the jet waiting for us. They’re dressed casually—hoodies and jeans—but for the telltale bulge of firearms at theirwaists. One of them flicks a cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath a boot as he nods at me.

“Safe enough for you?” I ask, cocking a brow as I pull her bags from the trunk.

She hesitates, glancing at the Bratva guards. “Let me guess. TSA’s not invited to this party?”

“Not interested in their kind of scrutiny,” I say, my voice firm. “This isn’t a layover in Newark.”

She presses her lips together like she’s holding back a laugh. “And… no metal detectors, either?”

I grunt, shifting her bag over my shoulder. “That’s your takeaway from all this?”

“Well, yeah.” She waves a hand toward the guards and the jet. “It’s all veryMission Impossible.”

I pause, watching her as she scans the scene. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t balk. Just processes it like she’s ticking items off some mental checklist. The way she takes this world in stride—like it’s just another inconvenient plot twist in one of her romance novels—does something to me. I’ve seen men twice her size pale at the sight of my Bratva family. But her? She looks like she’s filing it under pragmatic life decisions and moving on.

I take a step closer, lowering my voice. “You okay?”

She snorts, running a hand through her hair. “Am I okay? Rodion, we’re about to get on a private jet because you have mafia guys hanging around like it’s your personal valet service. This is bananas.”

Her words say one thing, but her tone says another. Beneath her exasperation, there’s something else. Something raw. Her shoulders relax as she looks at me like she’s decided to let herself trust this. Trustme.

“You’re safe with me,” I say. It comes out rougher than I intended, but the truth of it leaves no room for softness. I nod toward the jet. “Now come on. The sooner we’re in the air, the sooner we’re out of reach.”

The inside of the jet is utilitarian. The leather seats are dark, sturdy, and worn just enough to feel comfortable. The overhead lights glow dimly, and the hum of the engines is steady, almost reassuring. Ember takes the seat across from me, glancing out the small window as one of my men secures the luggage and closes the hatch.

She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her camera bag. Then she looks at me, her eyes sharp. “You keep saying that. ‘You’re safe with me.’ But Rodion… we barely know each other.”

Her words hit harder than I expected. Because she’s right. We don’t know each other in the ways most people would call normal. I don’t know her favorite color or the name of her favorite grade school teacher. But I know her. In the ways that matter.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I pin her with my gaze. “I know enough.”

She raises a skeptical brow. “Oh, really? Like what?”

“I know how you take your coffee,” I say, my voice low. “Which, let’s be honest, is fucking crucial. I know you dream about a life bigger than the one you’ve settled for. I know you’re strongerthan anyone gives you credit for. And I know I’ve watched every single one of your videos on repeat because I can’t fucking get enough of you. And in your videos, you’re self-deprecating but funny and witty, and I suspect part of the reason you spend more time in your book fantasy world than real life is because you fear getting close to people.”

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