Page 9 of Untamed

I shake my head, trying to snap myself out of it. It’s ridiculous. I don’t believe in this stuff. Not really. Sure, I love the stories, the tension, the escape they bring, but I know better than to think men like this actually exist. Men like this don’t stalk women online. They don’t care enough to play games. They’re too… busy… doing… illegal things.

Right?

My phone buzzes, breaking the spell. I glance at the screen. It’s a DM from one of my friends, Bookbabe, who always seems to catch everything before I do.

Bookbabe

Girl. This guy tagged you. He’s insane.

Yeah. What the hell?

Bookbabe

Are you freaking out? Because I’m freaking out FOR you. What if he’s legit? Do you think he’s real??

I pause, staring at her question.

Do I think he’s real?

The videos replay in my head, and I realize I don’t have an answer. Of course he’sreal. There’s no telltale watery abs that indicate AI, no whispery hint of a fake. But I know what she means.

Be careful what you wish for.

I open his profile again, my heart in my throat as I watch his follower count climb like a silent army. Thousands of strangers are seeing my name next to his threat, and every second that passes makes it feel more… real. My name,dreammafiaqueen, is still in the caption like a goddamn beacon, drawing even more attention. I note that his likes are all public, and every one of them are allmyvideos.

And even as his follower numbers soar, whohefollows remains…one.

Me.

My chest tightens, my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in.

There’s only one way to find out if this is a joke.

I click the message button, and my thumbs hover over the keyboard. For a moment, I hesitate. My rational brain screams at me to close the app, to forget his smirk and the promise in his words. But the part of me that craves excitement and the attention of a man just like him—the part that reads the books I do—whispers,just one more message. It’s fiction. It’s harmless.

I type the words before I can stop myself.

But before I can hit send, the app pings with another tag. My breath stalls as another video fills the screen.

No. This can’t be happening.

Oh mygod.It’s him again, but this time, there’s no leather jacket, nothing but his bare chest, andwhat a bare chest it is.Unlike the other men who cover shit up with leather jackets or hoodies, he’sripped.Strong, powerful hands anchored on his hips, jeans just low enough to show the hint of dark hair.

My mouth is dry. I swallow, but it doesn’t help. The other videos hinted at how built he was, but…

I choke on a strangled scream as comment after comment pours in.

Do you need a baby mama? Do we need to keep your line of DNA open for the sake of populating the earth? I’m single.

Do you come with an instruction manual, or do we just wing it? Asking for a friend.

Sir, respectfully, HOW DARE YOU?

Who gave you permission to ruin my entire day with this?

Jeans low, jaw high, confidence THROUGH THE ROOF. If he puts on a pair of gray sweats, I’m going to spontaneously combust. I’m not okay.

I don’t care if this is staged, I am HERE FOR IT and so are my ovarieeesss!!!

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