Page 22 of Untamed

Bratvabloodline

He won’t bother you again.

I shut the app and stare at my wall.

I’ve never had anyone defend me before. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I can’t?—

I really need to get my head in the game.

The gym is my church. This is where I worship.

I need to get my sweat on.

I toss on my gear and head to the gym, where I can control chaos and channel it into something tangible.

The weights don’t lie. The pull-up bar doesn’t judge. In here, I’m strong.

Untouchable.

I love plugging in my headphones, cranking my music, and zoning out. It’s just me versus me.

It feelsgood.It feelsright.

And I’m finally getting over the mixed emotions from the apology. So the prickling awareness at the back of my neck? It pisses me off.

At first, I ignore it. There are always eyes at the gym, fleeting glances I brush off like sweat on my forehead. But this? This feels different. It’s heavier. More deliberate.

For fuck’s sake.

Who’s staring at me? Yes, I have a fine ass—thanks to endless squats and hip thrusts—but it’smyass, and I don’t appreciate someone raking their unwanted gaze over it.

I drop from the pull-up bar like a cat, landing lightly on my feet with a soft thud. I turn toward the source of that invasive gaze, already bristling with annoyance.

I’m not wrong.

But I’m also completely unprepared.

He’s leaning casually against the dumbbell rack, arms folded across his chest, a cocky smirk curving his lips. He’s tall—ridiculously tall—with a face my grandma would’ve called “devil-may-care.” His body? Built like he spends his life in places like this, all broad shoulders and carved muscles.

But it’s not just the muscles. Not even the height. It’s the way he looks at me—sharp, knowing, like he’s already two steps ahead. Like he knows me.

Wait… maybe hedoes.He looks oddly familiar. Do I know him from somewhere?

Still, he shouldn’t be looking at me like that, like he—no, my romance conditioning is getting ahead of me again.

“Is there something you need?” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut.

His smirk deepens, his cheek dimpling just enough to make me furious. And yeah, fine, he’s hot. Too hot. And by the way he carries himself, he knows it.

“You’re cheating,” he says, his tone maddeningly smooth.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Your hands,” he says, gesturing lazily toward the pull-up bar. “They’re too close. It makes it easier.”

That voice…

No. It can’t be.

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