Page 40 of Untamed

Overnight, three different follower badges are tacked next to my name, thanks in no small part to the videos my stalker’s account tags me in.

My mouth goes dry as I quickly do the math. This is… this is going to bring in money.Goodmoney, ten times faster than any photography gig I could bring in, all while sitting in the privacy of my home.

I could… if this keeps up, I could move out of this shithole and into a place of my own?—

No.

NO!

I can’t allow myself to fall for this…I can’t.

There has to be another way.

My notifications tell me that he posted another video.

Last week, I was happily immersed in my fictional worlds, where it was…safe. And now…

My hands are shaking, and I can’t look away. I click the button.

I exhale. Now that I’ve seen him in person, the sight of him on-screen makes my heart slam so hard against my rib cage I hold onto the bed for support. The camera shows his best angles, yes, but I know what it’s like to be next to him, to see those veins along his neck when he leans against the wall, to hear his low, dark voice in my ear, to see his broad shoulders and powerful frame, knowing he could and would have his way with me and I’d never be the same.

Also?He smelled so good.

Sigh.

My god. I’m wet and bothered—and he didn’t even touch me.

I swallow hard and let myself watch the video.

This one’s new, shot in the early morning light I am oh-so-familiar with on the rooftop. I narrow my eyes and look closer—no, he isn’t onmyrooftop. Instead of the industrial pipes and sea of gray, I can tell this rooftop’s different. Higher end.

Ofcourseit is.

The video’s both mesmerizing and unsettling, shot with the raw precision of someone who knows exactly what they’re aiming for. He stands in the frame, his broad shoulders filling the screen. This time, he’s not posed or polished—his stance is casual, almost lazy, though, like before, it’s somehowdrenchedin Bratva energy.

Maybe because heisn’tposing. Maybe because heisthe real thing.

I canfeelthe undercurrent of tightly coiled power in the way he leans against the wall, his arms crossed loosely over his chest.

The camera catches every detail: the veins along his forearms, the latent power and ink that screamdanger.

I once read somewhere that a woman is naturally drawn to a man with ink because sheknows…he won’t pussyfoot around. He’s a man well acquainted with pain and risks, a man who is willing to take her to new heights.

I have no idea if it’s true.

I want to see his jaw again. I want to see that stubble, that smirk, but most of all… I want to see his eyes. I can tell by the way his lips are moving he’s talking.

I swallow hard, start it over, and turn the volume up on my phone.

“You want a man to protect you,” he whispers, his voice low and rough and so sexy a pulse of need throbs between my thighs. I swallow. That subtle Russian lilt turns every word into a threat wrapped in velvet, and I could listen to him talk all day long. I’m not the only one—comment after comment comes in, flirting with him, begging for more, offering him their first-born children and hands in marriage.

His gaze is unflinching as if he’s addressingmedirectly.

Maybe he is…

“You don’t want a gentleman, little queen.”

I gulp.

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