Page 62 of Untamed

Rafail.

I should answer. He hates waiting, but my mind is stuck somewhere else. My thumb hovers over the video feed from her apartment. I ignore Rafail and click the button, an addict unable to stop himself from his next hit.

She’s asleep, her breathing steady, her hair spilling across the pillow like some kind of goddamn halo. My shoulders tense as I check the biometrics again—heart rate, body temp—all steady. She’s fine. Perfect.

And yet, something gnaws at me. Maybe it’s because she didn’t call back. Or because her name hasn’t appeared in my notifications, no flirty comment under my video. Nothing.

I should know better than to post the fucking thirst traps, but I can’t help it. It’s the wildest of bait for the wildest of women, and I love the way she watches them the second I post them. I scroll through the comments on the latest upload directed at Ember.

I really shouldn’t have opened this. I have work to do and now I’ve forgotten my own name. Why is this man so hot???

Sir, I will personally commit crimes for you.

This energy could ruin my day, and I’d thank you for it.

I scroll past, searching, searching… nothing from her.

I’m used to being in control. Planning. Acting. But with her, it’s like every fucking second of silence feels like a failure.

The phone buzzes again, and this time, Rafail’s name is flashing like a warning. He’s gonna kill me.

“What?” I snap as I answer.

“What?” he echoes, sharp and biting. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve been waiting for ten minutes.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, dragging my focus back. I don’t talk to him this way and can’t start now.

“I’m here. What do you want?”

“Watch it. You tell me. Are you bringing someone to this gala or not?” His tone is clipped, but there’s a thread of something deeper—curiosity, maybe. Amusement.

“Yes,” I say, jaw tightening.

“Who?”

I roll my eyes with a sigh. “You know who.”

There are no real secrets in our family, though I’ve somehow miraculously been able to keep my masked online presence off their radar. He’s seen footage of me with Ember and so has Semyon.

There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs, low and dark. “The pretty little redhead. Did you marry her yet?”

The teasing pisses me off more than it should. “No,” I bite out. “Not yet.”

He’s silent again, but this time, there’s no laugh, no follow-up. Just dead air. Rafail knows how to make his point with silence better than most men can with words.

I check the live feed again while I wait, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest. A faint shift, the way she tucks her hands closer under the covers. Something in me aches, sharp and… unfamiliar.

“You’re distracted, Rodion,” Rafail snaps, yanking me back.

“Just tired,” I lie, biting back something harsher. I have to remember who I’m talking to.

“Bullshit,” he fires back. “Focus. If you can’t keep your head in the game, I’ll pull you from the gala entirely and send Matvei.”

No, he fucking won’t.

“I’m focused,” I say sharply, even as my eyes flick back to the video.

“Then prove it.” His tone hardens. “We’ll talk more about this weekend later. I have a job for you to do. Right now.”

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