Page 61 of Untamed

“Why?” I manage, my voice a shaky rasp. “What do you want out of this? Out of me?”

His hands pause, and for a moment, I think he’s going to answer. But then he mutters, “Not tonight,” low and final, before untying my wrists and scooping me into his arms.

He carries me into the bathroom like I’m precious, not a trembling mess. The cool tile against my back when he sets me down feels grounding, but I can’t take my eyes off him as he moves with quiet determination. He grabs a washcloth, wets it under the faucet, squeezes the water out, and kneels in front of me.

My chest tightens again when he smooths the cloth over my sweaty neck, his movements deliberate and tender. The warm cloth brushes over my skin, and I feel the tension in my muscles start to unravel with every pass. He doesn’t rush. If anything, he takes his time, as though this moment matters just as much as the ones that came before it.

“If we were at my place,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, his voice rough and almost wistful, “we’d both fit in the tub. I wouldn’t have to do this like this.”

I can’t stop the small laugh that escapes me. “You really hate this place, don’t you?”

His eyes flick up to meet mine, and the intensity in them steals the air from my lungs. “It’s like having a diamond locked in a tin box,” he says quietly, his fingers brushing over my arm as hewrings the cloth. “You don’t belong here. It’s not enough for you. Not nearly enough.”

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat almost too much to bear. He doesn’t linger on the weight of his words. Instead, he finishes cleaning me up with careful precision.

When he’s done, he lifts me effortlessly, his strength making it seem like I weigh nothing. I wrap my arms around him instinctively, and the way he holds me makes my chest ache with something I don’t want to name. He carries me to the bed and sets me down gently before disappearing into my closet.

When he returns, he’s holding a set of pajamas I don’t even recognize—soft, oversized, and nothing like my usual worn T-shirts. He dresses me in them, his hands careful but sure as he pulls the fabric over my skin. The intimacy of it hits me so hard that I don’t realize I’m crying until his thumb brushes my cheek, catching the tear.

I expect him to leave. I hope he doesn’t. But instead, he sits on the edge of the bed and grabs one of the books from my nightstand. He flips it open, his expression softening into amusement as he skims the first page.

He starts reading aloud, his deep voice with a hint of an accent wrapping around the words in a way that makes my cheeks flush.

“You’re mine. Your orgasms belong to me. Your pussy belongs to me. Your body is mine to do with as I will. If I want to shave you, I will. If I want to spank your pussy red, I will. If I want to cuff you to my bed to wait for me, I will.”

“This is what you read?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Don’t judge me,” I mutter, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.

“Judge you? Never, now that I know how to reap the benefits.”

When he reads, his tone is teasing, dipping low on the dirtiest lines, but there’s something warm and almost indulgent about the way he stays. He’s still there when my eyes drift closed, my body sinking into the bed as exhaustion takes over.

When I wake, the bed is empty, the covers pulled neatly around me. The air feels colder without him, and the quiet ache in my chest surprises me.

I don’t like it.

Reaching for my phone, I find it plugged in on the nightstand. I close my eyes against a rush of emotion, when I see a new message waiting for me. It’s a video. My breath catches as I open it.

The screen fills with darkness at first, and for a moment, I think it’s just audio—the faint sound of his breathing, steady and deliberate. Then the image sharpens. A blindfold rests in his hand, the silky fabric slipping between his fingers in slow, deliberate movements.

His face emerges next, masked, shadowed, and devastatingly calm. His eyes burn into the camera, filled with that lethal energy that always leaves me trembling. His voice is low and dangerous, a private caress meant only for me.

“Careful what you wish for, little queen,” he murmurs, his fingers tightening around the blindfold before the screen cuts to black.

My breath catches, the silence that follows almost deafening. My heart pounds in my chest, my body warm with the memory of his touch and the promise of more. The video leaves me shaking, craving him in ways I don’t fully understand.

Because it’s not just the words or the way he looks at me like I’m his—it’s the certainty in his voice that thrills and terrifies me.

I don’t know if there’s any going back from this.

Chapter 13

RODION

I fuckinghate being apart from her. I’ve never been obsessed with a woman before, but everything about her, fucking everything, calls to me like the call of the siren. I only hope I don’t crash myself on the fucking shore.

The phone buzzes in my hand. Again.

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