Page 6 of Untamed

The bartender slides me another without being asked. I raise the glass in silent thanks before my gaze flicks back to my mark, the reason I’m here.

Still busy with the blonde, still oblivious.

All I have to do tonight is case him and confirm he’s cheating on his wife before I blackmail the fuck out of him and extort him for ten times what he owes us.

Easy.

I exhale and stare back at my phone as if rewarding myself for a job well done. My mouth dry, I click thefollowbutton at the top of the page.

I check the messages that have been buzzing in my pocket like an angry swarm of bees. There’s a new notification in our group chat.

Rafail: I don’t know what stupid nonsense you’re spending your time watching, but if you don’t do what I fucking tell you, I’ll show you exactly where I’ll shove your goddamn phone

Rafail is impatient on a good day. Sleep-deprived, daddy of a newborn Rafail is a fucking animal.

Well, he can get mad at us all he wants. The reality is,heis happily married while Semyon nurses his wounds and plans for option B, and I’m thinking of?—

No. I am thinking nothing.

I slip my phone in my pocket. I can’t afford distractions, least of all ones wrapped in unrealistic, staged internet fantasies. This is my job, my duty, and?—

My phone buzzes.

With a growl of annoyance, I pull it out again. My heart flips over.

It’s a notification. I follow exactly one person online, and here she is, and—oh my god. She’s in her pajamas.

I swallow hard.

She’s inbed, a bed with a sturdy headboard and a thick comforter while she playfully bites her lip while holding a paperback book.

She’s so damn cute. If only she knew how far-removed real life was from her stories. Princes don’t exist in our world—only wolves and their prey.

Still, my fingers hover over the screen. A stupid idea creeps into my mind, one that Rafail would probably punch me for.

What if I… I polish off my drink and look around. Dim lighting. It’s perfect.

I open my camera, position the phone to catch the glint of my pistol holster under my suit jacket, and hit record.

The video’s quick—just enough to show the weapon and a flash of stubble and a smirk. I add a caption:

Careful what you wish for, @dreammafiaqueen.

It’s a reckless, dangerous game. One that could unravel everything. But as the video uploads, I feel like I’ve stepped off the edge, daring her to follow.

And yet, as I hitpostand slide the phone away, I can’t help the laugh that rumbles in my chest. Self-deprecating, bitter, but amused all the same. She likes Bratva? I’ll call her bluff.

“I am going to regret that,” I mutter.

I don’t do distractions. Not when blood is on the line. But as I slip through the crowd, heading back to the hotel, my hand brushes the cold steel of the knife strapped to my hip, and I find myself wondering.

What would a woman like her taste like—innocence or fire?

And what would she do if she really met her fantasy man in real life?

My phone dings with a notification. I frown at the screen then click it as a slow, wicked grin spreads across my face.

---