Page 8 of Untamed

I wondered if my messages scared him off. I had a little fun telling him posers like him were a dime a dozen.

But no.

The thumbnail alone catches my attention: this time, he’s wearing a mask, and his eyes meet mine on-screen. He’s stroking a gun like it’s his personal talisman. I swallow hard. There’s something… sensual about it. It breaks the rules of social media, and he’ll be banned for it… eventually.

He lifts his mask just enough to smirk and stroke his chin. The stubble along his jaw promises a delicious scrape, and the smirk? Not just cocky—it’s predatory, like he’s already imagined exactly what he’d do to you if you got too close.

But something about him seems… dangerous.

Toodangerous.

My finger hovers over the play button.

What can it hurt?

I press it.

The video is quick. Like last night, just a few seconds of him adjusting his jacket to show the weapon. Then the caption appears.

You’ve been a bad girl, @dreammafiaqueen.

My breath catches. Somehow, my body’s decided it’s both a thrillanda threat.

Is this a joke?

My stomach twists. The profile name is simple, generic, but it’s the implication that has my heart racing. Does heknowme? No. He couldn’t.

I post a comment.

Dreammafiaqueen

This is so staged it isn’t even funny, girls. Let’s stick with the book boyfriends.

Still, my finger trembles as I scroll to his profile. There’s nothing else posted. Just two videos, and somehow, it already has thousands of likes. The comments are a mess of thirsty replies.

Marry me!

Daddy vibes, omg!

Where do I sign up to be kidnapped? Asking for a friend.

Weird way to propose, but I accept.

I swallow hard, my drink forgotten on the table.

Who is this guy?

Is he mocking me?

I’ve had trolls before. It comes with the territory, but this feels different. My brain tells me it’s probably just some douche trying to cash in on the latest craze. Plenty of guys do it. They slap on a leather jacket, pull on a mask, post a thirst trap, and suddenly they’re the fantasy du jour and raking it in, especially the guys with the manly voices. Jesus, some of them are probably still in high school, and yet here we are.

But my gut says this one… this one is different.

Something about his muscles, the way he handles his weapons…seems different. Something about the way he moves, the comfortable look of him with the gun—it feelsreal.

I laugh to myself for even entertaining the thought that any of these men are any more real than the last, but it’s shaky, the kind of laugh that betrays how tightly wound I am. I take another sip of my beer and tell myself this is absurd—but some part of me, the part that revels in fantasy and happy endings—wonders.

I have to keep in mind there’s a difference between fantasy and reality, and there’s no reason whatsoever to believe this guy is legit.

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