Untamed (Bratva Kings #2)

Chapter 5

RODION

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I really, really shouldn’t be doing this. Rafail is going to have my fucking head.

But what he doesn’t know…

I don’t want to terrify the girl. I’m not that kind of a guy. But I do want to call her bluff, and I couldn’t help myself. She has post after post about being tied up and blindfolded, about how she fantasizes about being taken in the dark and manhandled.

I would know. I’ve pored over every post with glee, taking clear notes.

She can lie all she wants. I know better. She wants this. I could tell by the way her breathing hitched, and she didn’t tell me to go.

I pried myself away from her with difficulty.

She was even more beautiful than I remembered.

I lean against the edge of the rooftop, watching the faint glow of light filtering through the windows below. I put the lights back on so I can see her again. She’s back inside, pacing like a caged lioness, her hair catching the soft glow of those fairy lights she loves so much. I can see her outline clearly enough to know she’s furious. Confused. But she didn’t tell me to go.

And that’s the only reason I walked away.

I’m not the monster she imagines me to be. Not yet.

Still, my blood sings from the memory of her—her wide green eyes flashing with fire and fear, the way she anchored her hands on her hips and tried to stand her ground against me. She was trembling, sure, but not from terror. I’ve seen terror before. This wasn’t it. This was something else.

Excitement.

Even as I left her, I could feel it, a live current connecting us, sparking every time her lips curled in defiance or her voice rose to challenge me. She wanted to fight, and I wanted to let her win just to see how far she’d push.

But I can’t. I can’t fucking get involved.

She’s innocent—wrapped in her soft blankets and fairy lights, her books and dreams. And my world? It’s drenched in violence and lies, blood under every nail. She doesn’t know what she’s playing with. She doesn’t know what I am.

I clench my fists, my knuckles aching from how tightly I grip the edge of the roof. I should leave her alone, let her think this was some strange fever dream, a flirtation gone too far. She deserves to live her life in peace, untouched by men like me.

But when I closed the distance between us earlier, when her breath hitched, and her pupils dilated as I leaned closer…

Fuck.

She can lie to herself all she wants. I know better.

She wants this. I’ve seen it in every word she’s typed, in every post she’s shared. The way she threads her fantasies with raw longing, the way her voice breaks just a little when she talks about surrendering control.

She wants this, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.

And now I can’t stop.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, already knowing it’s her. A message lights up the screen.

Dreammafiaqueen

What did you do?

I smirk to myself, my thumb hovering over the reply. I should ignore her. Walk away. Hell, run before this goes further.

But I’ve never been good at ignoring temptation.

I left you a small present, little queen.

I press send, slip the phone back into my pocket, and step away from the rooftop edge. It’s better this way—for her, at least. She thinks I’m gone. She thinks I’ve let her go.

But I’ll be watching.

Just to make sure she’s safe, I tell myself.

And maybe—just maybe—to see if she’ll come looking for me.

Dreammafiaqueen

You shouldn’t have come here. I didn’t invite you.

Her message flashes on my screen, her defiance practically dripping through the text. I smirk, shaking my head. She’s trying to play the game, trying to keep control, but she doesn’t realize how much she’s already surrendered.

Didn’t you, though?

I send the reply and pocket my phone, pacing the rooftop as adrenaline courses through me. I shouldn’t have come here, and yet… I can’t stay away. Not when I’ve seen the way she responds, her breaths quickening, her eyes flaring when I step close.

I can’t do this. I won’t. I shouldn’t.

But the word shouldn’t has never stopped me before.

Pulling out my phone again, I tap into the feed from the camera I had discreetly installed in her apartment. Her face fills the screen, beautiful and furious as she paces. The light from her fairy lights softens her edges, but it doesn’t hide the fire in her movements. She’s muttering to herself, running her fingers through her hair, biting her lip in frustration.

The way she bites her lip… my fingers flex at my sides, imagining them tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, tilting her face up so she can’t look anywhere but at me.

I check the biometric data monitor I installed earlier. Her heart rate is elevated, her breathing quick and shallow. She’s angry, sure, but there’s something else there too. Excitement. Anticipation.

She wants this, even if she won’t admit it yet.

And that’s why I’m here—not to scare her, but to remind her that the fantasies she hides behind her screen can be real if she lets them. If she lets me.

But I can’t push too hard. Not yet. I’ve spent years mastering control, and this is no different. I’ll take my time, unraveling her defenses piece by piece until she doesn’t just trust me—she craves me.

Her phone lights up on the camera feed, and I watch her glance at it, her thumb hesitating over the screen. My response must’ve shaken her more than she expected.

Good.

I close the feed, my pulse steady and calm despite the way my blood burns for her. For now, I’ll stay in the shadows, watching, waiting. She’ll come to me when she’s ready.

Because deep down, she knows what I know.

She’s mine already.

Get some sleep, little queen. I’ll be back

Dreammafiaqueen

Are you watching me?

Good night, beautiful

Her pacing slows as her phone lights up again on the camera feed. I watch as her brows furrow, her lips pressing into a tight line. She picks up the device hesitantly, and when she reads whatever message just came through, her whole body stiffens.

Her hands shake as she types back furiously, then stops. Her face twists into something I can’t quite place—fear, anger, maybe both.

I flip to the biometrics. Her heart rate spikes off the charts, and her breathing grows shallow. Whatever that message was, it hit her hard.

A second later, her phone buzzes again, and I catch the flicker of panic on her face before she slams it down on the table.

Who the fuck was that?

I access the feed again, zooming in to catch the name on the screen.

Shawn Steele

My stomach tightens, the way it always does when something doesn’t sit right. Who is this asshole? She looked rattled, and Ember doesn’t rattle easily. I’ve been watching her long enough to know that much.

I switch to my own phone, pulling up every scrap of information I can find on Shawn Steele. Not much turns up—a few social media accounts, a sparse LinkedIn page, and an address in the Midwest that doesn’t seem to fit with Ember’s life here. He’s marked as “stepbrother” in some public records, which makes my stomach churn.

I dig further, scanning the few photos I can find. There’s a smarmy grin, the kind that makes my fist itch to connect with his face. But what catches my attention is the absence of her. No pictures, no posts, no shared mentions.

I look harder, cross-referencing where I can, and I finally find a link—a mention in an old blog post she wrote years ago before she built her following.

"Family is supposed to protect you. When they don’t, it’s up to you to protect yourself."

The words hit like a bullet, sharp and damning.

What did he do?

It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together. Ember hates him. And whatever he just sent her has her spiraling.

I watch as she paces again, grabbing her phone only to put it back down, running her hands through her hair. She’s muttering to herself, the words too low for me to make out.

My chest tightens as I lean back against the rooftop wall, staring down at the quiet hum of her apartment. Shawn Steele. I don’t know what kind of hold he thinks he has on her, but if he’s the reason she’s so guarded, so defensive…

He’ll learn very quickly that she’s not alone anymore.

And if he’s stupid enough to try and hurt her again, I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about Shawn Steele is the name on his gravestone.