Page 106 of Under His Control

He hums. “No contracts. No deadlines.”

I smile into the dark. “No control.”

He tightens his hold. “Just love.”

And just like that, the weight I’ve been dragging around slips off my shoulders.

EPILOGUE I

TAYLOR

I’m standing in front of my old apartment building, a light box in my arms, a heavy swirl of memories in my chest. Months ago, this was my backup plan. My escape hatch.

Now, it’s about to be my brother’s fresh start.

And apparently, me carrying this one single box is grounds for a full-blown emergency.

Because behind me, I’ve got two six-foot-plus bodyguards—Anatoly and Chris—both watching me like I’m about to go into labor because I dared to lift something that weighs less than my purse.

“You said that box was just throw pillows,” Anatoly warns, like I’m smuggling dumbbells.

“Itisthrow pillows,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Calm down, both of you. I’m pregnant, not glass.”

Chris shrugs as he unlocks the front door. “If anything happens to you, he’ll kill me, and then somehow still make me move all this crap alone.”

He’s joking, of course, but it makes me smile.

Because not too long ago, we weren’t sure if he’d survive at all.

And now? He’s here. Strong. Healing. Clean. Starting over in the place I once called home.

“I swear to God, if you so much as breathe near that milk crate full of records, I’ll call your OB myself,” Anatoly warns as he heads inside, setting a box labeledfragileon the counter with exaggerated care.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a smirk. “But go ahead. Call her. I’d love to see how she reacts when you rat me out for innocently getting some light exercise.”

“She’ll take my side,” he says, deadpan, peeling off his jacket and draping it over one of Chris’s barstools.

I sigh dramatically and turn back to what I can do: organize. I’ve commandeered the kitchen unpacking and cleaning. And because it’s officially Chris’s apartment now, if I don’t step in, this place is going to smell like frozen burritos and bachelor neglect within a week.

He’s trying, though. Really trying.

After everything that happened with Damas, the shooting, rehab—both physical and drug—Chris came out on the other side softer. Not in a weak way, but in the strongest way possible. He spent six weeks in a rehab facility outside Vegas, and I drove up every weekend to see him. Just to remind him he mattered.

Now, he’s sober, sharp, motivated. I still hear the sarcasm in his voice when he jokes about becoming a “respectable adult,” but he’s doing it. He landed a job at theHospitium, training to be ablackjack dealer. He’s working toward paying his own bills.And he’s apologized profusely for how he treated me.

“I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this,” Chris mutters, carrying in two boxes stacked so high I can barely see his head over them. “I should’ve taken that offer from Trevor. He had a fully furnished room all ready for me.”

Anatoly raises a brow. “He also has four barely employed roommates who spend their days smoking pot and playing Xbox. Not the best influences.”

“Details, details,” Chris grumbles with a smirk.

We all laugh, and for a second, it feels normal. Like the past few months didn’t nearly wreck us.

But underneath the laughter, I know we’re still healing. All of us.

Anatoly hasn't said it out loud, but I see it in his quiet moments—in the way he stares at his phone like he's waiting for a call that won't come. He hasn’t spoken to Damas since that night in the Smith Avenue house. Since then, there have been restraining orders, court hearings, bail arrangements—all handled by the lawyers.

Anatoly hasn’t expressed much emotion about what happened. And that silence is a wound I don’t know how to fix. I don’t even know if I should try.