Page 3 of Under His Control

Posture improves. He looks at nothing; he sees everything.

I rotate away from the mirror before our gazes can collide. I’m not new. I’m not impressed.

(I am absolutely impressed.)

I cut past roulette like a blessing and check baccarat markers; that’s when my skin prickles. The specific prickle that means a stare is auditioning.

Three tables over: sleek suit, slick hair, cologne you can taste. He’s the kind of man who says “sweetheart” like he’s knighting you. I’ve clocked him four times tonight, each look a beat too long. His smile is practiced entitlement.

Our gazes meet for a breath. I look away—calm, bored, busy—but my body catalogs him: height, reach, scent, distance to thenearest security post. That’s the hotel brain. You can take the girl out of survival mode, but you don’t take survival out of the girl.

When I glance toward the ripple again, Anatoly isn’t scanning anymore. He’s watching him.

It isn’t casual. Not the “I own this building” sweep I’ve seen before. It’s a clean, cutting focus that reads like: I could end your night before your drink hits the table. The other man shifts under it, looking anywhere but back at him.

A flicker crosses Anatoly’s face.

Protective.

Which is… new?

And unsettling.

And—God help me—hot.

I redirect Mr. Wheel to a manager and make my escape.

I tell myself I’m heading for the staff elevator because my shift is over.

Truth?

After the way Anatoly just looked at that creep, I want out of the room.

The elevator is blessedly empty when I step inside. I hit my floor. The doors are just starting to close when—of course—Mr. Sleaze wedges himself in.

“Hey,” he says, voice like cheap whiskey and cheaper cologne. “Finally got you alone.”

I press the button again without looking at him. Maybe he’ll take the hint.

He doesn’t.

“You’ve got a great smile,” he continues, stepping closer. “Bet you’ve got a sweet laugh, too.”

I keep my gaze forward. “Bet you’d lose that wager.”

A low chuckle. Then his hand lands on my hip.

I snap my head toward him. “Don’t touch me.”

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t be shy?—”

The slap cracks in the small space, my palm stinging almost as much as my temper.

His smirk twitches, like he’s deciding whether to get angry or keep playing the game.

The decision gets made for him.

The doors open and Anatoly fills the doorway—shoulders squared, suit dark as a threat.