Page 32 of Under His Control

I’m getting married today.

It wasn’t an easy yes, but in the end, it came down to one thing—Chris.

My brother might be reckless, impulsive, and catastrophically short on gratitude, but he’s still mine to protect. And if signing a marriage certificate is what it takes to keep him breathing, then I’ll do it.

Even if he hasn’t exactly said thank you. Like, ever.

I smooth my clammy palms down the front of my dress. It’s knee length and vintage, a lucky $20 find from a thrift store's “just perfect” bin.

Across the narrow room, Chris paces hard enough to rattle the wall art. He’s wearing a wrinkled suit that smells faintly of aftershave, tie knotted like a noose.

“This is insane,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re basically selling yourself, Taylor. For me. That’s what this is.”

I shoot him a glare over my shoulder as I check my lipstick in the mirror. “I’m not selling anything. I agreed to it. There's a difference.”

He scoffs, still pacing. “Yeah, well, semantics don’t change the fact that you’re marrying a guy with ties to the Russian mob. You’re making a deal with the devil.”

I meet his eyes in the reflection, my voice calm and cutting. “I’m keeping you out of a grave, Chris. That’s the only part that matters right now.”

His mouth opens, then quickly shuts again.

His hair is messy, sticking up at various angles. His pupils are blown wide. He claims he’s sober, but his pulse is so loud I can practically hear the leftover amphetamine drumming in his veins.

“Anyway, it’s happening,” I say, more to anchor myself than anything. “We’re five minutes from showtime.”

“It’s not happening.” He spins me to face him, voice sharp. “Tay, you cannot marry that psychopath.”

“Anatoly is not a psychopath.” I cross my arms, willing the tremor in my hands to stop. “He’s my boss, and he’s the only reason you’re not doing a dead-man’s float in Lake?Mead right now.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.” Chris drags both hands through his hair, causing it to look even wilder. “And what, I’m supposed to act like you’re in love with this guy?”

I inhale through my nose—four counts—hold—exhale. I wish I had somewhere to stash the adrenaline coursing through me.

“It’s a business contract, not a love story. One year. Then we reassess.”

Chris laughs. “Oh, I bet he’ll reassess. Rich men always do. You’ll end up barefoot and pregnant in a penthouse while he’s banging his secretary.”

The mental picture punches me in the gut but I shove it aside. “Are you high?”

“Not high,” he insists, voice climbing. “Just not letting you ruin your life because I messed up.”

A door creaks and the chapel receptionist pokes her head in, cat’s-eye glasses magnifying her concern. “Everything okay in here?”

“Fine,” I chirp, flashing a sugary smile. “Just working through the pre-wedding jitters.”

She retreats, door clicking shut. The second it closes, I turn back to Chris.

“You made this mess,” I remind him, voice low. “I’m just paying the contractor to haul away the rubble.”

“Call it off.” His voice cracks. “We’ll run—Mexico, Canada—wherever. They won’t find us.”

I bark a laugh. “They’reBratva, Chris. They’d find you hiding in Antarctica among the penguins.”

He points a shaky finger at me. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself.”

My throat tightens. “Funny, because you sacrificed me the second you and your shithead friends snorted seventy grand of their product, knowing there was only one person who could bail you out.”

His face crumples—guilt, self-pity, rage—then hardens into defiance. “I’m not walking you down that aisle.”