Page 52 of Under His Control

We carry the first two suitcases down together. My building doesn’t have an elevator—just a staircase that’s seen better days. I bump my elbow on the railing twice. Anatoly doesn’t even break a sweat.

At the curb, he eyes my aging, rusted-out Honda with a look that’s half concern and half amusement.

“Taylor,” he says, “this car looks like it’s trying to find a quiet place to go off and die.”

I laugh. “It’s a classic. Been with me since senior year of high school.”

“Did it also attend prom?”

“Twice,” I say proudly. “And it’s seen more Taco Bell runs than you could possibly imagine.”

He chuckles and lifts the largest case into the back of his glossy black SUV like it’s nothing. I glance at the front of the car and spot a driver waiting patiently in the driver’s seat.

My car gets the smallest suitcase, just barely fitting in the trunk space left over from emergency supplies, a yoga mat, and a tire pump I’ve never used.

I glance sideways at him. “You seriously think I need a new car?”

He raises a brow. “I seriously think you deserve one.”

The kind words make me feel cared for. I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear and avoid eye contact by fiddling with the backseat latch.

“Well, maybe I’ll consider it.”

Once everything’s packed and secured, I brush my hands on my jeans and turn to him.

“Thanks for showing up. That was really sweet.”

He shrugs. “You’re my wife. Of course I showed up.”

Wife.

The word still zings through me like static electricity. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. But the way he says it causes something inside me to feel settled.

Back upstairs, we step into my near-empty apartment. Anatoly glances around with a sort of amused curiosity.

“So,” he says, leaning against the doorway, “what’s the plan with all of this?”

He glances around and I’m sure he spotted the framed picture of Chris and me at Disneyland—pre-crisis, pre-Bratva, pre-marriage to a mafia-adjacent billionaire.

I clear my throat and lie casually. “The lease isn’t up for another month, so I’ve got some time to figure it out.”

Not true. I know it’s dumb to pay for a second home I won’t be using but giving it up feels like removing my last safety net. And I’m not ready for that. Not when my whole life has just shape-shifted.

He nods. Maybe he believes me. Or maybe he’s just letting it go.

I make the mistake of looking at him.

Gray tee. Sculpted chest. Sleeves stretching just enough across his biceps to make my mouth water. Perfect ass in perfect-fitting jeans.

God help me, I am married to that.

My eyes flick up just in time to catch his knowing smirk. He steps in slowly and places his hands on my hips. His palms are warm. Possessive. Familiar now.

I sway toward him like he’s gravity.

“So,” he asks, voice low and husky, “is the bed still made?”

I grin, my cheeks flushing. “Sure is.”