Page 89 of Under His Control

“Anatoly?” He peers over his reading glasses, gray hair tousled, mug of tea steaming beside payroll reports. “Everything all right?”

“Have you seen Taylor tonight?”

He frowns. “She punched out late—long shift. Said she was exhausted. But that was hours ago. Is she alright?”

I decide a half-truth might get me the answers I want. “Honestly, we had a bit of an argument, and she took off. I’d just like to find her and apologize for being an idiot.” I smile sheepishly.

Charles chuckles. “Your first married fight? I remember those days well. You might just want to give her some time to cool off. I’m sure she’ll come back.”

“I’m sure she will, too,” I lie. “But just in case she’s as stubborn as I’ve come to believe she is, do you have any idea where she’d go when she’s upset?”

Charles considers, eyes narrowing like he’s replaying her exact phrasing in his head. “Her old apartment, perhaps. She loved that place, felt very much at home there.”

“I thought she’d surrendered the lease.”

“Not yet,” he replies with a warm smile. “Some spaces hold onto us longer than we hold onto them.”

I nod, then reach out, clasping his shoulder. “Thank you, Charles.”

I gun the Audi along Sahara Avenue toward her apartment complex. Headlights carve through the sleeping desert, my relentless thoughts louder than the engine.

Taylor fought for her brother, braved the Bratva, endured my worst moods, and still looked at me like I hung the constellations.

I walked away the first time she needed me to stay.

Never again.

CHAPTER 36

TAYLOR

The sudden knock yanks me out of a dream where I’m juggling flaming room-service trays while wearing a wedding gown made of casino chips.

I peel an eye open, realize I’ve fallen asleep sideways on my sofa, and curse the crick in my neck.

The clock on my cable box blinks 12:07?a.m.

Another rap—slow, measured, familiar.

My pulse sprints.

Anatoly.

I launch off the cushions, nearly face-plant over the coffee table, and pad to the peephole. His head is bowed.

Butterflies riot. Anger flutters, too, but it’s half melted seeing the way he’s shifting his weight. He’s nervous. I unlatch the deadbolt and open the door.

He doesn’t speak; he simply cups the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss so deep my head spins.

He tastes like scotch and mint. His free arm wraps around my waist, hauling me against a chest that feels like home.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against my mouth. “I left before I listened. That was unacceptable.”

“You get partial credit for a fast turnaround.”

He frames my face. “It doesn’t matter if children are impossible. I’ll dismantle the inheritance clause, burn the will, buy a new casino if I have to. I just—” His throat works, and for a second he looks like he might fall apart. “I need you,solnishka.”

“That’s remarkably dramatic. Ten out of ten.”