Page 99 of Under His Control

“If that’s what it takes.”

CHAPTER 40

TAYLOR

Anatoly’s body is a wall in front of me, wide and immovable. I continue to clutch the back of his jacket, staring over his shoulder at the gun—small, matte black, lethal. It's pointed directly at his chest.

At the man I love.

“Damas,” Anatoly says authoritatively, “put it down.”

“Or what?” Damas smiles wickedly again. “You’ll make another deal?”

Chris takes a step toward him. “Hey, hey man, we didn’t talk about this.”

His voice cracks at the end, and my heart squeezes. He’s pale, the false bravado from earlier now gone, stripped bare in the face of the gun and whatever darkness Damas is channeling.

Damas doesn’t even glance at him. “Shut up, Christopher.”

“No,” Chris says, louder. “You said we’d only scare them. Pressure Anatoly, get him to leave town. That was it. No weapons. No blood. That’s what you said.”

Damas’s expression doesn’t change. But his jaw twitches. Just once.

A warning sign.

I see the shift in real time—from threat to something irreversible. His finger slides along the trigger. Not squeezing, not yet. But close.Tooclose.

Chris sees it, too.

“I’m out,” he says quickly, lifting his hands. “I’m done. I didn’t sign up for this.”

“It’s a little too late to grow a conscience now,” Damas mutters.

BANG.

The sound is impossibly loud in the small room. My ears ring. My body freezes.

Chris jerks backward, a red bloom spreading across his hoodie like spilled wine.

He stumbles.

“Chris!” I scream, lunging forward before Anatoly can stop me.

Chris drops to his knees, then collapses fully, sprawled on the plastic-covered floor like a broken puppet. Blood pools beneath him fast, soaking into the clear sheeting.

I fall to my knees beside him.

“Hey, hey, stay with me,” I say, pressing my palms firmly over the wound. Warmth gushes between my fingers. He’s losing too much blood. “You’re okay, you’re okay. You’re gonna be fine.”

He groans, eyes fluttering. His skin is turning gray. I press harder, panic clawing at my throat.

Damas hasn’t moved.

He stands a few feet away, gun still in hand, looking like he just scratched an itch.

Calm. Cold. Satisfied.

“You shot him,” I say, my voice shaking.