Page 1 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

“ Y ou’ve got that look,” Charles says as he falls into step beside me.

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to fire someone, re-seat a whale, and still have time to break up a fight at the roulette table.”

“Friday night multitasking,” I say. “It’s a gift.”

He tips his chin at my heels. “Those are a hazard.”

“Just to anyone dumb enough to get in my way.”

His mouth twitches. “You’re all business tonight.”

“When am I not?” I give him a sidelong look.

The Hospitium on a Friday night is a living, breathing creature—glittering, hungry, and mean in the most beautiful way.

Slot machines chirp like neon birds.

The air smells like money and top-shelf decisions people will regret tomorrow.

“That guy in the Hawaiian shirt?” I nod toward a tourist double-fisting tequila at craps. “He’s either going to make it rain or redecorate the felt in under an hour. Guess which one I’m rooting for.”

Charles huffs a laugh. “You’re bad.”

“I’m efficient,” I correct. “You’d be amazed how much smoother the night goes when I get to skip the part where someone loses their dinner.”

Charles Weatherford is the general manager.

In his early sixties, his hair mostly silver, lines etching the corners of his eyes.

I find those to be lines of wisdom—he’s always been a stable force for me, stepping up with advice, gentle nudges of encouragement or general sidekick energy when need be.

I didn’t claw my way up to Assistant Manager by being sweet as pie.

I did it by working front-desk graveyards in thrift-store skirts and knockoff pumps, memorizing every dealer’s tell before I could legally order a drink.

By figuring out that high rollers come in two flavors: the kind who tip in hundreds, and the kind who vanish before the tab lands.

Vegas will chew you up if you don’t learn its rhythm.

I didn’t just learn it—I made it my own.

I keep a mental map of every table, every VIP, every potential problem. My job is to run this place like a diamond-encrusted machine—and if trouble sparks, I snuff it out before security even unclips their radios.

And yeah, I do it all with hips that could stop traffic and a chest HR has politely suggested I “minimize.”

Spoiler: I don’t.

My curves aren’t apologies; they’re warnings. I wear them like a signature.

We pass a high-limit room host waving us down. I lift a finger—on it—then keep moving.

The first rule of running the floor?

If Anatoly Ovechkin steps onto the floor, you notice.

Even if you’re pretending not to.

Anatoly Ovechkin isn’t just the boss—he’s the kind of man who walks into a room and the air shifts like it’s been given new instructions.

He transformed the Hospitium into the top tier of Vegas profits.

He’s whispered about in break rooms and VIP lounges alike—part myth, part warning.

Security says he never raises his voice. Dealers swear he can tell if you’re skimming chips by the way you breathe. And every so often, a guest who thought the rules didn’t apply to them is quietly escorted out… and somehow never comes back.

The Bratva uses his hotel for meetings. No one’s sure how deep that connection runs. People call him powerful; others say dangerous. Me? I think both are true.

We’ve barely exchanged more than formal pleasantries, and only in group settings.

Not because I’m scared of him?—

Okay.

Maybe because I’m scared of him.

And because men like Anatoly aren’t just bosses. They’re storms. You don’t get close unless you’re ready for lightning.

Still… there’s a part of me—a small, insubordinate part—that wants to figure him out. He’s a puzzle no one solves. I haven’t dared to try.

Not yet.

We’re almost to roulette when a floor supervisor taps his radio twice—our quiet code for “guest is hot.” I slide in.

“Ma’am,” Mr. Wheel-Is-Rigged insists, red-faced, “I’m not saying you’re cheating. I’m saying the house is cheating.”

I paste on my best soothing smile, the one that can de-escalate a bar fight or a toddler. “I hear you. Let me pull the spin recording and we’ll review it together. If the ball is telepathic, I’ll write it up for HR.”

He gives a laugh he doesn’t want to give. Good enough. I flag the supervisor, promise a follow-up, and step away.

The side corridor that parallels the tables is lined with mirrored panels; I catch myself in one and pause for half a second.

Dark brown hair—sleek ponytail, bangs that soften what stress tries to sharpen. Brown eyes that go warm for guests and razor for problems.

Black blouse, fitted; pencil skirt hugging hips like it was born there; nude heels that lengthen my legs and announce my presence in precise clicks.

My badge says Assistant Manager.

My posture says Try me.

Movement interrupts the reflection.

Not a face.

A disturbance.

Black suit shoulder. A watch cuts light. The floor tightens.

Anatoly Ovechkin doesn’t enter a room; he sets its temperature.

Tall, broad, precise. A suit that fits like a command.

No tie. Top button open. Control, not casual.

Dark-blond hair pushed back, not careful.

A proud mouth with hard lines.

Eyes—pale, cold, taking inventory.

Conversations stop.

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 the nearest 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.

He steps in and the car feels smaller, oxygen thinner.

He doesn’t just enter; he eclipses.

His gaze drops to the man’s hand on me, then lifts to the man’s face.

I have never been afraid of anyone in this building—until now.

Not for me.

For him.

He hits the emergency stop without breaking eye contact. The elevator lurches, groaning to a halt.

The panel glow paints the angles of his face; his eyes are storm-glass, furious and cold.

“Move your hand,” he says, voice quiet enough to scrape bone.

The creep jerks back.

Anatoly rolls his shoulders, knuckles flexing one by one—an ugly, deliberate sound.

“We’ve got twelve floors to go,” he says, calm as a closing door. “That’s a lot of time to make a problem disappear. Apologize.”

The man pales. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, glancing at me. “Didn’t mean?—”

Anatoly steps into his space until there is nowhere left for the man to go. When he speaks again, it detonates in the small space.

“Out. Now.”

The creep flinches like he’s been struck, scrambles sideways, and slips through the doors. They slide shut.

The silence that follows hums.

And now it’s just us.

The air thickens, each breath edged with expensive cologne and something darker. He doesn’t move for a moment—just watches me, reading, weighing.

“You hit hard,” he says at last.

“I can handle myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

He steps closer. Not crowding. Not yet. But enough that heat leaks off him and into my skin. My back finds the cool panel.

“No one touches you without your permission,” he says, low. “Not in my hotel.”

I tip my chin up. “Are you always this…protective of your employees?”

His gaze drops—swift, deliberate—to the curve of my hip before locking on my eyes again. “Only the ones worth keeping.”

My pulse stumbles.

Heat slides under my skin.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I had it covered,” I say.

“I noticed.” His voice is soft and rough at once.

The elevator gives a soft shudder as it climbs. I don’t move.

“You’re shaking,” he says.

“It’s the AC,” I lie.

“Go home, Taylor,” he says, low enough to vibrate in my bones.

I step out on legs that don’t feel like mine.

He stays inside, a wall of heat and restraint, watching. By the time I reach the staff hallway, I’m breathing like I just ran a sprint.

It’s not adrenaline.

And I know it.