Page 13 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

I ’ve barely touched Anatoly’s sleeve, the warning poised on my lips, when the taller punk decides to push his luck. He sneers, all bravado, and lunges forward with a clumsy, wild swing.

My heart jumps into my throat. “Anatoly!” I gasp, instinctively clutching his arm.

He moves so quickly, so smoothly, that it looks rehearsed. He sidesteps the punch as casually as if he’s avoiding a passing waiter, and grips the jerk’s wrist in midair, effortlessly twisting his arm into a hold behind his back.

No struggle. Little effort. Cool, perfect precision.

The kid gasps in shock and pain, face pressed awkwardly against the brick storefront. His friend backs up a step, mouth slack, the cockiness instantly replaced by panic.

“You were saying?” Anatoly growls softly into the guy’s ear.

“Let go, man!” the punk squirms, voice high and breathless.

“I will,” Anatoly says, his voice low and dangerous, “when you apologize to the lady.”

The punk squirms again, harder. Anatoly calmly adjusts his grip, leaving no more wiggle room. “Apologize or I break your arm.”

The other guy looks back and forth between the two of them. “Just do it, Jake,” he mutters. “C’mon, dude.”

Jake tries to twist again, to no avail, face red. Then he groans. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Jeez. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Anatoly pauses, deciding whether or not to believe him. After a long, tense second, he releases Jake with a casual shove. The kid stumbles away, rubbing his wrist and shooting nervous glances over his shoulder.

“You, too,” Anatoly says, fixing his lethal gaze on Jake’s friend, who immediately mumbles a hasty apology, eyes wide like a scolded child.

Satisfied, Anatoly straightens his cuffs with eerie calm. “Now, screw off. And watch your mouths in the future.”

They scurry away like rats.

The second they’re gone, Anatoly’s attention shifts completely to me. His eyes soften and the lethal menace evaporates like it never existed.

“Are you alright?” He steps closer, gently taking my shoulders.

I nod, letting out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I’m okay. Jesus, that happened so fast.”

“They are young and stupid, and I hope they learned a lesson tonight.” He carefully studies my face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” I assure him, a weak laugh escaping me. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. The big girl part, I mean.”

He shakes his head. “You have nothing to feel ashamed about. They’re idiots.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But things could’ve gotten really ugly.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“I appreciate you looking out for me.”

He reaches for his phone and dials a number. “My car. Now,” he orders curtly before returning the phone to his jacket. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

His voice is gentle, warm, and it feels good—making me feel safer than I want to admit.

Within minutes, Anatoly’s sleek black sedan pulls smoothly to the curb. The driver, discreet and professional, opens the rear door for us. Anatoly helps me inside then slides in next to me, instantly making the spacious car feel intimate.

“Thank you,” I say softly, smoothing my skirt nervously. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

His jaw tightens, anger flickering briefly in his eyes. “I don’t tolerate disrespect. Especially toward you.”

He could’ve broken the guy’s wrist if he wanted to. Heat floods my face. “You barely know me,” I whisper. “Why defend me?”

“You’re going to be my wife,” he replies quietly, holding my gaze. “I’m going to defend you, Taylor. Get used to it.”

My stomach flips. It’s thrilling and unfamiliar to have someone look at me with such fierce protectiveness. I’ve spent so long rescuing other people—Chris, mostly—that I don’t remember what it feels like to have someone in my corner.

Especially someone like Anatoly Ovechkin.

He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—dark, rich, tempting—and I’m suddenly acutely aware of every inch of space between us.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. “You deserve respect, and you’ll have it from everyone who crosses your path.”

His intensity is magnetic and irresistible.

“Thank you,” I breathe, unsure how else to respond.

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering. “You’re welcome.”

Without thinking, I lean slightly closer, drawn by instinctive need. His hand brushes mine, then deliberately rests on my thigh.

His touch is firm, tracing slow, tempting circles on my skin. His fingers glide upward, slipping smoothly beneath the hem of my skirt. A rush of warmth floods between my legs, and my breath catches.

“Anatoly.” My voice trembles, uncertainty and raw desire mingled in one whispered word.

“Yes?” he asks quietly, his eyes dark, hand pausing right where I desperately don’t want him to stop.

I swallow, heart racing. “You’re making it hard to keep this strictly business.”

“Good,” he replies, leaning in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “I’d hate to think I was the only one tempted to blur those lines.”

He tilts my chin upward with his free hand and captures my lips in a kiss that makes my head spin.

Gentle at first, then deeper, demanding.

His mouth is warm, skillful, coaxing my lips apart.

I lean into him, losing all inhibitions, my body trembling as his hand slowly moves higher beneath my skirt, teasing closer to where I ache so badly for his touch.

Just as his fingertips brush my panties, sending sparks through my veins, the car glides smoothly to a stop in front of my apartment.

I blink, dizzy with frustration. “We’re here already?”

He pulls back slowly, eyes blazing with a hunger that mirrors mine. “Apparently.”

He helps me from the car, the night air cool and unwelcome after his hot touch. As we walk toward my door, he clears his throat. “We’ll be married one week from today.”

“Oh. So soon?”

“Yes.” He turns to face me fully, his expression carefully neutral again. “At the Little White Chapel.”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You—seriously? The Little White Chapel?”

He shrugs, a rare glint of humor warming his eyes. “When in Vegas.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head in amused disbelief. “I guess I didn’t peg you as the Vegas cliché type.”

“You’ll find I have many layers,” he replies. “And it’s effective for our purposes. Quick, discreet, very Vegas.”

My chest tightens a little, anticipation threading through me again. “All right. One week. I’ll marry you.”

He steps closer, reaching up to gently brush a stray lock of hair from my face. His touch sends fresh heat through me, but this time he keeps it controlled. “Goodnight, Taylor.”

He leans forward and kisses me gently, chastely, on the cheek, so different from the possessive kiss in the car that I nearly laugh. But it still leaves my heart thudding and my skin burning.

I watch silently as he walks back to the waiting car. He slides in and closes the door, the sedan vanishing smoothly into the night.

I let out a shaky breath, fingers touching the spot on my cheek where he kissed me. My body still hums with frustration and desire, my mind spinning with a hundred different emotions—nervousness, excitement, confusion, longing.

He’d fought for me tonight. Protected me. Wanted me in a way I could feel to my core.

I walk into my apartment on shaky legs and close the door, leaning against it with a sigh. My fingers drift to my lips, still tingling from his kiss.

I can’t deny it. The idea of marrying Anatoly—a dangerous, complicated, and protective man—has suddenly become a lot less frightening, and infinitely more tempting.

As I prepare for bed, I replay every thrilling, terrifying moment. The confrontation, his quick strength, his restrained power. His touch, his mouth, the way he looked at me—like I’m precious, desirable, and worth defending.

One week. Then I’ll be his, at least officially.

But after tonight, a dangerous little voice whispers that maybe I want a lot more than just official.