Page 14 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

T he Little White Chapel smells like fresh roses and polished oak, the combination surprisingly charming rather than cliché.

Silk ivy gracefully winds around gleaming white columns, tiny fairy lights nestled between the leaves cast the chapel in a soft, romantic glow.

Overhead, a delicate crystal chandelier throws gentle sparkles across the cozy entryway, turning my pre-wedding jitters into something almost magical and full of promise—unmistakably Vegas.

I’m getting married today.

It wasn’t an easy yes, but in the end, it came down to one thing—Chris.

My brother might be reckless, impulsive, and catastrophically short on gratitude, but he’s still mine to protect. And if signing a marriage certificate is what it takes to keep him breathing, then I’ll do it.

Even if he hasn’t exactly said thank you. Like, ever.

I smooth my clammy palms down the front of my dress. It’s knee length and vintage, a lucky $20 find from a thrift store's “just perfect” bin.

Across the narrow room, Chris paces hard enough to rattle the wall art. He’s wearing a wrinkled suit that smells faintly of aftershave, tie knotted like a noose.

“This is insane,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re basically selling yourself, Taylor. For me. That’s what this is.”

I shoot him a glare over my shoulder as I check my lipstick in the mirror. “I’m not selling anything. I agreed to it. There's a difference.”

He scoffs, still pacing. “Yeah, well, semantics don’t change the fact that you’re marrying a guy with ties to the Russian mob. You’re making a deal with the devil.”

I meet his eyes in the reflection, my voice calm and cutting. “I’m keeping you out of a grave, Chris. That’s the only part that matters right now.”

His mouth opens, then quickly shuts again.

His hair is messy, sticking up at various angles. His pupils are blown wide. He claims he’s sober, but his pulse is so loud I can practically hear the leftover amphetamine drumming in his veins.

“Anyway, it’s happening,” I say, more to anchor myself than anything. “We’re five minutes from showtime.”

“It’s not happening.” He spins me to face him, voice sharp. “Tay, you cannot marry that psychopath.”

“Anatoly is not a psychopath.” I cross my arms, willing the tremor in my hands to stop. “He’s my boss, and he’s the only reason you’re not doing a dead-man’s float in Lake?Mead right now.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.” Chris drags both hands through his hair, causing it to look even wilder. “And what, I’m supposed to act like you’re in love with this guy?”

I inhale through my nose—four counts—hold—exhale. I wish I had somewhere to stash the adrenaline coursing through me.

“It’s a business contract, not a love story. One year. Then we reassess.”

Chris laughs. “Oh, I bet he’ll reassess. Rich men always do. You’ll end up barefoot and pregnant in a penthouse while he’s banging his secretary.”

The mental picture punches me in the gut but I shove it aside. “Are you high?”

“Not high,” he insists, voice climbing. “Just not letting you ruin your life because I messed up.”

A door creaks and the chapel receptionist pokes her head in, cat’s-eye glasses magnifying her concern. “Everything okay in here?”

“Fine,” I chirp, flashing a sugary smile. “Just working through the pre-wedding jitters.”

She retreats, door clicking shut. The second it closes, I turn back to Chris.

“You made this mess,” I remind him, voice low. “I’m just paying the contractor to haul away the rubble.”

“Call it off.” His voice cracks. “We’ll run—Mexico, Canada—wherever. They won’t find us.”

I bark a laugh. “They’re Bratva , Chris. They’d find you hiding in Antarctica among the penguins.”

He points a shaky finger at me. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself.”

My throat tightens. “Funny, because you sacrificed me the second you and your shithead friends snorted seventy grand of their product, knowing there was only one person who could bail you out.”

His face crumples—guilt, self-pity, rage—then hardens into defiance. “I’m not walking you down that aisle.”

“Fine. But don’t you dare ruin this. I’m saving your life, remember.”

He steps closer, breath sour. “I won’t have my sister become the whore of some billionaire prick.”

The slur detonates between us. My palm itches to slap him, but Mom’s voice whispers in my head, Violence solves nothing, Tay . Instead, I lock eyes with him, fury stinging.

“Say it again, Christopher. I dare you. Say that again to the one person who’s giving up her freedom to save your life.”

He blanches but anger shoves him forward. “You don’t have to do this. I didn’t ask you to do this.” He turns toward the door.

Before I can unload every four-letter word I know, the vestibule door swings open, and Chris walks smack into a wall of Russian steel.

Anatoly fills the doorway, charcoal vest molded to a torso carved from marble, shirt sleeves rolled to reveal forearms traced with veins. His face is stone—hard jaw, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Eyes glacial blue.

He looks calm, but electricity crackles off him like static before lightning.

God, he looks good.

Chris stumbles back. Anatoly doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. He owns the room. He always does.

“Is there a problem?” His voice is low but lethal.

“Private conversation,” Chris mutters, squaring his shoulders, paper armor against a tank. “Private family conversation.”

“I heard shouting.” His gaze slides to me, catalogs the flush burning my cheeks, then returns to my brother. “And insults.”

“Family business,” Chris tries again, louder this time.

Anatoly steps forward, just one measured stride. Chris’s back hits the floral wallpaper-covered wall with a dull thud .

“Taylor is my family now, too,” he says softly. “And I won’t tolerate anyone calling my bride a whore. Not even her brother.”

No one has ever defended me like that.

Chris’s bravado flickers. He looks at me, waiting for rescue, but I simply fold my arms, letting the silence answer.

“Fuck this,” he mutters and moves to shove past Anatoly, getting nowhere.

“Your sister is making a sacrifice,” he says. “Show some gratitude. And respect.”

“I don’t need her help,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t need some billionaire prick telling me what to do, either.”

Anatoly chuckles then looks at me.

“If you leave,” I tell Chris, “I’ll still pay your debt because I promised to. But that’s it. No more bailouts, no more 2?a.m. panic calls. You’re on your own.” My voice is steady and firm.

Chris risks a glance at Anatoly. Realizing no help is coming, he spits, “Fine. Enjoy your fairy-tale cage.”

And with that, he turns to leave.

Maybe for good.