Page 16 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

T he ceremony’s over.

We are seated in a private dining room at the Palms.

Across the table, Mrs. Belova perches like Vegas royalty in navy silk, her posture perfect as always. Her husband, Igor, is old-world charm epitomized in a crisp, black suit. Charles sits beside him, beaming with pride, the only person here who feels like home.

A server glides in with the appetizers—quail egg on truffle toast, each one bite-sized. I barely glance at mine. My stomach's a tight knot of nerves, so I nibble around the edges, sipping water like it's a vintage Bordeaux.

Conversation and laughter roll gently around the table. Something is said about a celebrity guest demanding gold-flaked bath salts, and I manage a polite smile, moving my food around the plate like I intend to eat it.

Charles sets down his fork, then dabs his mouth with his napkin, chuckling. “I’ll never forget the time Anatoly unclogged a guest room toilet himself. When I saw it happening, I told him I supposed it’s better than risking a bad Yelp review.”

Igor lifts his glass, smiling. “Efficiency with a plunger. That’s a trait of kings.”

Anatoly cuts in. “It wasn’t about the review. It was about respect—my respect for my staff, specifically. I expect no one to do what I wouldn’t do myself.”

The room quiets for a beat. Even Mrs. B nods her head in subtle approval. I risk a glance at my husband—gorgeous as hell in his tailored suit, completely at ease commanding the space.

And just like that, my appetite fades further, because the only thing I’m hungry for is him.

Mrs. B smiles. “I’ll recall the client who tried to bribe me with a watch so he could sneak in on your schedule, Anatoly. A fake Rolex, no less.”

Damas offers a humorless laugh and raises his glass. “To powerful women who take no nonsense.”

“Careful, Damas,” Anatoly says smoothly. “She may take that as an invitation to test your limits.”

That earns genuine laughter around the table. Even I smile, though there’s a small ache behind it.

This is my wedding, but there are no bridesmaids, no cake-cutting, no charmingly awkward family toasts. Just this curated collection of near strangers, and a gaping brother-shaped hole beside me.

I glance at the empty chair.

“Everything okay?” Anatoly asks quietly. His hand slips to the small of my back.

I force a smile. “Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

“You’re allowed to take up space, too, solnishka. ” His breath brushes the edge of my ear, and I shiver.

Across the table, Damas raises his champagne flute. “To the bride and groom. May your days be long, your nights even longer,” his eyes flick briefly to me, unsettling me, “and may your children be as intelligent and beautiful as their mother.”

I stiffen. The word children clangs in my skull like a pinball. The others laugh politely, clinking glasses. I lift mine, but the smile I flash is porcelain-thin.

The joke stings, and not just because Damas gives me the creeps.

It’s because he’s toasting to something I’ll never be able to give Anatoly.

Anatoly leans in close. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

The low rumble of his voice shoots a shiver straight down my spine. I turn my head toward him and our noses almost brush. God, he smells good. “I’m fine. Just absorbing everything.”

He studies me as his hand slides a fraction lower on my back. I can feel his warmth through the silk of my dress, and my pussy clenches. For a moment, all I can think about is him buried inside of me.

Damas clears his throat, drawing attention.

“So, big brother,” he begins, voice smooth as Scotch, “you finally joined the ranks of married men. Mother would be thrilled.”

Anatoly’s posture stiffens, but his tone stays mild. “She would be pleased.”

Damas turns to me, smile perfectly pitched. “Taylor, tell me, how does it feel marrying into our unconventional family?”

There’s something in his eyes, curiosity edged with calculation, like he’s trying to read my future worthiness. I meet his gaze head-on, channeling every ounce of confidence and poise I can.

“I’ve been dealing with high-stakes guests for years. I can handle a few unconventional in-laws.”

Igor chuckles, Mrs.?B lifts an approving brow, and Charles beams. Damas’s smile doesn’t falter, but a flicker of something resembling annoyance flares before he can mask it.

More plates of food arrive, but I still barely touch mine.

I cut small pieces and nudge them around with my fork, pretending to savor a bite here and there. It’s all theater. My nerves are winning the battle against my appetite.

Across the table, Charles hums his appreciation of the good food. Igor is deep in debate with the sommelier about vintages.

I can feel Anatoly’s gaze like a brushstroke down my skin. Not pushy. Not possessive. Just watching.

I suspect he’s noticed how little I’ve eaten, but he doesn’t call me out. He just sits there, composed and unreadable.

My face flushes when dessert arrives.

“Tell me you saved room,” he says as the waiters begin clearing the plates.

“For dessert?” I ask, lifting a brow.

His eyes darken. “For later.”

I nearly choke on a laugh. “Bold, Mr. Ovechkin.”

He leans closer, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Husband, malyshka. Call me bold again later tonight.” Goose bumps erupt down my arms.

Post-dinner conversation drifts to travel horror stories—an easy shift that has everyone loosening up. Igor launches into a tale about being stranded in Murmansk during a blizzard with nothing but vodka, dried fish, and a group of grumpy German tourists.

Charles chuckles. “That still beats the time I lost an entire bus tour at Hoover Dam. I blinked, turned around, and thirty senior citizens had vanished like a magician’s act.”

Laughter ripples across the table. Even Mrs. B snorts, shaking her head in fond disbelief.

I smile politely, but it feels tight. I want to relax, to join in, to match the warmth humming between these people who all seem so at ease. But nerves keep churning in my gut, and my thoughts keep circling back to my brother.

I should be mad at him, pissed that I pulled his ass out of the fire only for him to call me a name that should’ve earned him a slap in the face.

But I can’t help it. He’s family. I love him, no matter what.

Damas interjects with well-timed one-liners. But every few minutes, his eyes drift. First to Anatoly’s hand on my waist, then to my face.

Not admiring. Not friendly. More like assessing.

It’s the kind of look that makes me extremely uncomfortable and unsure of myself. Like he’s imagining something, turning it over in his mind.

He masks it, of course, behind a perfect smile and effortless charm.

But the vibe is off. Way off.

Coffee is poured. A few minutes later, Charles checks his watch and stands.

“Old men turn into pumpkins early,” he jokes, hugging me. “You look beautiful, kiddo. Your parents would be proud.” My throat tightens. I hug him back, breathing in his aftershave and comfort. He shakes Anatoly’s hand, nods at Damas, and leaves.

Mrs.?B rises next. She kisses my cheek—shock number two of the night—and says, “Stay strong, little dove.” Igor kisses my knuckles with courtly flair. They exit, leaving me with two brothers whose proximity to one another suddenly feels tense.

Damas swirls the last of his champagne then tosses it back. “Well,” he says, standing, “I’ll leave the newlyweds to their private festivities.” He steps behind me and leans in close, brushing a kiss against my cheek. His lips are cool, leaving a chill on my skin. “Welcome to the family, nevestka. ”

I try not to outwardly shiver and plaster on a smile. “Thank you.”

He claps Anatoly on the shoulder. “Take good care of her.”

“Always,” Anatoly replies.

As soon as the dining room door closes, silence rushes in. Anatoly turns to me, eyes searching. “Talk to me.”

I set my napkin down, suddenly fascinated by the weave of the linen. “I’m still figuring out how I feel about all this,” I say softly. “This whole arrangement. It’s a lot.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I force myself to meet his eyes, unsure of what I’ll see there. Judgment? Frustration?

Instead, all I see is his typical unnerving steadiness. Calm and controlled.

“I appreciate honesty,” he says, his voice low. “Even when it’s uncertain.”

My brow lifts. “That doesn’t scare you?”

A slow, confident smile spreads across his face. “Nothing about you scares me, Taylor.”

That does something to me and my breath stutters. He moves closer—not touching—just close enough so that I can feel the heat of him.

“You’re not expected to feel anything specific yet,” he says. “Not comfort. Not trust. Not affection. But what you’re feeling right now?” His eyes flick to my lips. “It’s real. And that’s enough.”

I swallow hard, cheeks flushing. “What exactly do you think I’m feeling right now?”

His grin deepens, predatory and intimate. “Tempted. Curious. A little unsteady.” He lifts his hand and brushes his thumb across my lower lip. “Just like me.”

He stands and offers his hand. “Ready to escape?”

I slip my fingers into his, electricity running up my arm. “Take me somewhere quiet.”

He leads me out of the dining room, through a private corridor, and into a waiting elevator. We step in and the doors slide shut. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting endless versions of us—me flushed and breathless, him dark and hungry.

I glance at his reflection—broad shoulders tapering to a trim waist, and, good Lord, that ass . Perfectly sculpted in tailored slacks, like he was poured into them. My breath catches, my body getting hot.

“You’re staring,” he says without turning.

“Am not,” I reply.

Without warning, he cages me against the mirrored wall, hands braced on either side of my head. I breathe in the heat of his body, a seductive and steadfast tendril of smoke.

“No more audiences,” he says, gaze dropping to my mouth.

“Thank God.” My palms rise instinctively, flattening against his chest—solid, warm, alive.

I can feel his calm and steady heartbeat, quite the contrast to my own.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“A little,” I admit.

His smile turns wicked. “Don’t worry, malyshka . I know exactly how to fix that.”

He lowers his mouth to mine. The kiss is soft at first, testing, then his tongue slides against mine and the world tilts.

I rise on tiptoes, fingers curling into his hair.

He groans—a low, feral sound—and deepens the kiss.

One hand slides down to cup my ass, pressing me against the unmistakable hardness beneath his suit.

The elevator dings and the doors open to the private penthouse floor. He scoops me into his arms and strides down the hall. I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in. My heart still hammers but the fear is gone.

Only anticipation remains.

When he opens the door and sets me down, I’m surrounded by a palace of glass and marble. City lights blaze beyond the windows, but all I see is his reflection.

He loosens the knot of his tie and tosses it aside. “One year,” he says, voice low. “Fifty-two weeks. Three hundred sixty-five nights.” He steps closer, hands sliding up my back. “I intend to use every one of them wisely.”

I shiver beneath his touch, entirely from pleasure.

“Show me,” I whisper.

He grins.

“I intend to.”