Page 21 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

I glance around at the parking lot outside my apartment complex—faded white lines, two dead palm trees, and a sun-bleached soda machine that hasn't worked since the pandemic.

It’s one of those middle-tier places that’s pretty common around Vegas: stucco exterior, mismatched blinds in every window, and just enough landscaping to pass for being maintained.

It’s not glamorous but it’s mine.

As I kill the engine and step out, a tight prickle skates across the back of my neck. The lot is empty except for two compact cars and the maintenance guy’s beater truck.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. I scold myself for being dramatic and haul my bag onto my shoulder. Just nerves, that’s all.

The metal staircase creaks under my boots as I climb to my apartment on the third floor. I slide the key into the lock and turn the deadbolt.

Inside, everything’s the way I left it—clean and tidy. I glance at my cozy sectional couch, the soft throw blanket balled in the corner, a rustic coffee table I found at a thrift store.

I close the door, standing still for a long beat.

Something feels off.

The air holds a strange presence; one I can’t seem to shake.

Despite the feeling, I walk around anyway, checking all the rooms. Bedroom’s empty. Closet and bathroom, too. There’s no one here. Just me and the ghosts of solo living.

I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge, cold air kissing my face. A half-empty carton of oat milk, a container of lo mein I definitely shouldn’t touch, and a single grapefruit La Croix. I crack it open and lean against the counter.

Anatoly offered to pay off the rest of my lease. He said all I needed to do was sign the release papers and he’d handle the rest—no questions, no judgment. I dodged it and changed the subject.

The truth is I need this place as a backup, a tether. As a piece of me that isn’t married to a billionaire with eyes like a storm and hands that destroy every inhibition.

I take a long sip of the sparkling water and look around. It’s small and comfortable. Nothing fancy and it’s not perfect, but it’s mine .

My chest tightens as I think of Chris.

I haven’t heard from him since the wedding. Not a call, not a text, not a damn smoke signal. I know him—when the trouble clears, he runs. And if it’s not running, it’s a relapse. I have no idea which one I’m dealing with, but neither is good.

Suddenly, a memory hits me. He was twelve, trying to braid my Barbie’s hair with peanut butter on his fingers, saying it made her hair shinier. I remember that stupid little grin. I laughed so hard I snorted juice through my nose.

He drove me crazy then. He drives me crazy now. But he’s my little brother.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away fast, refusing to let them fall. I’ve protected him since we were kids and I’m not about to stop now.

Even if it breaks me.

I’m zipping up the final suitcase stuffed with toiletries, chargers, and miscellaneous items when someone knocks on the door.

My stomach leaps.

Nobody ever knocks on my door. I cross the tiny living room, bare feet quiet on the old hardwood.

I peek through the peephole and my breath catches.

Anatoly.

I smile as I twist the lock and pull the door open.

He stands there in a charcoal gray T-shirt and faded jeans, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a coffee cup. Damn, he looks hot.

“The usual,” he says, holding it out. “Oat milk, two shots, extra hot.”

I blink, genuinely touched. “You remembered.”

“I made Muriel write it down.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “But yes, I remembered.”

I take the cup and sip. It’s perfect.

“I got your address from your personnel file,” he adds, scanning the room. “Hope you don’t mind. I just figured you could use a hand.”

I roll my eyes but grin. “I’m glad you’re here, actually. I was trying to puzzle out how to fit three suitcases into my glorified shoebox on wheels.”

He smirks. “Lead the way.”

We carry the first two suitcases down together. My building doesn’t have an elevator—just a staircase that’s seen better days. I bump my elbow on the railing twice. Anatoly doesn’t even break a sweat.

At the curb, he eyes my aging, rusted-out Honda with a look that’s half concern and half amusement.

“Taylor,” he says, “this car looks like it’s trying to find a quiet place to go off and die.”

I laugh. “It’s a classic. Been with me since senior year of high school.”

“Did it also attend prom?”

“Twice,” I say proudly. “And it’s seen more Taco Bell runs than you could possibly imagine.”

He chuckles and lifts the largest case into the back of his glossy black SUV like it’s nothing. I glance at the front of the car and spot a driver waiting patiently in the driver’s seat.

My car gets the smallest suitcase, just barely fitting in the trunk space left over from emergency supplies, a yoga mat, and a tire pump I’ve never used.

I glance sideways at him. “You seriously think I need a new car?”

He raises a brow. “I seriously think you deserve one.”

The kind words make me feel cared for. I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear and avoid eye contact by fiddling with the backseat latch.

“Well, maybe I’ll consider it.”

Once everything’s packed and secured, I brush my hands on my jeans and turn to him.

“Thanks for showing up. That was really sweet.”

He shrugs. “You’re my wife. Of course I showed up.”

Wife .

The word still zings through me like static electricity. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it. But the way he says it causes something inside me to feel settled.

Back upstairs, we step into my near-empty apartment. Anatoly glances around with a sort of amused curiosity.

“So,” he says, leaning against the doorway, “what’s the plan with all of this?”

He glances around and I’m sure he spotted the framed picture of Chris and me at Disneyland—pre-crisis, pre-Bratva, pre-marriage to a mafia-adjacent billionaire.

I clear my throat and lie casually. “The lease isn’t up for another month, so I’ve got some time to figure it out.”

Not true. I know it’s dumb to pay for a second home I won’t be using but giving it up feels like removing my last safety net. And I’m not ready for that. Not when my whole life has just shape-shifted.

He nods. Maybe he believes me. Or maybe he’s just letting it go.

I make the mistake of looking at him.

Gray tee. Sculpted chest. Sleeves stretching just enough across his biceps to make my mouth water. Perfect ass in perfect-fitting jeans.

God help me, I am married to that.

My eyes flick up just in time to catch his knowing smirk. He steps in slowly and places his hands on my hips. His palms are warm. Possessive. Familiar now.

I sway toward him like he’s gravity.

“So,” he asks, voice low and husky, “is the bed still made?”

I grin, my cheeks flushing. “Sure is.”

He leans in, his mouth a breath from mine, the heat of him curling around me like a blanket I don’t want to crawl out of.

His grip on my hips tightens just slightly, pulling me closer. “How about a last hurrah in your apartment?”

I bite my lip to hide the wicked grin trying to form. “I thought you’d never ask.”