Page 23 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

“ Y ou’re quiet,” Anatoly says. “How are you feeling?”

The backseat of Anatoly’s SUV feels like another world compared to the city outside—dim, quiet, cocooned. The partition has been engaged for privacy, and it's just us, soft jazz playing through the speakers.

I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and glance at him, heart doing that annoying flip it always does whenever he checks in on me.

“Excited. Nervous.” I chew my bottom lip. “It feels a little weird, officially moving into your place.”

He smiles, sending heat pooling low in my belly.

“Our place,” he corrects.

I nod but can’t quite shake the weight in my chest. “I’m also worried about Chris,” I admit. “I haven’t heard from him since the wedding. And until the debt’s officially cleared, it’s just,” I shrug helplessly, “it’s hard to relax.”

Anatoly’s hand slides across the seat finding mine, his thumb stroking slow, grounding circles on my wrist. “You’re not alone anymore, Taylor,” he says. “I’ve got you. And your brother’s debt is as good as gone. Nothing’s going to touch you.”

The promise in his voice sends a fierce, stupid, girlish wave of emotion crashing into me. I blink hard, squeezing his hand.

The world outside disappears.

The only thing that matters is the dark intensity in his eyes, the quiet assurance in the way he pulls me gently into his space.

When he leans in, I meet him halfway.

The kiss is slow at first—unhurried, exploratory—but it heats up fast. His mouth demands, and I give, hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer. He groans low against my lips, and that sound alone almost makes me forget my own name.

I shift onto his lap, dress riding up shamelessly. His hands grip my hips, strong and sure, leaving no doubt exactly how badly he wants me.

“Taylor,” he growls against my mouth, voice strained. “You keep doing that and we won’t make it upstairs.”

I grin, kissing along his jawline. “Maybe that’s the idea.”

Before we can find out, the SUV rolls to a smooth stop. The driver’s voice comes through the sound system.

“We’re here, Mr. Ovechkin.”

Anatoly rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Yeah, but what a way to go,” I chuckle.

We hop out, the entry way of the Hospitium bustling with staff and guests, coming and going.The front doors whisper open into the casino’s sparkling lobby.

Normally, I love this place. It’s the heart of my day, my turf. But tonight, it doesn’t feel familiar, it feels tense. And I don’t quite know why.

Anatoly walks beside me, his hand low on my back, warm and steady, like he’s subtly claiming me as his own. Not that I mind. My skin practically hums under his touch.

But then I see them.

Two men in dark suits lean against the marble pillar by the private elevator—our elevator. The one that only Anatoly, Charles, and a select few are supposed to have access to. These guys are definitely not on that list.

They’ve got an ex-military look to them, and there’s no doubt they’re packing heat under their jackets. Postures are too perfect; eyes are too still.

Not hotel security. Not bellhops. Definitely not guests.

Anatoly goes rigid next to me.

I glance up at him, trying to keep my voice breezy. “That your welcoming committee?”

He doesn’t blink. “Something like that.”

Well, okay then. Time to stop pretending this is normal.

The taller guy pushes off the pillar, and I swear the marble moves under his weight.

“Mr. Ovechkin,” he says, voice low and menacing. “Ivan’s waiting upstairs. In your office.”

I glance at Anatoly. If the temperature in the lobby was chilly before, it’s straight-up arctic now. He pulls his phone out slowly. It looks like he’s two seconds from losing it but refusing to give these guys the satisfaction.

“Ivan is here?” he asks. The calmness in his voice is more terrifying than if he shouted the words.

“Waiting,” the man confirms. “Impatiently.”

Anatoly doesn’t respond. He taps out a message on his phone—probably to Charles—and slips it back in his pocket. Then his hand finds mine, giving it a firm squeeze. Reassurance wrapped up in ten fingers.

“Charles is sending bellhops,” he says to me. “They’ll bring your things upstairs.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. So much for peacefully settling into wedded bliss.

The elevator doors open and we step inside. The second they close, the tension inside Anatoly boils over.

He jabs the button for his office floor several times.

I reach out, resting my hand on his arm. “You okay?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “No. Ivan showing up unannounced in my office is not okay. That’s a line even the Bratva shouldn’t cross.”

He scrubs a hand down his face, frustration crackling off him like static. “When we get there, I want you to go straight upstairs. Start unpacking. Don’t come back down unless I tell you it’s clear.”

Fear grips me. “Anatoly?—”

“No.” His tone softens but stays firm. “It’s safer if you’re not involved.”

I nod, biting my lip. The last thing I want is to be the damsel in hiding. But I trust him. More than I probably should.

The elevator chimes, announcing our arrival at his office floor. Anatoly straightens his spine and squares his shoulders as he steps out.

“Go upstairs, Taylor,” he says.

I’m about to press the button for the penthouse when I hear a cold and unpleasant voice.

“Taylor Jenson.”

I freeze. My full name, pronounced with condescension and distaste.

I look up and there he is.

Short. Balding. Dressed in a tacky yet expensive suit. He leans against the wall outside Anatoly’s office like he owns the place, smirking like a cat that just cornered a songbird.

I know this man.

It’s Ivan Smirnov.

The man who wanted my brother dead. The man who now knows my name.

Flanking Ivan are two more bodyguards with necks like tree trunks.

Delightful.

My spine straightens. Whatever flutter of nerves I had shrink beneath a layer of pure, polished rage.

Anatoly looks directly at me, but I don’t need to look at him to know his expression has gone full angel of death.

Ivan’s smirk widens. “I see I’m interrupting the honeymoon.”

I glare directly at him.

“What is this, Ivan?” Anatoly asks curtly, unfriendly.

Anatoly takes my hand, gently guiding me out of the elevator before standing slightly in front of me, shielding me with his body with calm menace and lethal quiet.

As Ivan chuckles low in his throat, I realize I’m in danger.

Anatoly’s hand tightens around mine. Not hard, just enough to say don’t . Whether it’s don’t speak, don’t react, or don’t give him what he wants, I don’t know.

But I oblige.

I glance toward where Mrs. B usually sits. There’s nothing but an empty chair and a perfectly stacked inbox. Weird. The woman never leaves her post. I open my mouth to ask where she is but instantly get another squeeze from Anatoly.

Don’t .

Ivan’s gaze drags over me like sandpaper dipped in oil, slow and unpleasant.

“Your brother is not nearly as charming as you are, Taylor,” he says with a grin that makes my skin crawl. I’m taking another shower as soon as I get upstairs.

My spine stiffens. “Don’t talk about my brother.”

He chuckles, ignoring the bite in my voice. “He’s just business. But you…you’re a pleasant surprise.”

I’m officially nauseous.

Anatoly’s voice cuts through the awkward tension like a blade. “Ivan. Our meeting was scheduled for tomorrow. And not here.”

Ivan shrugs, all faux innocence. “A debt can be paid at any time. I’m just being efficient.”

“The funds will be ready tomorrow,” Anatoly says tightly. “Bank policy.”

Ivan doesn’t even pretend to look at him. His beady little eyes stay locked on me, assessing, like I’m a line item on a menu.

“I thought perhaps there could be another way to settle things. Something more fun.”

The insinuation is so filthy, it practically slithers across the marble. My stomach lurches before I spit out the words, “Absolutely not.”

Ivan’s disgusting grin widens. But he picked the wrong woman to make that comment to.

Anatoly steps forward, putting himself directly between me and Ivan. The air tenses. His body radiates pure, leashed violence, like a coiled spring waiting for an excuse to snap.

He towers over Ivan. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower octave.

Ivan’s guards move in, but Ivan raises his hand, ordering them to stand down.

“You’d be smart,” Anatoly says, each word perfectly measured, “not to make that suggestion again.”

Ivan chuckles weakly, shifting his weight, clearly becoming uncomfortable.

Anatoly goes on. “Because if you do, it will be the last deal you ever offer. To anyone.”

The grin leaves Ivan’s face entirely.

Anatoly steps back toward me, his hand drifting behind him, curling protectively around my hip without even looking. A silent claim, as if to say: Mine. Off-limits.

Ivan’s hands lift in mock surrender. “I meant no offense.”

I speak. “But offense was taken.”

Ivan laughs, a deep, rumbling sound devoid of humor. “Feisty. I like it.”

Behind him, his goons stand ready.

Anatoly nods toward them. “If either of your men take one step toward her, I’ll personally make sure they leave in body bags.”

Ivan raises an eyebrow. “Threats?”

“No,” Anatoly says matter-of-factly. “Promises.”