Page 25 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

T he elevator hums beneath us, speeding toward the lobby. Anatoly stands at my side, vibrating with a dark, coiled anger that makes my stomach flutter for reasons both good and bad.

His jaw is tight. His fists, clenched. The air around him feels heavy.

The moment the doors open, I spot Ivan Smirnov and his goons sauntering across the casino floor. Laughing. Relaxed. Confident.

Too confident.

Anatoly’s body goes rigid when he sees them. His hand brushes my lower back instinctively, steering me forward, like he’s ready to shield me if needed.

Suddenly, he peels away from me, stepping forward like a loaded gun ready to go off.

“Anatoly,” I hiss, reaching out and grabbing his wrist.

He stops, a breath away from storming across the casino floor. His nerves are wound so tight he’s practically vibrating.

“Not here,” I whisper urgently. “Not now.”

He turns toward me, slow and lethal. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to ignore me, if he’s too far gone into that cold, ruthless place I’ve only glimpsed.

But then, his pulse kicks once under my fingers, and he exhales, slow and controlled.

He nods.

Anatoly lets me tug him half a step back, just enough to keep us in the shadows, while Ivan and his men blend into the casino crowd. We watch as Ivan reaches into his jacket pocket and flicks something small and red into one of the trash cans near the front doors before exiting the casino.

Anatoly mutters a curse in Russian under his breath. “Move.”

We cross the lobby fast. Anatoly reaches the trash can and plunges his hand in without hesitation, fishing out the discarded item.

He holds it up and my stomach drops.

Sure enough, it’s a Hospitium executive keycard.

Anatoly turns it over in his hand, jaw flexing like he’s holding back the urge to snap it in half—or snap someone in half.

Anatoly slides the card into his pocket. “Someone upstairs gave it to him and entrusted him with it.”

He gives me a sidelong look, dark flames in his eyes.

“We’re going to find out who,” he promises, his voice low and deadly. “And when we do…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

I already know.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re back in Anatoly’s office.

He’s pacing, one hand in his pocket.

“Let’s go through the list of executive card holders again. Me, Damas, Mrs. Belova, Charles, head of security…”

“Any contractors who might have one? Any lost cards?”

His eyes flash. “Possibly. But that wasn’t a plumber’s key. That was red-tier access—direct override to any floor, no questions asked.”

I rub my arms, chilled. This office might be dozens of stories above the Strip, but right now it feels about as safe as a cheap motel room with a busted lock.

He stops pacing long enough to face me. “Someone gave Ivan that card on purpose.”

“Any suspects?” I ask. I definitely have one of my own.

Something else occurs to me, a question I’m almost afraid to ask.

I take a breath and ask anyway. “The penthouse... it’s got a lock from the inside, right? One they can’t override?”

He nods. “Steel bolt. Biometric scan. Once I add your print, no one gets in without you or me.”

Relief washes over me, but the worry remains.

“Still. The idea that anyone with the right plastic card can ride straight up to our front door?”

He watches me closely. “You’d rather stay at your apartment.”

Part of me wonders if I should, as if going back to my apartment would let me get out of all of this and I could go back to my old life.

But I know that’s not an option, and I’m not even sure I would take it if it were.

“No,” I say slowly. “I’d rather be here. But we can’t have people playing Mission Impossible with our security protocols.”

He gives me a warm smile. “You’re right. We start fresh. Mrs. Belova will call a meeting with Charles and all the department heads. I want every current keycard deactivated and new ones issued with two-step authentication.”

“And donuts,” I suggest. “You’re about to panic a dozen department heads. Donuts will help.”

He chuckles. “Remind me to make you chief of employee morale.”

“Oh, I already am. Self-proclaimed.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, then to my curves, to the soft stretch of cotton hugging my hips.

“Careful, Mrs. Ovechkina,” he says, stepping into my space. “I’m easily distracted by effective leadership.”

“I’ve noticed.”

His hands circle my waist.

“Come.” Anatoly’s hand slides to the small of my back, guiding me toward a sleek hallway tucked behind the high-limit slots. “Let’s get you settled in our place.”

Our place .

The words drop warm and heavy in my chest, stealing my breath for a second. I don’t know when it started feeling real—this marriage, this man—but something in me is leaning toward it like gravity.

We reach a discreet panel of black glass. Anatoly presses his palm against the biometric pad, a soft sapphire light scanning his fingerprint. The doors glide open, revealing the private elevator that will take us to the top.

My nerves flutter like butterflies in my stomach. I’ve seen every inch of this hotel—except the penthouses. This elevator is off-limits to everyone but ownership. I step inside like I’m crossing a velvet rope into another universe.

The doors whisper closed behind us, cutting out the casino noise. The walls gleam with mirrored panels and polished steel, cool and sleek. I catch our reflections—his towering frame, my uncertain smile—and wonder who this woman is who just moved into a billionaire’s fortress.

He turns to face me, and without a word, backs me gently against the mirror. His breath feathers the shell of my ear.

“I’ll join you later. Anything you need,” he says, brushing a kiss just beneath my jaw, “just text.”

He kisses my mouth, and before I have a chance to process what’s happening, the doors open to the foyer on floor sixty-one. I step out and look over my shoulder as the doors slide closed, catching one more glimpse of Anatoly before he heads back downstairs.

My suitcases wait neatly beside a tall, abstract statue. I drag them across the herringbone hardwood floor in the direction of where Anatoly told me the master suite is located.

I insert my key card and the doors open, taking my breath away.

The place is amazing.

Floor-to-ceiling glass walls frame the Vegas skyline like a live postcard, neon spilling into the penthouse. The place is all marble, dark glass, and effortless luxury.

A grand piano sits in the corner. The air smells like leather, expensive whiskey, and Anatoly himself.

Above me, the ceiling vaults high enough to practically have its own weather system, soft lights above twinkling like a private galaxy. To my right, a sunken living room sprawls out—charcoal sofas, a jade-inlaid fireplace, and a full bar.

A set of double doors draws my attention, calling to me. I wander down the hall toward them, heart beating a little too fast, and push them open.

The bedroom is pure sex and sanctuary. I melt at the sight.

A matte black canopy bed big enough to host an orgy sits in the middle of the room.

Plush cream linens and a Persian rug so soft I want to dive onto it face-first offer a soft warmth.

The city glows outside the glass walls, wrapping the room in a wash of multicolored light.

Biting my lip, I cross to the attached bathroom and swing the door open.

A massive walk-in stone-and-glass shower greets me. It’s outfitted with multiple body jets and a rain showerhead above. There’s also a large freestanding tub. The platinum faucets look like sculptures sitting atop blown-glass bowls. A crystal chandelier hangs casually over it all.

I can’t believe this is my new home.

I lean against the bathroom doorway, contemplating the life I just stepped into.

Unpacking quickly becomes meditation.

The walk-in closet is bigger than my entire kitchen at my apartment.

His suits are arranged by color with military precision: grays, blues, navies, dark greens, and blacks, all spaced exactly an inch apart.

His shoes are lined up on dark wood shelves like soldiers—polished Oxfords, sleek Italian loafers, and boots.

There are also several pairs of running shoes and casual sneakers.

I add my splash of chaos carefully.

Silk blouses in poppy reds and bright jewel tones slip in next to his steely order.

My battered Converse and a few pairs of heels, boots, and sandals settle next to his regimented rows of leather.

A few sundresses—a couple of them too short, a few maybe a little too loud—find homes beside his crisp button-downs.

Our worlds collide politely.

I smooth the hangers, heart thudding. There's something weirdly intimate about putting my clothes in beside his, like fitting puzzle pieces together that weren’t meant to match but somehow click together anyway.

I shake my head, laughing. Get a grip, Taylor .

I trail my fingers over the fabrics. I notice a drawer cracked open a little bit, and I nudge it open further, revealing rows of cuff links gleaming under the soft lighting. Tiny weapons of mass seduction. Onyx studs. Gold knots. Silver ones engraved with the Hospitium logo.

God, I think, he even armors up sexy.

I keep moving, nosy as hell now. The lower shelves contain casual wear. And tucked neatly at the bottom are his swim trunks. Tight. Black. Designer. The kind that leave very little to the imagination.

I fan myself dramatically with one hand. Okay, so my husband’s a walking thirst trap.

For a second, I just stand there like an idiot, imagining Anatoly wearing nothing but those trunks, glistening from the pool, water dripping down all those chiseled planes of muscle. These definitely aren’t the swim trunks he wore in the penthouse pool the day after our wedding.

A clatter jerks me back to reality. One of my boots topples sideways off the shelf, hitting the floor with a loud thud , disrupting this temple of masculine order.

I scramble to fix it, cheeks burning. "Smooth, Taylor," I say. "Real smooth."

An uncertain smile tugs at my mouth when I place the boot back. Maybe I don’t fit here perfectly. Maybe I’m still half wild, half worried, half wondering what the hell I’m doing.

Yet despite my concerns, it still feels...right.

I’m folding my last pair of jeans when I hear the door open. Anatoly strides in, tie loose, jacket gone, sleeves rolled up, showing his powerful forearms.

“Any leads?” I ask, stuffing my jeans into a drawer, trying to pretend like I wasn’t just fantasizing about him.

“Not yet. The meeting will be held first thing in the morning. The current cards will be neutralized by midnight.” He leans on the closet doorframe, eyes scanning the newly mingled clothing. “It’s surreal, seeing color in here.”

“Happy to brighten your monochromatic world.” I toss him a smile over my shoulder.

A beat of silence before he looks away, something clearly on his mind.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I hate that you were scared.”

I push the drawer shut and turn to face him. “I was angry, more than scared, and curious. Who would be willing to sell us out and put us in danger?”

He nods in understanding. “Bribery is cheaper than breaking in. Someone needed the cash or likes taking risks.” His gaze sharpens. “Anyone under you that you know of—guest services, concierge—holding a grudge? Deep in debt?”

I shake my head. “None of them has access cards. Plus, Mrs. B would have to authorize replacements.”

“Then we start with Damas’s staff.” A shadow crosses his face, and I spot a flicker of hurt and disappointment. Family betrayals cut the deepest.

Silence reigns for a beat, then a wry grin spreads across his face. “Technically,” he says, drawing me close, “we’re still on our honeymoon until dawn. The rest can wait.”

Heat unfurls low in my belly as his palms slide to my waist, thumbs brushing the curve of my ribs. “And what is it that newlyweds do on honeymoon nights?”

There’s a predatory gleam in his eye. “Let me show you.”

My heart does a flip, and I smile. I rise on tiptoe and brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

I expect him to steer me toward the bed, but at the last second, he grins wickedly and pivots us toward one of the walls of the walk-in closet instead.

“Oh no,” I laugh breathlessly as my back bumps against the smooth wall. “Not even making it to the bed?”

He cages me in with his arms, towering, sexy, and so stupidly handsome that my knees threaten betrayal. “Efficiency,” he murmurs. “One of my best qualities.”

I loop my arms around his neck, tugging him closer until our bodies are pressed flush. “You’re lucky you’re hot,” I tease.

He nips my lower lip, making me gasp. “Lucky’s not the word I’d use.”

Before I can sass back, his hands skim down my sides, over the curve of my hips, gripping the skin on my thighs like he can’t get enough of me. His appreciation isn't hidden; it’s blatant, hungry, worshipful.

“You drive me insane,” he growls against my throat. “You know that? Every inch of you, Taylor. Every goddamn inch.”

A moan escapes and I arch into him shamelessly, loving how easily he handles me, how much he clearly wants every curvy part of me. When his palm slips under the hem of my dress, fingers brushing bare skin, I swear my brain short-circuits.

“You planning to ravish me right here?” I manage, breathless.

His grin is pure sex. “Planning’s over. It’s execution time.”