Page 29 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

F ive weeks. Thirty-five days of waking up to Anatoly Ovechkin’s messy hair and raspy voice. That’s thirty-five mornings of watching sunlight stretch over sheets rumpled by way too little sleep—and even less clothing.

Not that I’m complaining.

If someone had told me three months ago that I’d not only marry my boss but also genuinely enjoy sharing a life with him, I’d have asked what they were smoking and where I could get some.

Yet here I am, padding barefoot across the softest carpet I’ve ever felt, the fibers plush beneath my toes like a five-star cloud.

He’s still in bed, all sprawling limbs and smug post-orgasm glow, one arm tossed over the pillow I abandoned minutes ago. The sheet sits low on his hips, muscles on shameless display. Honestly, he’s lucky I don’t crawl back in there and make us both late for work.

Instead, I pull my hair into a lazy ponytail and head for the kitchen.

I’m pouring his usual—dark roast, black, just shy of nuclear—when I feel arms wrap around me from behind. A kiss lands on my neck, warm and sleepy, and that’s the end of me pretending I’m not completely gone for this man.

“Careful,” I say, grinning as his stubble brushes my skin. “You’ll ruin your terrifying CEO reputation.”

“Only with you,” he says, nipping my earlobe like he has nothing better to do than make me melt into a puddle before 8 a.m.

I turn, handing him his cup, and he accepts it with that dangerous sleepy smile that should be illegal. His eyes linger on mine a second too long, and I know he sees it. The tightness in my jaw. The faint shadows under my eyes. I’ve never been good at hiding things from him—not really.

“You’ve been quiet this morning.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undertone of concern and suspicion.

He’s right. I was unusually subdued during our earlier lovemaking. I force a shrug and take a sip of my coffee, sweet and fragrant. “Just tired. I’ve got that appointment today, remember?”

He arches a brow. “Appointment? As in, with a doctor?”

“Yep,” I lie smoothly, chasing it with another gulp of caffeine. “Nothing major.”

It’s not a total lie, more like a half truth. I’ve seen Dr. Marsh every two years for a routine checkup. But this time it’s not routine. This time, I’m scared.

The nausea, the constant fatigue, the weird insomnia that wraps around me like a vice even when I’m dead on my feet—it’s all too familiar.

Like a ghost I thought I’d buried with the last round of chemo all those years ago.

I haven’t told Anatoly because I don’t know how to.

What if it’s back? What if everything we’ve built—this fragile, fierce thing between us—is just a prelude to goodbye?

“I can cancel my meetings,” he offers suddenly, and it’s so like him—protective, ready to bulldoze through his schedule if I so much as sneeze, “and go with you.”

I shake my head and smile, wrapping my arms around his middle. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be in and out. Besides, someone’s gotta keep the Hospitium from descending into chaos while I’m gone.”

He leans down, pressing a kiss to my temple, then my lips. It’s tender and intense all at once.

I linger in his embrace a few seconds longer, drawing strength from the steady beat of his heart under my cheek.

Dr. Marsh’s waiting room hasn’t changed at all in the last two years.

The same worn magazines are stacked neatly on the corner table, the same watercolor landscape hangs above the reception desk, and the air still carries that faint smell of antiseptic—a scent that instantly pulls me back to childhood hospital visits.

I tap my fingers nervously against my thigh, counting down the minutes until the door opens and Dr. Marsh beckons me inside.

My stomach knots itself tighter with each passing second.

It's ridiculous to be this nervous; this appointment should be routine, precautionary, to confirm the leukemia hasn’t returned.

But today feels different.

Today, I’m exhausted. My body feels drained in a way it hasn’t for years, and there’s a nagging nausea lingering in the pit of my stomach. Symptoms I remember all too well from my past. Symptoms I can’t help but fear.

“Taylor?”

Dr. Marsh steps into the waiting area with her usual welcoming smile, clipboard tucked under her arm. Her familiar face immediately brings me comfort. I follow her down the hall and into the exam room, taking a seat on the edge of the table while she settles into her chair across from me.

“It’s great to see you again,” she says warmly, glancing at my chart. “But I get the feeling this isn’t just your regular checkup. Tell me what’s been going on.”

I clear my throat, fidgeting with the edge of my blouse. “I’ve been feeling off. Tired. Not just normal tired, more like completely drained. And nauseous. I haven’t been sleeping great either.”

She nods slowly, scribbling a note on her clipboard. Her expression remains neutral, professional. “Any pain, night sweats, fever, or unusual bruising?”

“No,” I admit, swallowing hard. “Nothing like that.”

She studies me, her eyes gentle behind her glasses. “Alright, let’s start with a blood test. It’s fast, simple, and it’ll give us a good baseline.”

I nod, grateful for her calming presence. She steps out and a nurse arrives a few minutes later, swiftly drawing my blood before slipping quietly back out. Once I’m alone again, the quiet hum of the overhead light becomes deafening.

The waiting is always the worst part. I stare at my hands, picturing Anatoly’s reaction if the worst comes true.

We have an agreement—a year of marriage to fulfill the terms of his family’s will—then we both move on.

It seemed so clear-cut before. But now, thinking about the possibility of the leukemia returning, my chest aches sharply.

Would he leave me if I got sick again? We made no promises of ‘in sickness and in health,’ and I can’t imagine Anatoly would want the burden of a sick wife, especially one who could never fulfill any hope of having children. The thought hits harder than I expect.

I can’t deny it any longer—I’ve caught feelings. Serious feelings. I like waking up next to him, feeling the solid warmth of him pressed against me, sharing easy conversations over coffee every morning. But none of that was ever meant to last, and I have to prepare myself, just in case.

A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Dr. Marsh returns, her expression unexpectedly bright. The tension in my chest loosens just a fraction.

“Please tell me you have good news,” I say softly, bracing for the answer.

Her smile widens. “I have very good news. You’re still completely cancer-free.”

Relief floods through me so powerfully that I sag, my breath leaving me in a rush. “Oh my God. Thank you.”

“But” she continues with a mischievous gleam in her eye, “there is definitely something that explains the symptoms you’ve been having.”

My gut tightens. “What is it?”

Her laughter bubbles up gently. “Taylor, you’re pregnant.”

My entire world seems to freeze. “Wait, what? Pregnant?”

She nods, her smile soft, tender. “Yes.”

My mind races, heart hammering wildly. “But I was told multiple times I could never have children due to the chemotherapy and radiation. They said it wasn’t possible. And what about my ovarian condition?”

Dr. Marsh squeezes my hand gently. “It’s uncommon, Taylor, but not impossible. Leukemia treatments drastically reduce fertility, but some women still manage to conceive. You’re one of those rare exceptions.”

I can barely process her words. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Absolutely sure,” she confirms warmly. “But we need to move quickly. This pregnancy is definitely high-risk, given your medical history. I’ll refer you to an excellent OB/GYN immediately. They’ll monitor you closely and do everything possible to ensure the health of you and your baby.”

She hands me a tissue, and it’s only then that I realize I’ve started to cry—quiet, stunned tears running down my cheeks. I never thought motherhood would be in my future. I’d mourned that loss years ago, certain that door was permanently closed.

“Congratulations, Taylor,” Dr. Marsh says softly, smiling with genuine warmth. “You deserve this joy.”

I nod slowly, dabbing at my eyes. Happiness, disbelief, and terror battle inside me, creating a dizzying whirlpool of emotion.

I press a hand to my stomach, feeling a gentle surge of fierce protectiveness. Whatever happens next, one thing is certain—I’m going to do everything I can to protect this tiny miracle growing inside me.

Somehow, against all odds, I’ve been given a chance at a life I thought was impossible.