Page 33 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

“ W hat the hell are you doing here with them ?”

He turns slowly, like a kid caught doing something he knows he shouldn’t. Except instead of looking guilty, he’s smirking.

“Oh, Taylor. What’s up?”

“What’s up?” I ask. “Are you serious? You drop off the radar for weeks, ignoring my calls and texts, then show up here, at my place of work, and all you have to say is ‘what’s up?’”

Chris smirks at me, lounging between the two goons like they’re his personal security. One of them—tall, broad, and bald—gives me a dismissive look as if I’m interrupting his groove. The other just keeps tossing dice, rolling his eyes at the interruption.

“I’m just blowing off steam with some work associates.”

“ Work associates ?” I hiss. “They’re Bratva, Chris. I know exactly who they are. And I didn’t do what I did to get you out of debt just to see you snuggled up to the men who threatened your life!”

Baldy gives a snort. “Lady, take a hike. We’re on a streak.” His words drip with a thick, Russian accent.

Chris chuckles like that’s somehow witty, then turns his back on me, facing the table like I’m not even worth a second look. The humiliation burns worse than the anger. I grab his arm, yanking him back toward me.

“Chris don’t do this,” I say through clenched teeth. “They don’t care about you, trust me. You don’t need them.”

He jerks his arm free like my touch burned him. “Don’t tell me what I need.”

My purse slips off my shoulder and thuds to the floor. The contents scatter—a lipstick, my phone, a pen, and right in the middle of it all, the folded sonogram photo I’d shoved into the side pocket this morning.

I don’t want to scramble to pick up my things. Instead, I step over, positioning myself in front of my purse and its contents. If Chris noticed, he’s not showing it.

I reach for him again, desperate now.

One of the men snatches my wrist, yanking me back with more force than necessary.

“Back the fuck off,” he snarls, breath hot with the smell of vodka in my face. “Before I make you.”

My eyes narrow.

I could scream. I could call security. I could flash my keycard and have this entire table escorted to the curb in under five minutes.

But I don’t.

Instead, I stare him down. “Touch me again,” I say quietly, “and I’ll have you and your little friend banned from the Hospitium for life. And that’s if you’re lucky.”

He laughs, but Chris speaks before he can.

“You guys know damn well she can make that happen,” he mutters. “You’re already well aware she’s the owner’s whore.”

The slap happens before I realize what I’m doing.

It rings out like a gunshot. Chris’s cheek instantly goes red with the imprint of my hand.

“Don’t ever say that to me,” I snap, my voice shaking. “I did what I did to keep you alive.”

He stares at me, stunned, and for a split second his hand twitches, like he’s actually thinking about hitting me back.

And that’s when a shadow falls over us.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.”

Damas’ voice is calm, but the steel beneath it is unmistakable.

He takes Chris’s wrist in his grip, firm but not violent, not yet. Chris jerks his arm back like he’s been stung.

The goons glance at each other. They're waiting, watching. Seeing if things escalate. And I realize with horror it isn’t Chris they’d be stepping in for.

I smooth my blouse with trembling hands and glance at Damas. He looks amused, maybe irritated. Perhaps a little of both.

I lower my voice and step closer to Chris. “Come upstairs and just talk to me.”

He stares at me like I’m asking him to walk into a trap. His jaw works, teeth grinding together. My handprint still blazes across his cheek.

“Forget it,” he mutters. “I’d rather get kicked in the nuts than go anywhere near your sugar daddy.”

“Chris—”

“No.” He shakes his head, lips curled. “You don’t get to play big sister now. You don’t get to pretend you’re better than me just because you married a guy that wears a six-figure watch.”

I flinch.

Then he twists the knife.

“I don’t even know why he wants you,” he says. “You can’t even give him a kid.”

My breath catches so fast, my lungs hurt. The blood drains from my face.

He obviously didn’t see the sonogram.

Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them. I blink fast, trying to stay upright.

Chris’s face falters. For a moment, a flicker of regret passes through his eyes before vanishing.

The taller of the goons says, “Let’s hit the Flamenco. Tables are hotter.”

Chris hesitates, then walks away.

No apology. No second glance.

I press a palm to my belly, heart aching.

When I raise my head, Damas is watching me.

“Are you alright?” He places his hand gently on my shoulder, steadying me.

“I’m fine.”

It takes several seconds before my knees stop wobbling. I drop to the floor and gather my purse, fingers fumbling with the strap. The sonogram lies face-down beside a spilled poker chip.

I pick it up with shaking hands, brushing a smear of dirt from the glossy paper.

He almost stepped on it.

I shove it into my purse quickly, hoping Damas didn’t see it.

A sob punches out of me, sharp and breathless. I blink hard, willing my expression back into something resembling composure.

Damas stands just a few feet away; his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. Watching.

Always watching .

“Sounds like there’s something you need to tell my brother.”