Page 34 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

I step into the elevator, my body buzzing like a live wire, and hit the button for the penthouse. Damas steps in behind me like this is just another Tuesday and not the aftermath of my brother trying to self-destruct in front of a pair of Bratva thugs.

Again.

I cross my arms and keep my eyes glued to the floor numbers passing by, pretending I don’t know he’s watching me. My heart’s still hammering.

I don’t look at Damas. I’m worried he saw something. He’s too sharp to have missed it. And Chris’s comment about how I can’t have kids…if Damas overheard that then he knows something’s off. At least enough to make me nervous.

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

What was he referring to?

“You know,” Damas says finally, voice calm and conversational, “when we were kids, Anatoly used to win everything.”

I blink in confusion.

“I’m serious,” he continues. “Spelling bees. Science fairs. Math competitions. Shit, the guy even won a chess tournament when he was eight. Eight . I mean, what kind of nerd plays chess at that young of an age?”

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks straight ahead, expression neutral, hands in his pockets.

“Sounds like you’re keeping score,” I mutter.

He chuckles, low and smooth. “Only the games that matter.”

The elevator hums beneath our feet, a slow climb that feels more like a countdown. I try to breathe evenly, but my chest is tight. Every floor we pass presses down on me a little harder.

“He ever tell you about the last Moscow trip?” he asks casually.

I shake my head. “Can’t say he did.”

“Of course not,” Damas says. “It was the first time Papa let him tag along on a business deal. It was a big meeting with old-money-type investors. I was nine. Anatoly was twelve. I remember packing my bag, thinking I was going, too.”

His voice becomes lighter, almost boyish. It throws me for a second.

“Papa walked in, saw my suitcase, and laughed. He said, ‘This trip is for the future of the family. Not the spare.’” Damas leans back against the mirrored wall.

There’s something bitter in his smile, something wounded.

“Anatoly came back with a new suit, a gold watch, and a smirk that didn’t fade for weeks. Me? I got a T-shirt.”

I exhale slowly, watching him.

“Is that why you’ve got a chip on your shoulder?” I ask. “Because he got to be the golden boy?”

He shrugs. “You tell me. You’ve seen how he walks into a room, how everyone listens when he speaks, how he doesn't even need to raise his voice to get attention. He’s always been the one they expected greatness from. But me? I was the one they expected to stay out of the way.”

I want to feel sorry for him. I do. There’s something real there in the way his expression tightens, the sad look in his eyes. But I’ve seen too much of what bitterness turns into. I’ve lived too long cleaning up the wreckage of men with daddy issues.

“I’m not here to pick sides,” I tell him.

Damas laughs under his breath. “You picked the day you married him.”

I shift on my feet. “That wasn’t love at first sight, you know.”

He looks amused. “No?”

“No. It was barely tolerance at first sight.” I glance at him.

He smirks. “Yet here you are. Defending his hotel, his name…maybe even his legacy.”

I swallow. “I’m defending my brother.”

I say it, but I know it’s not true. This isn’t just about Chris—not anymore.

“Fair enough,” he says. Then, more quietly, “but it won’t be enough.”

The silence that follows is heavy. I can feel him studying me, weighing everything—my reactions, my tone, my posture. He’s looking for something, and I don’t know whether I’m giving it to him or not.

“You’re awfully quiet,” he says after a beat.

I shrug. “I’ve had a long day. So yeah, quiet’s all I’ve got left.”

His eyes narrow, sharpening.

Damn it.

I keep my face neutral, but inside, I’m cursing myself. That was too much. Too honest. A crack in the armor.

He doesn't comment. Doesn't smile. Just lets the tension stretch between us.

“Does Anatoly know?”

The question hits like a punch to the gut.

I do what I’ve learned to do when I don’t have control.

I stay quiet.

The elevator dings, announcing the penthouse floor.

Finally.

The doors open with a soft whoosh, and I step out like I’ve got steel in my spine, even though my legs feel like jelly. Damas follows, just a few steps behind, silent and composed like he’s not the human equivalent of a coiled viper.

I hesitate before unlocking the door. My fingers are stiff, and I move slowly. The keycard nearly slips once before I slide it home and push the door open.

I walk in slowly, arms crossed, trying to hide the shiver.

I don’t know whether he overheard Chris’s dig and connected the dots, or he’s just toying with me. This could be his next move in whatever sick game he thinks he’s playing.

I don’t know what Damas wants—from me, from Anatoly, from this entire twisted inheritance mess.

I glance over my shoulder and catch him watching me again, a creepy smile on his face.

Like he already knows something I haven’t said.

My hand drifts to my stomach instinctively.

One way or another, the truth is coming.

And I need to be ready.