Page 36 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

“ I ’m going to say this once.” My voice shakes from fury, not fear. “Do not speak to me ever again.”

Damas lounges on the leather sofa like a bored panther, ankle crossed over knee, crystal tumbler dangling between manicured fingers.

The pose is casual; the gleam in his ice-blue eyes is anything but. A half inch of twenty-five-year Macallan rocks lazily against cut glass as he watches me pace.

Damas’s mouth tilts in a pitying smile. “And deny you the pleasure of my company? I’m family,? nevestka. You, on the other hand,” his gaze flicks over me like I’m a stray dog that wandered into a Michelin kitchen, “may not be holding that title much longer.”

My pulse jackhammers. “I belong here.?My?name’s on that marriage certificate.”

“For the moment.” He takes a contemplative sip. “But if the rumor is true about not being able to have children, this will all revert to the bloodline, not to the pretty placeholder he wedded in desperation.”

Heat scorches my cheeks. I grip the back of a chair so hard my knuckles bleach. He doesn’t know I’m pregnant—nobody does—but the venom still lands.

“Rumor.” I spit the word. “Funny how gossip spreads when people with small egos have big mouths.”

His laugh is a low, elegant purr. “We’ll see how big my mouth is when this,” he gestures loosely at the penthouse, “is under my sole control.”

I can practically hear clocks ticking: the inheritance clause, Anatoly’s deadline, my secret miracle fluttering under my ribs.

But first things first—survival.

“Get ou!” I snap.

With that, I storm out of the room, kicking off my shoes with a grunt of anger.

I pivot on bare feet and stalk into our bedroom. The door slams hard enough to rattle the Klimt prints on the hallway wall.

Inside, I yank my weekend bag from the armoire, adrenaline making my hands clumsy. Leggings, two dresses, toothbrush, the giant hoodie I stole from Anatoly’s side of the closet. Each item is thrown into the bag like an exclamation point. Anger. Fear. Anger again.

Out in the living room, Damas hums. I zip the bag, square my shoulders, and march out.

“You’re trespassing, Damas. This isn’t your penthouse. You don’t belong here.”

He just laughs, low and lazy. “Come on, Taylor. You really think you can kick me out of my own brother’s home?”

My nostrils flare. “I believe I just did.”

“Anatoly will never choose a woman over this hotel. And without a baby, well…” He twirls the glass. “Clock’s nearly run out. If he hasn’t impregnated a suitable candidate by now, he’s spectacularly screwed.”

My throat tightens around a hundred unsaid things—like I’m already pregnant, you smug little bastard. The urge to slap him flashes hot. Instead, I sling the bag over my shoulder, stalk past the piano, and yank open the penthouse door.

Behind me, Damas’s velvet voice licks the air. “Do send a change-of-address card.”

I slam the door so hard the security panel beeps in protest.

The elevator ride feels exceptionally long. The reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls looks ready for combat—jaw tight, eyes glassy, hair a mess from rage-packing and running my hand through it. I suck a breath between my teeth.

Hold. Release. Repeat. It doesn’t help.

The doors finally slide open at the garage level. Anatoly’s Audi isn’t in its bay. He’s still off driving away his anger.

I spot my beat-up car in the corner slot—sun-faded paint, bumper sporting two “Graduate of UNLV” stickers, and a dent from Chris backing into a light pole. People tease me about keeping it, but tonight, the sight feels like a hug from my old life.

As I pull onto the Strip, neon lights buzz overhead. One of the perks of Vegas is that no one is paying attention to the car stopped next to them at a stoplight—they’re too busy photographing the Eiffel Tower replica to notice.

As I arrive at my apartment complex, the familiar smell of hot stucco and chlorine hits. I climb the three flights, unlock the door, and step inside.

The moment the door shuts, the fight drains from limbs. My hands shake as I set the bag down, then fish my phone out.

Three missed calls from Anatoly. Two texts.

Where are you?

Come home. We can talk.

I don’t answer right away. I need air. Space. Sanity. I sigh, dropping my phone onto the couch and looking around.

The familiarity wraps around me like a warm hug. The air smells like lavender dryer sheets, the couch still has the throw blanket slung in the corner, the kitchen is tidy and organized.

It’s my home.

I let myself sink into the couch cushions. My body’s buzzing with adrenaline, hurt, and confusion, and my limbs feel heavy. Numb.

God, I’m tired.

Part of me—some silly, fragile part—hoped all of this would bring me closer to Chris. That he’d see how far I was willing to go for him. That maybe we could be siblings again, not enemies wearing familiar faces.

But that hope's gone. Burned up in the flames of his bitterness. The look on his face when I slapped him, the venom in his voice when he called me Anatoly’s whore, the way he threw my infertility in my face like it was ammo he’d been saving for just the right moment are all signals that I’ve lost him.

He resents me. He always has. He’s just never said it out loud before.

I pull my bag onto my lap and slip out the sonogram photo.

I trace the tiny outline with my thumb, my throat tightening. I still can’t wrap my head around it.

I wasn’t supposed to be able to get pregnant. I didn’t even dare hope for it. After years of doctors, scans, and quiet conversations that always ended with a sentence starting with “unfortunately,” I buried that dream so deep it stopped hurting.

Until now.

Now, it’s all I can think about.

This little miracle that somehow, against all odds, decided to exist inside me.

I want this. Fiercely. Not just the baby, but the whole thing. Sleepless nights. Giggles. Goldfish crackers crushed in car seats. I want the chaos, the love, and the terrifying responsibility of raising a child Anatoly and I created.

I rest the photo gently against my chest and close my eyes.

Just for a minute.

Just to stop spinning.

Then, I sleep.