Page 44 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

Four days later…

T here’s something about the Vegas skyline at night that puts you in a certain kind of mood.

Every building is lit up, blinking and glowing like it wants your attention and your soul.

But all I want is a damn nap.

I’m curled up in the armchair near the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, legs tucked under a fleece blanket I stole from Anatoly’s office. It smells like his cologne and old books—comfort in textile form. I haven’t moved in a while. I have no idea what time it is.

Between the lack of sleep and the pregnancy, I’m all kinds of loopy. Dizzy around the edges, heavy behind the eyes, like someone pressed pause on my body but forgot to hit stop on my brain.

Chris is still in the hospital, now stable and healing.

I’ve been there almost nonstop since he was checked in—sleeping upright in waiting room chairs, surviving on vending machine coffee and whatever food Anatoly brought me.

For the first two days, I couldn’t bring myself to leave his side.

I was terrified that if I blinked too long, something would go wrong.

But the worst has passed.

This morning, the doctor finally looked me in the eye and said, point-blank, “You need to go home. You’re pregnant, and your body needs rest just as much as he needs recovery.”

So I kissed Chris’s forehead, tucked his blanket up to his chin like he was five again, and promised I’d be back in the morning.

Now here I am.

Home—but not quite resting.

The silence of the penthouse feels too big after the constant beeping of heart monitors and the soft squeak of nurses’ shoes. I should be sleeping, getting some physical and mental rest. But my body hasn’t caught up to the fact that I’m safe yet. It’s like it’s waiting for the next emergency.

I’m so tired. The kind of fatigue that settles in your bones.

The penthouse door opens.

Anatoly walks in like he’s afraid his breathing is too loud. For a man who can order a room cleared with one look, he’s been oddly timid around me lately.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just crosses the room and places something on the coffee table. An envelope. Thick. Cream-colored. Official-looking.

I finally look at him. He’s watching me, his blue eyes softer than usual. But there’s something else there, something heavy. Not cold, not calculating. Just... full. Like he’s carrying more than he wants me to know.

He clears his throat quietly and approaches, crouching beside the chair. His hand brushes over the fleece blanket.

“Chris is going to get the best medical care in the state,” he says. “I’ve already arranged for the specialists at St. Rose’s. And when he’s cleared for rehab, he’ll have the finest physical therapy, mental health support, everything he needs.”

I blink, emotion rising too fast for me to filter it. “Anatoly…”

He keeps going. “He’ll have a place to stay. Food. Bills covered. Whatever he needs to get back on his feet, he’ll have it.”

I shake my head, my throat tight. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I did,” he says, cutting me off gently. He meets my eyes, fierce and unwavering. “Because that’s what husbands do.”

It knocks the wind out of me more than any grand gesture could’ve. Not because he said it, but because he meant it. Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt. Out of love—pure, steady, and unshakable.

I manage a quiet “Thank you.”

He gestures to the envelope.

“I had the lawyers draft a new will,” he says.

That gets my full attention.

“A new will?”

He nods. “Yes, for me. Clean. No clauses, no legacy traps. Exactly what I want to leave behind.”

I blink.

“What about the old one, your father’s will? The clause about needing an heir to keep the Hospitium ?”

“I convinced his lawyers I’d satisfied the terms. I’m married. Heir on the way. As far as they’re concerned, the conditions were met. The Hospitium is fully mine now. No more waiting.”

He pauses, then adds, “And this,” he taps the envelope, then pulls a silver lighter from his pocket, “this is the original. The version with the clause. The one my father clung to like it was sacred law.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he says, handing me the envelope, “we’re going to burn it.”

Okay. Not the twist I expected.

He flicks the lighter open, the flame small but steady. I sit up straighter, the blanket sliding off my lap, and lean over.

I press the corner into the flame. It takes a second, then the edge curls, blackens, and catches. We drop it into the crystal bowl on the table, watching in silence as it turns to ash.

No drama. No monologue. Done.

Anatoly exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the day we met.

“I won’t ever hold anything like that over you again. That’s not love. That’s control.”

My throat goes tight.

“You were never the man in that clause,” I whisper.

He turns to me, brows drawn.

“I mean it,” I say, shifting so I’m facing him fully.

“That clause? That was your father’s doing, not your dream.

The man in that paper would’ve let me walk away the moment I said I couldn’t give him an heir.

But you? You held me when I was shaking.

You stayed when things got messy. You weren’t going to leave me when you still thought I was infertile. ”

His eyes are glossy. And if I weren’t already in love with him, that would’ve done it.

“I was scared,” I admit, “that if you knew I was pregnant, you’d only see me as useful. Not lovable.”

He flinches.

“And I was scared,” he says, voice low, “that if you ever saw how cold and ruthless this life had made me, you’d leave. That once the contract ended, you’d run.”

I smile a little. “Joke’s on both of us, huh?”

He lets out a soft laugh and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper.

“I wrote this last night,” he says. “I didn’t want lawyers or loopholes this time. Just this.”

He opens it and starts to read:

I, Anatoly Ovechkin, take Taylor Jenson, not because of duty, debt, or legacy, but because she is my choice. My fire. My softness. My shelter from the storm. I vow to be hers freely, without conditions. And I ask her to be mine in the same way.

Then, he gets on one knee.

No diamond.

No grand gesture.

Just him.

“This time, I’m asking you to marry me for real,” he says, his voice cracking. “No deals. No deadlines. Just love.”

I cross my arms and tilt my head like I’m thinking really hard. “Hmm... tempting.”

His lips twitch. “Don’t push it.”

I grin and lean forward. “Fine. But I’m naming the baby if it’s a girl.”

He groans. “Not Peach.”

“Peach is adorable.”

“She’ll get bullied.”

“She’ll be feared,” I say, smug. “You ever met a Peach who didn’t run a cult or a billion-dollar brand?”

He grins. “Okay, point taken. Peach it is.”

Later that night, I’m tucked into our bed, Anatoly’s arm draped over me, his hand spread across my belly like he’s guarding a treasure.

The city outside is still trying too hard, but I don’t mind it tonight.

I press my palm over his and say, “We’re really doing this, huh?”

He hums. “No contracts. No deadlines.”

I smile into the dark. “No control.”

He tightens his hold. “Just love.”

And just like that, the weight I’ve been dragging around slips off my shoulders.