Page 45 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

I ’m standing in front of my old apartment building, a light box in my arms, a heavy swirl of memories in my chest. Months ago, this was my backup plan. My escape hatch.

Now, it’s about to be my brother’s fresh start.

And apparently, me carrying this one single box is grounds for a full-blown emergency.

Because behind me, I’ve got two six-foot-plus bodyguards—Anatoly and Chris—both watching me like I’m about to go into labor because I dared to lift something that weighs less than my purse.

“You said that box was just throw pillows,” Anatoly warns, like I’m smuggling dumbbells.

“It is throw pillows,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Calm down, both of you. I’m pregnant, not glass.”

Chris shrugs as he unlocks the front door. “If anything happens to you, he’ll kill me, and then somehow still make me move all this crap alone.”

He’s joking, of course, but it makes me smile.

Because not too long ago, we weren’t sure if he’d survive at all.

And now? He’s here. Strong. Healing. Clean. Starting over in the place I once called home.

“I swear to God, if you so much as breathe near that milk crate full of records, I’ll call your OB myself,” Anatoly warns as he heads inside, setting a box labeled fragile on the counter with exaggerated care.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say with a smirk. “But go ahead. Call her. I’d love to see how she reacts when you rat me out for innocently getting some light exercise.”

“She’ll take my side,” he says, deadpan, peeling off his jacket and draping it over one of Chris’s barstools.

I sigh dramatically and turn back to what I can do: organize. I’ve commandeered the kitchen unpacking and cleaning. And because it’s officially Chris’s apartment now, if I don’t step in, this place is going to smell like frozen burritos and bachelor neglect within a week.

He’s trying, though. Really trying.

After everything that happened with Damas, the shooting, rehab—both physical and drug—Chris came out on the other side softer.

Not in a weak way, but in the strongest way possible.

He spent six weeks in a rehab facility outside Vegas, and I drove up every weekend to see him. Just to remind him he mattered.

Now, he’s sober, sharp, motivated. I still hear the sarcasm in his voice when he jokes about becoming a “respectable adult,” but he’s doing it.

He landed a job at the Hospitium , training to be a blackjack dealer.

He’s working toward paying his own bills.

And he’s apologized profusely for how he treated me.

“I can’t believe I let you two talk me into this,” Chris mutters, carrying in two boxes stacked so high I can barely see his head over them. “I should’ve taken that offer from Trevor. He had a fully furnished room all ready for me.”

Anatoly raises a brow. “He also has four barely employed roommates who spend their days smoking pot and playing Xbox. Not the best influences.”

“Details, details,” Chris grumbles with a smirk.

We all laugh, and for a second, it feels normal. Like the past few months didn’t nearly wreck us.

But underneath the laughter, I know we’re still healing. All of us.

Anatoly hasn't said it out loud, but I see it in his quiet moments—in the way he stares at his phone like he's waiting for a call that won't come. He hasn’t spoken to Damas since that night in the Smith Avenue house.

Since then, there have been restraining orders, court hearings, bail arrangements—all handled by the lawyers.

Anatoly hasn’t expressed much emotion about what happened. And that silence is a wound I don’t know how to fix. I don’t even know if I should try.

He won’t admit it hurts, but I know it does.

I catch him glancing toward the balcony as I finish stacking plates. “You okay?” I ask.

He looks over and forces a small smile. “You always know.”

“Because I love you, and because you keep sighing like a character out of a Victorian novel.”

That earns me a faint laugh. He comes over and places his hands on my belly—an eight-month swell now, round and proud beneath my tank top. “You’re nesting again. Don’t forget that this is your brother’s place now.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t painted the walls lavender and hot pink.”

Before he can answer, Chris walks in again, this time balancing a pizza box on one hand and two bottles of sparkling water under the other arm.

“Pizza’s here.” He sets the box down on the kitchen bar and flips the top open, revealing a particularly gooey-looking pepperoni pizza.

I gasp. “Is that cheese stuffed crust?”

“Hell, yeah. It’s dairy, so basically a health food,” he says with a smirk, setting everything on the counter. “I figured you needed comfort food after watching old man billionaire here try to figure out how to carry boxes without spraining something.”

“Old man billionaire is standing right here,” Anatoly says dryly, reaching for a bottle.

“And still terrifying,” Chris mutters with a grin.

We eat at the bar.

After a few more boxes are brought up and a little more unpacking, Chris excuses himself to shower, which gives me and Anatoly a rare moment of quiet. I lean against him, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, and we watch the last bits of sunset turn the sky into streaks of apricot and indigo.

“I never thought I’d see him like this,” I say softly.

“Whole?” he asks.

“Trying.”

Anatoly nods. “You gave him that.”

“I didn’t give him anything. He fought for it.”

“You showed him it was worth fighting for.”

I smile, letting that sit for a moment.

I turn and look up at him. “Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. Doesn’t dodge.

He just nods.

“Every day,” he admits. “In spite of everything, he was—is—my brother.”

I wrap my arms around his middle. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “He made his choice. I’ll live with mine.”

That’s the thing about Anatoly. He doesn’t chase people. He lets them go—even when it breaks him. And God, I wish I could hate Damas for what he did, but part of me just feels... tired. Tired of carrying all this anger when I’ve got a whole future growing inside me.

So I focus on the man who stayed.

The man who chose me.

And as the city lights flicker on below us, I know something for sure—this is the life I want. The one I fought for. The one we built together.

A while later, Chris reappears in flannel pants and a hoodie. He’s brushing his damp hair with a fork, which I choose to ignore.

He pauses mid-step. “Okay, why are you two staring at each other like the cover of a cheesy romance novel?”

“Because we’re in love,” I say sweetly.

He fake gags. “Gross. Get a room. Just not this one.”

I laugh and toss a roll of paper towels at him.

Anatoly checks his watch and clears his throat. “It’s late. We should head home.”

“I’m fine here,” I say, still curled into the couch cushions. “It’s comfy.”

He raises a brow. “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

“I’m not sleeping. I’m resting.”

He walks over and holds out his hand. “Come on, solnishka. I’ll tuck you into our own bed.”

I groan but take his hand. “Only if you promise me a foot rub.”

He leans down and murmurs, “I’ll rub everything.”

Chris lets out a strangled sound from the kitchen. “Oh my God. Boundaries, people!”

I laugh so hard I snort.

It’s the kind of night I never thought I’d get with my brother.

Messy. Loud. Full of people who’ve hurt and healed and chosen to love each other anyway.

I rest a hand on my belly as we leave.

And feel a tiny kick.

Like it’s our baby’s way of saying they approve.

By the time we get back up to the penthouse, I’ve kicked off my shoes, peeled off my bra, and am two seconds from demanding foot rubs and pineapple sorbet from Oro Nero.

I drop onto the couch with a dramatic groan, one hand resting on my belly. Our baby gives one little nudge, like they agree it’s time to relax.

Anatoly pulls off his jacket and tosses it over a chair, then turns to me with that look—the one that says he’s got something on his mind.

“So,” I say, rubbing my foot over the velvet cushion in front of me, “what’s the plan with the other side of the floor?”

His brow arches. “You mean Damas’s penthouse?”

“Yeah, you know, the enormous void just sitting there doing nothing but creeping me out.”

He pours a glass of sparkling water and brings it to me. “Technically, it’s still in legal limbo, but I’m working on it.”

I take a sip and narrow my eyes. “Working on it, how? Please tell me that whatever you’ve got in mind, it involves a total interior makeover—meaning zero oil paintings of white tigers and absolutely nothing Peaky Blinders -related.”

He gives me that slow, sexy smile. “Something like that. I was thinking of knocking down the walls. Merging the two penthouses. Making one massive space. For us.”

That gets my attention.

“For us and the baby,” I say, tapping my bump with one finger.

“And the next one,” he says, hand drifting to rest over mine. “And the one after that, if I get my way.”

I snort. “Slow down, Super Dad. Let’s see if you survive diaper duty for the first one.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek. “I’ll survive anything, solnishka . As long as I have you.”

The way he says that. The way he looks at me like I’m his home, his church, his whole damn world. It never gets old.

I slide my hand up his chest. “Then maybe it’s time you earned me all over again.”

He straightens just a little, eyes darkening, focus snapping to full attention.

I stand and take his hand, leading him down the hall, barefoot and very aware that the fabric of my leggings is clinging to places I’d really like his hands to visit.

He closes the bedroom door behind us.

It’s quiet. Soft. Intimate.

Safe.

I turn to face him, heart hammering. I’m big now—eight months along, with hips and boobs and a belly that feels enormous yet also powerful and strange.

He looks at me like I’m a work of art.

Like I’m magic.

Like I’m still the girl who walked into his lobby thinking she’d out-stubborn him.

He steps closer, fingers skimming my waist. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

“Even like this?” I ask, gesturing at my round belly. “Even when I grunt every time I stand up?”

“Especially like this. Especially when you grunt.”

I run my fingers down his chest and whisper, “I want this forever.”

“You’ve got it,” he says, voice low and certain. “Forever started the moment you said my name.”

He kisses my belly, then my lips.

And I know—without a single doubt—that this life we’re building is exactly where I’m meant to be.