Page 7 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

ANATOLY

I pace behind my desk, rereading the damned legal documents for what seems like the twentieth time today, when the large screen in the corner of my office flashes.

A security camera feed appears, triggered by the elevator that leads directly to this floor.

Usually, I ignore it. Nobody comes up here without my permission, unless it’s a routine staffer bringing files or mail, or maintenance checking the systems.

Mrs. Belova controls my schedule like a hawk, so surprises are rare.

But then I see Taylor Jenson, one of the assistant managers on the casino floor. The same woman that creep followed into the elevator last night.

Her dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail that trails down her back.

Her blouse skims unapologetic curves; the black skirt grips her hips like obedience.

And yes—earlier in that elevator—I wanted her. The second I saw a stranger’s hand on her hip, something cold snapped loose in me.

It took everything I had not to put that man through the doors and drop him twelve floors. I cracked my knuckles and gave him one sentence and a choice.

He chose correctly.

It wasn’t chivalry.

It was possession I had no right to feel for a woman I barely know.

She hesitates for half a second, fiddling with the badge clasped to her work blazer, before stepping inside the elevator, a determined set to her jaw.

Interesting.

It’s not unusual for me to watch the staff while I’m on the casino floor, but catching them in my private elevator is something new. My mind scans through interactions I’ve had with Taylor—she’s quiet but ambitious, always impeccably professional, always polite.

I’ve clocked her from across the bustling floor more times than I can count. She tries not to stare, and whenever I look at her, she flushes, as if I’ve just discovered a secret.

Fuck. I find that response invigorating.

I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I do.

It’s a rare thing to see genuine emotion instead of practiced cordiality.

Now she’s heading to my office. Without an appointment .

Normally, that alone would irritate me, but my curiosity outweighs my annoyance. What is so important that Ms. Jenson would risk barging into my domain without asking?

The camera feed is silent, and I watch as Mrs. Belova’s expression tightens, as she all but scowls at Taylor.

Most people with any sense would back away, stammering apologies.

Taylor doesn’t.

She stands her ground—posture firm, shoulders squared, chin tilted in defiance. But it’s not just her boldness that grabs me by the throat—it’s her. All of her. That curvy body, long legs, full hips…an hourglass figure I’ve caught myself staring at more times than I care to admit.

And her face, that mouth. Full lips set in a determined line. Brown eyes wide, burning with fear she’s trying like hell to hide. Dimples I’ve only ever seen from a distance when she’s laughing with staff, now locked behind resolve.

She’s standing there, looking like she’s ready to go to war.

And fuck me, I’m turned on like I haven’t been in years.

I grit my teeth. I shouldn’t want her, but I do.

In the elevator I wanted to push her back against the panel and taste the shock on her mouth; instead I counted my breaths and kept my hands at my sides.

I don’t touch what doesn’t ask for me. But desire doesn’t take orders.

I push the thoughts out of my head as best I can.

With a flick of my thumb, I switch on the audio feed. Normally, I prefer not to spy on private conversations, but this is my floor, my office, my staff. If Ms. Jenson is about to cause a scene, I want to know what it’s about. Her voice filters through.

“—not leaving until I speak to him,” she says, polite but resolute.

Mrs. B is not a woman who tolerates defiance. “I’ll have security escort you out, and you’ll lose your job.”

A bit of concern sparks in my chest; this is something serious. Ms. Jenson has just been told her job is on the line. Still, she doesn’t budge.

“I understand the risk,” she says, “but I’m not leaving. I need to see him.”

I let the moment stretch, amused at how firmly she stands her ground. Most cower at Mrs. B’s glacial stare. But Taylor isn’t so easily intimidated, it seems, and that’s enough to make me want to step in.

Sliding the folder of legal documents away, I move to the door and push it open. The tension is thick, as Mrs. B is about to call security, phone in hand, while Taylor braces herself like a boxer in the ring. Her eyes dart to me, and for a heartbeat, we stare at each other.

A faint pink colors her cheeks, and she sucks in a breath.

My gaze sweeps over her quickly. The tightness of her skirt, the way her waist curves, stirs a possessive spark in me, my cock twitching to life.

A thought flickers: I wonder what she looks like underneath all that fabric.

My grandmother would have called it rodovyye bedra—regal hips. I call it a problem I can’t ignore.

“What’s going on here?”

Mrs. B narrows her eyes. “Sir, Ms. Jenson here is insisting on seeing you without an appointment. I was just about to call security. I still can.”

I regard Taylor for a long moment.

“No. I can handle this.”

Mrs. B’s eyebrows raise. “But?—”

I raise my hand before turning my attention back to Taylor.

She isn’t frightened; she’s controlled—and control is a language I respect.

Mrs. B scowls, but she doesn’t try to stop us as I gesture for Taylor to come inside my office, closing the door behind her.

The moment she enters, my office feels smaller somehow, thick with an electricity that crackles like static in the air. Her scent hits me first—something light and floral—with an underlying sweetness that’s mouthwatering.

“Sit,” I say. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She nods, then perches at the very edge of the seat, as if ready to bolt at any second. Her knuckles whiten around the armrests, though her expression is calm.

Impressive control. I open a discreet cabinet built into the bookshelves and retrieve a bottle of red wine. It’s early, but I have a feeling we both need something to smooth the edges.

“Drink?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder as I select two crystal glasses.

“I start work in half an hour.”

“The boss won’t mind.”

She laughs softly. “You mean you?”

I grin with a feeling of genuine amusement. “That I do.”

As she hesitates, I see a mixture of nerves and simmering curiosity in her eyes.

“Sure,” she says. “But just a little.”

I pour two glasses, swirling one briefly before handing it to her. Her slender fingers close around the glass stem, brushing mine. A tiny tingle pulses at the contact.

My body remembers the elevator—the way rage and want tried to share the same breath—and I tighten the reins.

I settle behind my desk, swirling the contents of my own glass, letting the aroma fill my senses.

She takes a cautious sip, then sets it down, exhaling like she’s steeling herself for a plunge into deep, icy water.

I can’t blame her. It’s not every day a lower-level manager storms my office unannounced.

That’s usually a quick route to losing one’s position.

“So,” I say as I steeple my fingers, “tell me what’s so urgent that you’d risk your job to see me.”

Her shoulders rise and fall multiple times, a visible attempt to calm herself, then finally she looks at me.

“Thank you for hearing me out, Mr. Ovechkin. It’s about the Smirnov Bratva…and my brother.”

Well, this is unexpected. My gaze sharpens, a hint of curiosity surfacing.

“I see. Go on.”

She swallows hard. “He owes them a substantial amount of money. They’re threatening to kill him if he doesn’t pay up.”

A substantial amount typically means tens of thousands, maybe more, depending on how deep he’s in and what he’s done.

I can see the desperation in her face as she continues.

“I’m afraid they’re going to follow through with their threat.

He’s only nineteen. He’s made stupid mistakes, but—” she stops, cringing.

“I know this isn’t your responsibility, or your problem, but I didn’t know where else to turn.

I’ve heard you have connections to the Smirnov family, so I thought you might,” she hesitates briefly, “uh, be able to intervene.”

It’s exactly as I assumed. She’s in trouble—well, her brother is, and she wants me to fix it. By all rights, I should scold her for barging in and asking this of me. She may be an employee, but she’s technically a stranger, and this is no small favor.

A million thoughts swirl in my head, but the truth is, I could easily erase her brother’s debt with a single word. The Smirnovs wouldn’t even question it.

But why should I?

Normally, I’d demand money, leverage, something useful in return. But Taylor has nothing to offer, except herself.

She’s lush, strong, impossible to ignore.

And she’s obviously fiercely loyal.

And I nearly broke a man’s hand tonight for touching her.

You need an heir .

The idea is crazy. But it’s planted in my head now.

She watches me as she picks up the wineglass. It trembles slightly in her hand. I let the silence stretch, allowing her to squirm just a little longer than necessary.

Finally, I speak, my voice quiet yet firm. “So let me get this straight—you want me to step in, pay off your brother’s debt, or at least keep the Bratva from collecting it in blood, am I right?”

She nods slowly, wincing. “Yes, or maybe you can negotiate some sort of payment plan, something that won’t get him killed?” She exhales, eyes brimming with hope and fear. “Please.”

I drum my fingers on the desk, considering, then I look her straight in the eye. “You’re aware this is no small request?”

“Yes, I’m aware.” She squares her jaw, determination lighting up her eyes again. “He’s my only family. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Hearing her say, “I’ll do whatever it takes,” causes my pulse to kick up a notch. She doesn’t realize how dangerous those words are, especially when said to me. They land hard.

A contract marriage. A child.

It sounds crazy, but it could be exactly what I need.

I swirl my wine and let her squirm.

She’s probably expecting rejection. Instead, all I feel is a sharp, rising urge to protect her—and claim her.

She doesn’t know it yet, but I have the perfect repayment in mind.