Page 8 of Under His Control (Silver Fox Daddies #27)

TAYLOR

“ P lease.” He gestures to the wine. “Try it.”

I take a sip, not sure what to expect. It’s pure liquid velvet. My wine at home tops out at twenty-five bucks; this stuff probably costs a mortgage payment.

Focus, Taylor .

Heat creeps up my neck as he stares at me, not speaking for what feels like forever. Anatoly looks intrigued, or maybe amused, though I’m not sure by what.

I take another sip of wine before setting the glass down and clearing my throat.

“So…my brother.”

He taps a finger on the desk, a slow, thoughtful gesture.

“How much is his debt?”

I swallow. “Seventy grand, plus interest, I think. I’m not exactly sure what they’re adding on.”

He arches a brow. “Seventy thousand, Ms. Jenson? Do you have any idea how long it would take to repay that on your salary?”

My stomach cramps. “I did the math on partial wages. If we do it at, say, fifteen percent…” I trail off.

An chuckle rumbles from his chest, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Fifteen percent. So you can remain afloat while paying me back.” He glances at the calculator on his desk, flicking it on with a quick tap.

A few keystrokes, and he reads the result, shaking his head.

“You realize you’d be paying me well into the next decade, if not longer.

That’s indentured servitude, Ms. Jenson. ”

His blunt tone makes my cheeks flame. “I don’t have anything else to offer,” I manage, voice tight with frustration. “It’s either that or let my brother be murdered by the Bratva.”

He watches me for a moment, unblinking. Then he picks up the wine bottle, stands, and comes around to my side of the desk. My pulse spikes, and I can’t help but track every fluid movement of his body.

“A little more?” he asks.

“Uh, sure.”

As he refills my glass, I hold onto it with a death grip. Being this close to him, I catch the faintest trace of his cologne—something smoky and rich—similar to the wine but edged with masculine spice.

I watch his hands as he pours, big and strong. I imagine them undoing the buttons of my blouse, gripping my hips, sliding down my thighs…my breath catches at the thought, and I force my eyes to the floor.

“Careful,” he says, noticing my tension. “You don’t want to be tipsy before you start work.”

A short and unexpectedly raw laugh escapes me. “You’re right. That wouldn’t exactly help my cause. But I guess I can look at it as my last chance to enjoy something expensive for a long time.”

He sets the bottle aside and leans against the edge of his desk, looking down at me. With him perched there, so tall and formidable, my mind fills with an image of me between his thighs, his hands on my face, guiding me close. My cheeks flush. God, I shouldn’t be fantasizing like this now.

“Is that how you see it?” he asks. “A future of meager living in exchange for your brother’s life?”

I sigh and take a big gulp. Probably not the wisest choice, but my nerves scream for it. “If it’s the only option, yes.”

His eyes roam my face with curious intent. I get the sense that he’s dissecting every angle of my life right now, or maybe he’s just toying with the notion of how easy it would be for me to sign my entire paycheck over to him for the rest of my existence.

“May I propose an alternative to you paying me back and living like a serf for the next ten years?”

Adrenaline spikes and I blink, caught off-guard. “An alternative?”

He nods. “One that doesn’t result in you scraping by on pennies.”

An uneasy swirl tightens my stomach as my imagination leaps to darker, more intimate trades. But from the way Anatoly is studying me, his expression calm, there’s no immediate sign of blackmail or perversity. Still, tension pulses in the air.

“What kind of alternative?” I ask.

He lifts his wineglass, slowly swirling the garnet-colored liquid.

I take another sip, eyes never leaving his.

Finally, he speaks. “You’re an intelligent woman. Hardworking, loyal. I’ve seen it in the way you handle your job. You rarely call out sick, you’ve steadily advanced. You’ve been here for almost two years, correct?”

I nod, throat too tight to form words.

He sets his glass aside. “You’re valuable to this hotel, to me.”

Something about those last two words sends my mind into a brief spin of possibilities, all with an undercurrent of desire. I exhale shakily. “So, what do you propose?”

His pause feels like it goes on for hours, even though it’s probably only a second or two. Then, in a voice as smooth as the wine, he speaks.

“Marry me.”