Page 33 of Under His Control
“Fine. But don’t you dare ruin this. I’m saving your life, remember.”
He steps closer, breath sour. “I won’t have my sister become the whore of some billionaire prick.”
The slur detonates between us. My palm itches to slap him, but Mom’s voice whispers in my head,Violence solves nothing, Tay. Instead, I lock eyes with him, fury stinging.
“Say it again, Christopher. I dare you. Say that again to the one person who’s giving up her freedom to save your life.”
He blanches but anger shoves him forward. “You don’t have to do this. I didn’t ask you to do this.” He turns toward the door.
Before I can unload every four-letter word I know, the vestibule door swings open, and Chris walks smack into a wall of Russian steel.
Anatoly fills the doorway, charcoal vest molded to a torso carved from marble, shirt sleeves rolled to reveal forearms traced with veins. His face is stone—hard jaw, cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Eyes glacial blue.
He looks calm, but electricity crackles off him like static before lightning.
God, he looks good.
Chris stumbles back. Anatoly doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. He owns the room. He always does.
“Is there a problem?” His voice is low but lethal.
“Private conversation,” Chris mutters, squaring his shoulders, paper armor against a tank. “Private family conversation.”
“I heard shouting.” His gaze slides to me, catalogs the flush burning my cheeks, then returns to my brother. “And insults.”
“Family business,” Chris tries again, louder this time.
Anatoly steps forward, just one measured stride. Chris’s back hits the floral wallpaper-covered wall with a dullthud.
“Taylor is my family now, too,” he says softly. “And I won’t tolerate anyone calling my bride a whore. Not even her brother.”
No one has ever defended me like that.
Chris’s bravado flickers. He looks at me, waiting for rescue, but I simply fold my arms, letting the silence answer.
“Fuck this,” he mutters and moves to shove past Anatoly, getting nowhere.
“Your sister is making a sacrifice,” he says. “Show some gratitude. And respect.”
“I don’t need her help,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t need some billionaire prick telling me what to do, either.”
Anatoly chuckles then looks at me.
“If you leave,” I tell Chris, “I’ll still pay your debt because I promised to. But that’s it. No more bailouts, no more 2?a.m. panic calls. You’re on your own.” My voice is steady and firm.
Chris risks a glance at Anatoly. Realizing no help is coming, he spits, “Fine. Enjoy your fairy-tale cage.”
And with that, he turns to leave.
Maybe for good.
CHAPTER 13
ANATOLY
Iplant myself in the doorway and stare Chris down.
He might be ready to leave, but I’m not ready to let him. Not until Taylor says so.
