Page 8 of Under His Control
He has the power to make it all go away with a single phone call.
I scan my apartment like it might offer answers. Photos of Chris and me from a simpler time, before everything fell apart, before we lost Mom and Dad. Back when protecting Chris meant helping him with homework or keeping bullies away.
The ache behind my eyes sharpens. I’ve worked so hard to build something for myself. College, overtime, scraping and saving every dollar, earning my way up to assistant manager at one of the best resorts in Vegas.
But Chris? He’s been slipping for years. Drugs, debt, now this. And still, I feel the need to protect him.
I pace the living room, checking my phone. Nothing from Chris. No address, no update. For all I know, he’s hiding in some alley, waiting for a bullet. The helplessness gnaws at me.
Anatoly’s name keeps popping into my head.
I need to walk into the man’s office and ask him to fix a $70,000 mistake made by a guy who’s never thanked me for a damn thing.
It sounds insane. But who the hell else could cut me a check for seventy grand just like that?
I could throw myself at his feet, tell him I’ll work for a reduced salary, put in seventy-hour weeks.
I hesitate. Should I go to Charles first? He’s my manager and mentor, probably the closest thing I have to a father.
But Anatoly has Bratva connections. If he agrees to help me out, he could call them off—tell them not only to leave Chris alone, but also to make my brother persona non grata to them, no lending, no nothing. He could make sure Chris doesn’t get mixed up in this kind of situation ever again.
I sigh.
I’m doing this. I have to.
But first, I need a shower. I slip out of my clothes, realizing that I’m sweating from the conversation with Chris.
In the hush of the shower, I imagine—just for a second—walking into his office, sinking into one of those cold, modernist chairs, and staring him down.
“I need help,” I whisper, imagining the words trembling from my lips in his presence.
In my mind’s eye, he doesn't even blink. His blue eyes flick to mine, his expression cold as ice, as if he knew I'd come to him all along.
“What kind of help?” he asks. His deep voice is smooth, confident.
“My brother made a mistake, a big one. He’s in deep with the Smirnovs. Seventy grand deep.” I pause, voice shaky in this imaginary plea. “He’s going to die unless I can cover it.”
Silence.
Then, he stands and approaches—slow, commanding—his gaze raking over me like he’s assessing more than just the ask. Damn,he’s tall. He stops in front of me and cups my jaw in one of his huge hands. His voice lowers into something dark and intimate as he says, “And what are you willing to give me in return?”
My breath catches.
“Anything,” I whisper.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“I want you.”
His words sink into my skin like heat.
Not money. Not a favor.Me.
“You’ll be mine,” he says in a deep growl, “in every way.”
My pussy clenches at the thought, the hot water from the shower trailing over a lustful ache and need. I imagine his mouth at my throat, his hands sliding down, his voice in my ear as he claims what I just offered so freely.
I can practically feel his big rough hands pressing firmly into my waist, my hips, my breasts.
