Page 4 of Under His Control
He steps in and the car feels smaller, oxygen thinner.
He doesn’t just enter; he eclipses.
His gaze drops to the man’s hand on me, then lifts to the man’s face.
I have never been afraid of anyone in this building—until now.
Not for me.
For him.
He hits the emergency stop without breaking eye contact. The elevator lurches, groaning to a halt.
The panel glow paints the angles of his face; his eyes are storm-glass, furious and cold.
“Move your hand,” he says, voice quiet enough to scrape bone.
The creep jerks back.
Anatoly rolls his shoulders, knuckles flexing one by one—an ugly, deliberate sound.
“We’ve got twelve floors to go,” he says, calm as a closing door. “That’s a lot of time to make a problem disappear. Apologize.”
The man pales. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, glancing at me. “Didn’t mean?—”
Anatoly steps into his space until there is nowhere left for the man to go. When he speaks again, it detonates in the small space.
“Out. Now.”
The creep flinches like he’s been struck, scrambles sideways, and slips through the doors. They slide shut.
The silence that follows hums.
And now it’s just us.
The air thickens, each breath edged with expensive cologne and something darker. He doesn’t move for a moment—just watches me, reading, weighing.
“You hit hard,” he says at last.
“I can handle myself.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”
He steps closer. Not crowding. Not yet. But enough that heat leaks off him and into my skin. My back finds the cool panel.
“No one touches you without your permission,” he says, low. “Not in my hotel.”
I tip my chin up. “Are you always this…protective of your employees?”
His gaze drops—swift, deliberate—to the curve of my hip before locking on my eyes again. “Only the ones worth keeping.”
My pulse stumbles.
Heat slides under my skin.
“I appreciate the gesture, but I had it covered,” I say.
“I noticed.” His voice is soft and rough at once.
