Page 22 of Under His Control
ANATOLY
“Me?” I blink at her, raising a brow. “You want to know about me?”
She nods, arms crossed over her chest, defensive but determined.
“Yes. If I’m going to be marrying you, I want to know about you, as much as you’re willing to tell me. And I want the details of this whole legal arrangement, as well.”
I sit back slowly, studying her face. She’s serious.
“Then you want me to repeat myself,?solnishka,”?I say, letting the Russian endearment roll off my tongue.Little sun.It fits; she’s brightened the room just by being in it.
Her cheeks flush prettily at the sound of it, but she holds my gaze and doesn’t back down. Good.I need her to be strong. I need her exactly as she is—sharp, stubborn, loyal.
“My parents, they weren’t sentimental. They were powerful, brutal, at times. But they believed in legacy—traditional legacy. They didn’t want their empire, their name, to die with us. Theywanted sons who could lead. Protect. Build something that would outlive greed.”
I pause, watching her eyes soften with curiosity.
“They wanted Damas and me to settle down. To have families. To prove we could protect something more fragile than money or property. But they died before either of us married, and they knew I wouldn’t do it willingly. So they added a clause to their will. A condition.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Which is?”
“In order for me to retain full control over theHospitium, I must marry. My wife must live with me for at least one year.” I smile without humor. “If I fail, theHospitiumand all its assets get sold off, as I’ve said.”
She blinks. “Wait. So you’d lose literallyeverythingif you don’t marry?”
I nod once. “Everything. I’ve avoided it for as long as I could. Stalled. Negotiated. But the lawyers are done waiting and the clock’s run out.”
There’s silence for a beat. Then she asks, her voice quiet, “And your brother? He can’t take over?”
“He’d love to,” I say dryly. “But the will names me.My parents didn’t trust him with their life’s work. And for good reason.”
Taylor looks away, like she’s trying to process everything.
“Is this even legal?” she asks.
“It is, when the lawyers are paid enough to make it so. Plus, it is a binding, notarized document.” I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the dark liquid catch the light.
She stands and walks over to the windows. The sun backlights her body, the curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the generous swell of her breasts. My palm itches with the urge to touch her, to test the softness hidden beneath that prim blouse.
If she were already my wife, I’d pin her against that glass and show her exactly how much I value her.
But first, I must finalize the deal.
I stand and refill her wine—one more inch of liquid courage—and join her by the window. She doesn’t turn, so I step beside her and hand her the glass.
“What choice do you really have?” I ask. “Your brother’s life for your signature. The Bratva won’t wait.”
Her teeth catch her lower lip, tugging with worry. I want that mouth on me, I want to feel the softness of her full lips on my cock.
“I’ll have my attorney draft a prenuptial agreement as well,” I tell her, turning my body so she has to look at me. “There will be a money transfer immediately with enough to satisfy the Smirnovs. More than enough, actually. They’ll be well compensated for their inconvenience.”
She clears her throat. “When can I expect to see the contract?”
“As soon as my lawyer can draft it. I can have it ready this afternoon, if you’d like.” I let a beat of silence pass. “So, Taylor Jenson, are you saying yes?”
Her gaze flicks from my eyes to my mouth, down my chest, then back again. She takes a deep breath and straightens her spine.
“I’ll read the contract first,” she says, “then you’ll have my answer.”
