Page 37 of Under His Control
I cut small pieces and nudge them around with my fork, pretending to savor a bite here and there. It’s all theater. My nerves are winning the battle against my appetite.
Across the table, Charles hums his appreciation of the good food. Igor is deep in debate with the sommelier about vintages.
I can feel Anatoly’s gaze like a brushstroke down my skin. Not pushy. Not possessive. Just watching.
I suspect he’s noticed how little I’ve eaten, but he doesn’t call me out. He just sits there, composed and unreadable.
My face flushes when dessert arrives.
“Tell me you saved room,” he says as the waiters begin clearing the plates.
“For dessert?” I ask, lifting a brow.
His eyes darken. “For later.”
I nearly choke on a laugh. “Bold, Mr. Ovechkin.”
He leans closer, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Husband,malyshka.Call me bold again later tonight.” Goose bumps erupt down my arms.
Post-dinner conversation drifts to travel horror stories—an easy shift that has everyone loosening up. Igor launches into a tale about being stranded in Murmansk during a blizzard with nothing but vodka, dried fish, and a group of grumpy German tourists.
Charles chuckles. “That still beats the time I lost an entire bus tour at Hoover Dam. I blinked, turned around, and thirty senior citizens had vanished like a magician’s act.”
Laughter ripples across the table. Even Mrs. B snorts, shaking her head in fond disbelief.
I smile politely, but it feels tight. I want to relax, to join in, to match the warmth humming between these people who all seem so at ease. But nerves keep churning in my gut, and my thoughts keep circling back to my brother.
I should be mad at him, pissed that I pulled his ass out of the fire only for him to call me a name that should’ve earned him a slap in the face.
But I can’t help it. He’s family. I love him, no matter what.
Damas interjects with well-timed one-liners. But every few minutes, his eyes drift. First to Anatoly’s hand on my waist, then to my face.
Not admiring. Not friendly. More like assessing.
It’s the kind of look that makes me extremely uncomfortable and unsure of myself. Like he’s imagining something, turning it over in his mind.
He masks it, of course, behind a perfect smile and effortless charm.
But the vibe is off. Way off.
Coffee is poured. A few minutes later, Charles checks his watch and stands.
“Old men turn into pumpkins early,” he jokes, hugging me. “You look beautiful, kiddo. Your parents would be proud.” My throat tightens. I hug him back, breathing in his aftershave and comfort. He shakes Anatoly’s hand, nods at Damas, and leaves.
Mrs.?B rises next. She kisses my cheek—shock number two of the night—and says, “Stay strong, little dove.” Igor kisses my knuckles with courtly flair. They exit, leaving me with two brothers whose proximity to one another suddenly feels tense.
Damas swirls the last of his champagne then tosses it back. “Well,” he says, standing, “I’ll leave the newlyweds to their private festivities.” He steps behind me and leans in close, brushing a kiss against my cheek. His lips are cool, leaving a chill on my skin. “Welcome to the family,nevestka.”
I try not to outwardly shiver and plaster on a smile. “Thank you.”
He claps Anatoly on the shoulder. “Take good care of her.”
“Always,” Anatoly replies.
As soon as the dining room door closes, silence rushes in. Anatoly turns to me, eyes searching. “Talk to me.”
I set my napkin down, suddenly fascinated by the weave of the linen. “I’m still figuring out how I feel about all this,” I say softly. “This whole arrangement. It’s a lot.”
