Page 57 of Under His Control
He jabs the button for his office floor several times.
I reach out, resting my hand on his arm. “You okay?”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “No. Ivan showing up unannounced in my office is not okay. That’s a line even the Bratva shouldn’t cross.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, frustration crackling off him like static. “When we get there, I want you to go straight upstairs.Start unpacking. Don’t come back down unless I tell you it’s clear.”
Fear grips me. “Anatoly?—”
“No.” His tone softens but stays firm. “It’s safer if you’re not involved.”
I nod, biting my lip. The last thing I want is to be the damsel in hiding. But I trust him. More than I probably should.
The elevator chimes, announcing our arrival at his office floor. Anatoly straightens his spine and squares his shoulders as he steps out.
“Go upstairs, Taylor,” he says.
I’m about to press the button for the penthouse when I hear a cold and unpleasant voice.
“Taylor Jenson.”
I freeze. My full name, pronounced with condescension and distaste.
I look up and there he is.
Short. Balding. Dressed in a tacky yet expensive suit. He leans against the wall outside Anatoly’s office like he owns the place, smirking like a cat that just cornered a songbird.
I know this man.
It’s Ivan Smirnov.
The man who wanted my brother dead. The man who now knows my name.
Flanking Ivan are two more bodyguards with necks like tree trunks.
Delightful.
My spine straightens. Whatever flutter of nerves I had shrink beneath a layer of pure, polished rage.
Anatoly looks directly at me, but I don’t need to look at him to know his expression has gone full angel of death.
Ivan’s smirk widens. “I see I’m interrupting the honeymoon.”
I glare directly at him.
“What is this, Ivan?” Anatoly asks curtly, unfriendly.
Anatoly takes my hand, gently guiding me out of the elevator before standing slightly in front of me, shielding me with his body with calm menace and lethal quiet.
As Ivan chuckles low in his throat, I realize I’m in danger.
Anatoly’s hand tightens around mine. Not hard, just enough to saydon’t. Whether it’s don’t speak, don’t react, or don’t give him what he wants, I don’t know.
But I oblige.
I glance toward where Mrs. B usually sits. There’s nothing but an empty chair and a perfectly stacked inbox. Weird. The woman never leaves her post. I open my mouth to ask where she is but instantly get another squeeze from Anatoly.
Don’t.
