Page 96 of Under His Control
“And you just said Damas isn’t dangerous.”
I grind my teeth, glaring at her. She meets my stare without blinking.
“We’re wasting time,” she says, voice cracking. “My brother’s hurt.”
Goddamn it.
I text my detective friend, grab the keys, and we head out the door.
The car ride is tense and silent, but my mind is a fucking war zone. Every possible scenario plays out in my head—Chris bloodied in a basement, Damas waving a gun, and Taylor caught in the crossfire.
I glance at her in the passenger seat. She’s pale, fists clenched in her lap, knee bobbing up and down. What I felt under my hand earlier is barely a whisper of the secret she’s carrying. But I see it now like a brand on my soul. My child. My wife. My future.
And Damas wants to use them like chips in a poker game.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles white.
“You’re sure your detective buddy will be there?” she asks softly.
I nod. “He already replied. He’s parked a block away. Eyes on the house.”
She exhales, but it’s not a breath of relief. Just a release of pressure before the next wave hits.
“What if it’s a trap?” she wonders aloud. “What if Damas wants you to lose your temper?”
“Then he’s dumber than I thought.”
“But you are angry,” she notes, glancing over at me. “I can see it. I can feel it. You want to kill him.”
I don’t answer.
Because she’s right.
CHAPTER 39
TAYLOR
Anatoly parks a block away from the house, but it’s still too close for comfort.
The street is dead quiet, like the whole neighborhood’s holding its breath. Sagging porches. Boarded-up windows. Grass that gave up on living long before we got here.
This is the kind of place hope comes to rot.
He kills the engine and scans the street, jaw clenched so hard I can practically hear his teeth grinding.
“You sure this is it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
He nods.
The house up ahead looks like it should be condemned. I’m bouncing my knee again before I even realize it. This feels wrong. Like something awful is waiting for us inside.
“Why would he own property out here?” I mutter, staring at the peeling siding and busted porch light. “Guess theHospitiumwas too high-end for hostage situations.”
“He probably bought it through one of the shell companies. I’ve never seen this place before, but he’s told me about it.”
I look at him. His face is stone. His hand drifts to mine on instinct, and I squeeze.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “About the things I said about your brother.”
