Page 30 of Under His Control
Anatoly pauses, deciding whether or not to believe him. After a long, tense second, he releases Jake with a casual shove. The kid stumbles away, rubbing his wrist and shooting nervous glances over his shoulder.
“You, too,” Anatoly says, fixing his lethal gaze on Jake’s friend, who immediately mumbles a hasty apology, eyes wide like a scolded child.
Satisfied, Anatoly straightens his cuffs with eerie calm. “Now, screw off. And watch your mouths in the future.”
They scurry away like rats.
The second they’re gone, Anatoly’s attention shifts completely to me. His eyes soften and the lethal menace evaporates like it never existed.
“Are you alright?” He steps closer, gently taking my shoulders.
I nod, letting out a shaky breath. “Yeah, I’m okay. Jesus, that happened so fast.”
“They are young and stupid, and I hope they learned a lesson tonight.” He carefully studies my face. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes,” I assure him, a weak laugh escaping me. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. The big girl part, I mean.”
He shakes his head. “You have nothing to feel ashamed about. They’re idiots.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But things could’ve gotten really ugly.”
“I wouldn’t have let that happen.”
“I appreciate you looking out for me.”
He reaches for his phone and dials a number. “My car. Now,” he orders curtly before returning the phone to his jacket. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”
His voice is gentle, warm, and it feels good—making me feel safer than I want to admit.
Within minutes, Anatoly’s sleek black sedan pulls smoothly to the curb. The driver, discreet and professional, opens the rear door for us. Anatoly helps me inside then slides in next to me, instantly making the spacious car feel intimate.
“Thank you,” I say softly, smoothing my skirt nervously. “You didn’t have to do all that.”
His jaw tightens, anger flickering briefly in his eyes. “I don’t tolerate disrespect. Especially toward you.”
He could’ve broken the guy’s wrist if he wanted to. Heat floods my face. “You barely know me,” I whisper. “Why defend me?”
“You’re going to be my wife,” he replies quietly, holding my gaze. “I’m going to defend you, Taylor. Get used to it.”
My stomach flips. It’s thrilling and unfamiliar to have someone look at me with such fierce protectiveness. I’ve spent so long rescuing other people—Chris, mostly—that I don’t remember what it feels like to have someone in my corner.
Especially someone like Anatoly Ovechkin.
He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—dark, rich, tempting—and I’m suddenly acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
“I mean it,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. “You deserve respect, and you’ll have it from everyone who crosses your path.”
His intensity is magnetic and irresistible.
“Thank you,” I breathe, unsure how else to respond.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering. “You’re welcome.”
Without thinking, I lean slightly closer, drawn by instinctive need. His hand brushes mine, then deliberately rests on my thigh.
His touch is firm, tracing slow, tempting circles on my skin. His fingers glide upward, slipping smoothly beneath the hem of my skirt. A rush of warmth floods between my legs, and my breath catches.
“Anatoly.” My voice trembles, uncertainty and raw desire mingled in one whispered word.
