Page 29 of Under His Control
“Pianist from age five. It’s a Russian thing.” His shrug may be modest, but pride flickers in his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll prove it one day.”
We reach a quieter section, streetlamps buzzing. Two guys in their early twenties linger by a tattoo parlor—leather jackets, cigarettes, brittle bravado. One nudges the other, nodding in our direction.
“Funny how some rich men like big girls,” the taller one jeers, gaze raking over my body. His friend snickers.
The words hit like ice water. My steps falter; shame flashing hot and quick.
Beside me, Anatoly stops dead in his tracks. The menace that pours from him is physical, and the air around him turns cold.
He turns, slow and deliberate. “Repeat that.”
The punks exchange a glance, sensing danger but too young to respect it. The tall one smirks wider, blowing smoke. “Didn’t stutter, bro.”
Anatoly calmly removes his jacket with such politeness it’s almost terrifying. “Taylor,” he says without looking at me, handing me his coat, “step back.”
I touch his arm. “Anatoly, don’t?—”
He gently disengages my hand, eyes never leaving the kids. “They insulted my wife-to-be.” Each syllable dropping like a gavel.
The shorter one swallows hard, shifting uncomfortably. “Hey, man, it was just a joke?—”
“No,” Anatoly says, rolling his cuffs with surgical precision. “Not a joke.” He slowly steps forward, a predator closing the distance between itself and its prey.
“Anatoly,” I whisper, heart pounding with fear but also with a wild, fierce thrill at the way he’s defending me.
One more step and he’s within striking range. The tall punk’s bravado cracks and he retreats a half pace, suddenly realizing Anatoly isn’t bluffing.
Anatoly’s voice is pure ice. “Apologize. Now.”
The streetlight flickers overhead. I can sense the moment teetering—it’s violence or capitulation, no middle ground.
And that’s where the night holds its breath.
CHAPTER 11
TAYLOR
I’ve barely touched Anatoly’s sleeve, the warning poised on my lips, when the taller punk decides to push his luck. He sneers, all bravado, and lunges forward with a clumsy, wild swing.
My heart jumps into my throat. “Anatoly!” I gasp, instinctively clutching his arm.
He moves so quickly, so smoothly, that it looks rehearsed. He sidesteps the punch as casually as if he’s avoiding a passing waiter, and grips the jerk’s wrist in midair, effortlessly twisting his arm into a hold behind his back.
No struggle. Little effort. Cool, perfect precision.
The kid gasps in shock and pain, face pressed awkwardly against the brick storefront. His friend backs up a step, mouth slack, the cockiness instantly replaced by panic.
“You were saying?” Anatoly growls softly into the guy’s ear.
“Let go, man!” the punk squirms, voice high and breathless.
“I will,” Anatoly says, his voice low and dangerous, “when you apologize to the lady.”
The punk squirms again, harder. Anatoly calmly adjusts his grip, leaving no more wiggle room. “Apologize or I break your arm.”
The other guy looks back and forth between the two of them. “Just do it, Jake,” he mutters. “C’mon, dude.”
Jake tries to twist again, to no avail, face red. Then he groans. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Jeez. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
