Page 17 of Gloves Off

If I didn’t hate Alexei Volkov so much, I might think he was handsome. I might be attracted to his broad shoulders, the way his dark hair is thick with a slight wave, or the sharp, intelligent focus in his eyes. I might have the urge to run my fingers over the scar in his eyebrow, or press my palm into his abdomen to test if his torso is truly as firm as it looks.

IfI were attracted to him. Which I’m not.

His gaze flicks to me, pausing, lingering, sweeping up and down. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

Irritation throttles through me. How dare he? I look hot. “Wait until the wedding’s over before you spit on my new dress, okay, Volkov?”

The gown is floor-length silk with a deep V and flowing sleeves. Seventies bridal goddess is the look I’m going for. I found it on the rack this morning at the wedding dress store I pass every day on the way to work. The fabric is smooth and drapey, skimming over my curves with a slight pearlescent sheen. My hair is down around my shoulders in smooth waves, and my makeup is light and simple except for a swipe of blood red lipstick, which I wear when I need confidence. Or to establish dominance.

More than ever, I need the confidence boost of looking incredible.

His eyes linger on my neckline, my waist, and a rush of adrenaline hits my bloodstream. “Last chance to change your mind.”

Am I sure about this? No. I’m petrified. Even though it’s just on paper and it would be a frigid day in hell before this marriage between me and Volkov includes real feelings, every cell in my body screams at me to run.

This marriage will never be real, though.

“I’m sure. Let’s get this over with.”

He nods once, scowling over his shoulder where an older woman with a sweet smile waits. She steps forward and he tilts his head at the door. “We’re doing it outside.”

As we walk, he tucks his fingers beneath his shirt collar, pulling it away like he can’t breathe.

“Don’t worry, Volkov,” I tell him in a low voice so we aren’t overheard. “The nightmare of being married to me will be over before you know it.”

As we pass a window, I catch our reflection. We look spectacular together, I’ll admit. He’s all towering height and broad shoulders, brutal features, and a sharp, expensive suit, and I’m feminine elegance, red lips, and long wavy hair.

What a shame. What a waste.

We make our way out of city hall in silence, people sending glances our way.

“Is that Alexei Volkov?” someone whispers.

As we descend the front steps, I lift my hem so I don’t trip. Like always, his eyes go to my shoes. A victorious feeling bubbles up my throat.

“Like them?” I’m all innocence. “They’re my something new. You know how much I love to shop.”

His eyes cut to mine, flashing with fury, and my grin broadens.

Like most of my shoes, they’re outrageous and impractical. A deep, bloodred to match my lipstick. A red that says,I am here to fucking play, and I will win.

“This necklace is from my mom, handed down from my grandmother. Something borrowed.” I push my hair back to show him the amber stone hanging from the thin chain, and his eyes dip to my collarbone. My mom lent it to me when I was a teenager and insisted I keep it, but good enough for a fake wedding that’s probably already cursed.

He sighs, exasperated with me, and deep in my chest, I feel joy. The more I talk, the more annoyed Volkov gets.

“My ‘something blue,’ well…” I press my lips together like I’ve said too much, my smile turning coy. “That’s hidden beneath my clothes.”

His jaw flexes. Ooooh, I’m really getting under his skin now. He shakes his head and mutters something to himself.

I lower my voice so the officiant, walking a few feet away, can’t hear. “Don’t you want to know what my ‘something old’ is?” A smile stretches across my face. To an outsider, I’m the picture-perfect bride, beaming at my groom, excited to hitch my wagon to his and sign my life away.

“I wish you would stop talking,” he mutters under his breath.

“It’s you.” I’m still beaming at him like he’s the love of my life. “You’re thesomething old,Volkov.”

He glares at me like he’s regretting all of this.

“Tell me,” I whisper, because around him, I just can’t help myself, “what happens to our prenup if you kick the bucket early?”

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