Page 18 of Gloves Off

“Here,” he tells the commissioner, ignoring me. “Let’s do it here.”

With a start, I realize he’s led us to beneath the big maple tree I admired earlier.

“Why here?” I ask.

I’d rather get married inside city hall, under ugly fluorescent lighting, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning and people coughing or arguing parking tickets. Not out here, where the sun is shining.

I don’t want any of this to feel real. I don’t want it to be nice or romantic or memorable.

“It’s public,” he says in a low voice.

When I glance around, I spot the people already looking at us. A couple marrying outside city hall already attracts attention, but there’s an aura of power around Volkov that draws notice. I think about the restaurant last night, how my eyes went to him like a moth to a flame.

He has a point—the Storm social media accounts will be buzzing within minutes.

The officiant smiles again, her innocent, pleasant nature so out of place next to me and Volkov. A lamb in a snake pit. “Are your witnesses joining us?”

My stomach drops and I look to Volkov. I didn’t even think of witnesses. Of course we’d need them.

“They’re here.” Volkov tilts his chin at an older couple approaching. She’s wearing a dress and he’s wearing a suit. They look to be in their sixties, and they’re speaking in Russian, beaming at Volkov.

Oh god. His parents are here? He invited his parents?

They say something to him in Russian, the woman giving him a hug and the man shaking his hand. The woman’s eyes sparkle like she’s holding back tears.

She turns to me with a big, cheerful smile, and pulls me into a tight hug. “Congratulations,” she says with a Russian accent. I give a startled look to Volkov before the woman steps back and the man shakes my hand.

“So happy for you,” he says.

I force a smile. “Thank you.” I keep that smile pasted on my face as I lean in to the man I’m about to marry. “You invited your parents?” I ask through my teeth.

He looks at me like I’m insane. “Svetta is my housekeeper, and Dmitri is her husband.”

“Thank god.” My exhale is pure relief. I don’t want to meet his parents. This isn’t real, and the less ties to our personal lives, the better. Knowing him and his personality, his parents are probably assholes, just like him.

“Everyone ready?” the officiant asks us.

“Ready.” Volkov’s gaze slides to me, challenging and assessing.Last chance,his expression says.

Uncertainty flickers behind my ribs. What choice do I have,though? I can’t let the program lose funding. Those girls need it. They need one another and they need me.

I draw myself taller, inhale a steadying breath, and nod at the officiant.

“Ready.”

CHAPTER 9

GEORGIA

For most of my wedding,I’m barely listening. The officiant talks about love, commitment, and devotion to each other—all things I couldn’t care less about.

A respectful distance away, people gather and take photos. He’s so private, I bet he hates this. That gives me a tiny boost.

“Did you prepare vows?” she asks us.

Volkov and I stare at each other. Another thing I didn’t think of. Neither did he, by his stricken expression.

I cover up the fumble with a warm smile. “We did, but we’d love to say them in private, if that’s okay.” I nod to Volkov. “He’s shy about these things.”

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