Page 87 of Gloves Off

Georgia turns her head to me slowly, her eyes flashing with warning and fury.

“Hellfire?” Shane asks, grinning. “Is that your romantic nickname for my daughter, Alexei?”

“No,” Georgia says, shoulders tense.

“Yes,” I say at the same time. “She used to get on my nerves so much that I swore she was forged in Hellfire.” My gaze flicks to her hair, strands of auburn glowing gold under the dining room lighting. “And the hair.”

“The nickname suits you, honey,” her mom says, smiling.

“It doesn’t suit me.” Georgia rolls her eyes. “He’s just teasing.”

As the conversation moves on, a realization strikes me.

Hugo Greene died years ago. It was in the news. She’s had the option to get the inheritance for years.

“What do you need the money for?” I ask her quietly.

Our eyes meet, hers going guarded and wary.

“You obviously need it for something if you were willing to marry me,” I add. “And don’t even try to tell me it’s for shoes.”

I can’t believe I fell for that.

“I saw these bunny palaces online.” Her eyes spark. “Stefan and Damon will get a whole house and staff. There’s a waterslide, too.”

“Very funny.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t worry what I need the money for.”

I’m going to find out why she needs that money.

CHAPTER 42

GEORGIA

A few evenings later,I’m sitting in the front room of Volkov’s house, waiting for my rideshare to soccer, when Darcy texts me.

Have you seen this?It’s a link.

The social media profile has no picture, no photos, and no bio, but alotof followers. A new account, it seems.

@alexeivolkov.

I make a face—why’d he make an account? He doesn’t care about this stuff. When I click to see who the two accounts he’s following are, though, my heart stops.

One is mine. With my new hockey wife status, I get more new followers now than I can keep up with. I didn’t notice him adding me.

The other account is @doc.georgia.greene.queen,a fashion account dedicated to my outfits. A funny feeling loops through me.

Interesting. He must have clued in that social media is a way for us to fake it without having to interact. I find the picture I took with Volkov at my parents’ Halloween party and post it. My phone starts buzzing immediately with comments and likes.

Volkov can park his Batmobile in my cave anytime,someone comments, and I laugh, studying the image.

God, he looked hot in that costume.

I can’t stop thinking about what we did in the library. He didn’tlet me come—asshole!—and I should hate that. He showed his true colors. Controlling, dominant asshole.

I shouldn’t be thinking about it so much. The day after the Halloween party, a bouquet of flowers arrived at my hospital office.

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