Page 19 of Gloves Off

The officiant melts. “Of course.” She steps away ten feet and turns her back on us. Our witnesses shuffle away, giving us space.

Volkov holds my gaze with that cold, pissed-off look, leaning in until his mouth is inches from my ear. Alarm shoots through me as his scent washes over me, clean and sharp, deeply masculine, and the back of my neck prickles.

For a startling moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.

“I don’t love you and I never will,” he murmurs.

I huff a silent laugh. “This isn’t a real marriage, and when it’s over, I won’t miss you.”

He stares down at me, nostrils flaring, and god, I fucking hate him.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He calls the officiant back, and we continue the ceremony. She makes us repeat things. I’m only half listening, focused on saying the right words, not on what they mean. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t real.

“Do we have the rings?” the officiant asks, and my heart stops.

Was I supposed to get a ring for him? Before I can panic, he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out two rings, one small and one large. They’re cold, plain, and ugly, two bands of metal.

I make a horrified face. “Oh god,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

The officiant looks between us, concerned, and I school my expression into a smile.

“These are heirlooms.” I’m scrambling. “I thought they were lost.”

“How romantic,” she says softly, clutching her chest.

This is probably a good thing. I’d get attached to a pretty ring. I’d miss it when this was over. I won’t miss this ugly thing.

She says more words, and he takes my hand and slides the ring on my finger. My nerves jump from the surprising warmth of his hands. My focus narrows to where his fingers brush mine.

The ring is at least two sizes too big. He stares down at me, daring me to challenge him.

More words I barely listen to as I repeat, and I slide the ring onto his finger, holding his strong hand in mine.

It’s weird, touching him like this. My stomach dips.

“Very well.” She sends us a serene smile, and when I look to Volkov, my heart does a weird, confusing clunk. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Our witnesses clap happily, the officiant beams between us, and the onlookers start applauding.

“Yeah, Volkov!” someone hollers.

The officiant pauses with meaning. “You may now kiss the bride.”

I stiffen. My cool mask of composure slips, and panic races up my spine. He’s not going to actually—is he? A question rises in my eyes.

He stares back at me with a cold glare.

“Mr. Volkov?” the officiant asks.

I’m not breathing. I clutch my stupid bouquet—why did I buy this? I feel like a child playing wedding with her friends.

“Would you like to kiss the bride?” the officiant asks gently, like she suspects he’s so overcome with love and devotion that he hasn’t heard her.

I see the barely perceptible curl to his lip, though. He’s disgusted at the idea. I don’t care about him or what he thinks, but still, the rejection stings. My face burns, and I pray he doesn’t notice. The only thing more embarrassing than him rejecting me at our wedding would be him realizing it hurts me.

He takes a deep breath. Oh. We’re doing this. Okay. My pulse picks up. We’re actually going to kiss. Of course we are. We can’t pretend to get married without a kiss. My heart hammers, my spine goes ramrod, and I’m frozen as he lowers his mouth to mine.

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