Page 20 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

T he first shout jolted Victor like a crack of thunder.

He turned toward the tree line, breath caught in his throat, as a group of men bounded into view.

Their boots pounded against the uneven earth, sending up sprays of damp soil and breathless urgency.

Relief and dread collided in his chest, tangled so tightly he could hardly draw breath.

“Over here!” the pilot called hoarsely from the pond, his drenched figure crouched in the water, his hands twisted into the torn leather of the balloon envelope. One of the men skidded to a halt at Victor’s side, his face ruddy from exertion.

“Are you injured?” the man barked, his clipped voice cutting through the chaos.

Victor opened his mouth, closed it again, then managed a rough shake of his head. Words wouldn’t come. Injured? No. Not physically. Not in a way he could point to.

Gail was running. Each hurried footstep took her farther away with a crushing, irrevocable finality he couldn’t bear.

This was his fault. That truth slammed into his chest harder than the crash itself. He’d invited her onto the balloon. He’d smiled, coaxed, and reassured her with promises of safety. He’d brought her into his world—and broken the chances of happiness.

He kissed her in the clouds.

And she had trusted him. Trusted him enough to climb aboard with neither suspicion nor hesitation. And what had he done? He’d brought her down in flames, stealing every shred of control she’d had over her life. He could have killed her. He might have been her death.

“Sir?” the man pressed.

Victor’s throat felt thick. His eyes flicked back to the pond where two men rolled up their sleeves, wading into the water with muttered curses and calls for rope.

The envelope hung limp and jagged, its surface torn and useless, drifting as though it meant to haunt the entire scene.

The sight of it turned Victor’s stomach, but more pressing was the small figure disappearing through the trees.

She was running away from him.

And so she should.

I need to catch up with her.

“Gail,” he rasped, but the sound was swallowed by the sharp bellow of one worker.

“Get that edge before it drags under!”

The urgent shouts of men hauling at the leather twisted around him like a noose.

Children appeared next, their laughter mismatched with the chaos, eyes wide with morbid delight. Three darted past Victor, shoes pounding the earth as one shouted, “There’s a real balloon basket in there!”

The world carried on without him—but he couldn’t.

Victor clenched his jaw, blocking out all the noise, the pilot’s complaints, the water.

All he could see was Gail’s retreating form, hurried and unsteady, her skirts trailing mud in her wake.

He had to reach her. He had to make it right.

He tore after her, faster than he thought his legs could go under the weight of his exhaustion.

By the time the trees gave way to the soft, winding road, his heart beat brutal pain in his chest. She was ahead of him, barely upright, her walk uneven, her shoulders trembling. A passerby gaped as Gail approached, the woman’s parasol slipping from her fingers.

“Where are we?” Gail croaked.

The woman blinked, her mouth parting as if she couldn’t quite muster a response. “Hampstead Ponds.”

Gail gave a half-nod and staggered past, a faint, “Thank you,” spilling from her lips.

She swayed, then froze. Her hands came up high, as though she meant to reach the heavens, then they lowered slowly over her head, folding tightly like she might hold herself together through sheer will.

Victor caught up just as she reached the street’s end, “Gail?”

She turned to him, her face a heartbreak he could never unsee. Her crumpled expression, the redness of her eyes, the dirt streaking her cheeks. She wasn’t crying quiet tears, no soft sniffling, but she wept, openly, loudly, her breaths ragged and uneven as her chest heaved.

Victor’s heart twisted painfully. He had done this to her. He came closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel beneath. “Gail,” he said again.

She shook her head violently, a sob tearing through her lips that left her trembling from the effort. “Don’t,” she choked out, her words trim and edged with steel. “Don’t come closer.”

He didn’t stop walking. “I need to help you. Please.”

“You can’t!” She spun to face him fully, her face a portrait of anger and anguish.

She pressed her palms into his chest, shoving him sharply enough that he hesitated.

“I have to go home.” Her voice rose, each word a fresh fracture in her tone.

Her knees buckled slightly, her hands dropping to her sides in surrender.

“Gail…” His voice fell, helpless and unsteady. What else could he say?

She didn’t answer. Her sobs grew louder, breaking in rhythm with her breaths.

Her chin quivered, her chest shook, and then she was gasping, clutching at her belly, despair pouring out of her like a dam breached beyond repair.

“We’re at least five miles from St.?James.

” She blinked furiously. “How did we get so far away so fast?”

“As the crow flies,” Victor mumbled.

There’s only one winner here—her, he thought. If she regains her strength and wins the tournament, he’ll have to leave England. And if he wins… she’ll be forced to hold back to keep him.

He wasn’t leaving her alone. He’d caused this. He’d brought her here. “I’ll take you home.”

Victor reached for her, his fingers trembling, but the look she shot him rooted him in place. Her expression, raw and wrung out, spoke of pain he couldn’t touch, guilt he couldn’t fix. It knifed through him deeper than any word she could have said.

Gail shivered as she pressed into the corner of the hackney, her soaked gown clinging to her, cold and impossibly heavy.

She tried pulling the fabric away from her skin, but it was futile—the dampness bit through to her very bones.

She rubbed her hands over her arms, wishing it would help.

It didn’t. Her teeth chattered softly as the vehicle jolted, and her thoughts drowned out the steady rattle of wheels against cobblestones.

Victor sat across from her, his shoulders tense, his face half-lit by the flickering carriage lamp.

She didn’t look at him for long. The air between them felt brittle—one word and it might crack wide open.

All she could cling to was the driver’s earlier mutter: “It’ll take us some time.

” By the crow’s flight—or the balloon’s lost course—she’d be home in no time, but on these roads it’d take longer.

Victor leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I’m so sorry, Gail. I thought it would be safe. I thought it would be… impressive.”

“No.” Her arms tightened across her chest. “This is my fault.” Her realization came frayed and uneven, like a line stretched to breaking.

Victor’s head snapped up. “How? You didn’t convince yourself to get in that balloon. You didn’t set the envelope on fire, or—” His voice faltered. “Or nearly drown in the pond.” His jaw worked. “It’s my fault.”

She lifted her gaze. Her eyes were dry now, but not empty. “I agreed to it. Not just the balloon.” Her throat constricted, but she made herself go on. “Not just that.”

He waited.

Gail took a breath. “I misread the risk. I let the variable in.” A pause. Then, “You kissed me. And I let it matter.”

Victor blinked. “Matter?”

“I calculated the height of the balloon. The weather. The burn time. I planned the day. I didn’t plan for you.”

Silence held them still.

“I didn’t say I lost my life,” she added softly. “I said I lost.” Her tone held steady now. “I lost control of the game.”

Victor sat back, absorbing it. “So this was… strategy?”

“It was deviation.” Her lips twisted into something wry and self-directed. “And I failed to adjust.”

He studied her. “You think this was failure?”

“I let myself believe I could manage everything.” She exhaled, her tone turning rueful.

“But then you…” She narrowed her eyes and her cheeks twitched as if she couldn’t make sense of a position on the chess board.

“You used your own body as a shield. That wasn’t rational.

That was…” She shook her head. “That wasn’t part of any scenario I accounted for. ”

Victor leaned forward. “You told me once our position was stronger than we think.”

She stilled.

“I’ve heard those words before,” he said quieter now.

“So have I,” she whispered. “All my life.”

Stillness.

“My grandfather used to say it,” she said, slower now. “When I was young. Before I left Russia.”

Victor’s breath caught.

“He taught me to find strength in the unlikeliest positions. That if I looked closely enough, it was always there.”

He dropped into Russian. “So you search the board for power no one else sees.”

“Yes,” she replied, the word catching.

“That’s what my teacher taught me, too,” he said.

She blinked. “My grandfather,” she said, then added in Russian, “was Dmitry Tarkov. He used to speak of you. The boy who played without fear.”

He stilled.

“And you were the boy,” she whispered, still in Russian. “On the other side of the wall.”

His reply came like a breath: “And you were the girl I wasn’t allowed to meet.”

Their eyes held.

“How did you come to London?” he asked.

“My grandfather sent me with someone the Newmans trusted. Rachel’s father. That’s how I became the Pearlers’ governess.”

Understanding shifted behind his gaze. “So your talent—your past—it’s all been erased and wasted for safety?”

“Not wasted,” she said. “Not erased. Hidden.”

Another pause.

“I need to go home.”

Victor’s brows lifted. “We’re nearly to Regent Street.”

“No.” Her realization sharpened. “I mean home. I need to know whether he’s alive.”

“You think—Dmitry?—”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I didn’t expect to face death and realize I’d fallen in love the same day.”

Victor’s expression stilled.

“I didn’t calculate it. I didn’t even consider the possibility,” she murmured. “But it happened. And now I am scared. I need him.”

He reached for her hands. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes.”

He cupped her face, gently, reverently.

When he kissed her, it wasn’t the kiss of the boy she had once known. It was the man who saw every move she hadn’t meant to make—and loved her for each one.