Page 33 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

T he docks bustled with motion—crates thudding against planks, ropes coiling in expert hands, gulls shrieking above the sails. The acrid smell of fish clung to the mist like a curse.

Victor stood amid it all, spine straight, cravat sharp, boots polished despite the grime sloshing beneath them.

He’d dressed like a man in control. But inside, he was breaking apart.

His fingers gripped the handle of his satchel—inside it was only the chess set Gail once traced with her fingertips.

What once seemed like triumph now lay in ruins.

A carriage waited at the edge of the quay. Through its glass pane, he glimpsed Lady Hermy, the countess, curled against the cushion, shoulders shaking as she cried into her hands. She wept not only for him, but for everything they’d lost.

He’d overheard her sob to Greg, “Why is it always the good ones who leave? They played like real masters. And now they’re gone. Just when we had them close.”

Greg’s boots clicked across the planks. “Victor.”

Victor turned, jaw locked tight.

Greg extended a hand, gaze solemn. “You deserved to meet Dmitry. I’m sorry you won’t. But I’ll see him and tell him what you’ve done that you played with courage, with honor, with everything his name once meant. There’s never been a better student.”

“Gail.” Victor’s voice broke at her name.

And then—List. He stepped from the shadow with the smugness of a man who thought he’d already won.

“You came.” His lips curled. “Honorable. At least you won’t be a fugitive.”

“Captive and exiled thanks to you,” Victor bit out.

Greg stood tall. “An unnecessary punishment for someone who did nothing wrong.”

“But not an illegal one,” List replied with a shrug.

Greg folded his arms. “I’ll go back to Parliament and fight this. I’ll fight for meritocracy. Justice.”

“You’ll fail with these childish notions,” List scoffed. “The House of Lords exists to preserve bloodlines, not reward the little scraps you call honor.”

“Truer words have never been spoken,” Greg said quietly. “You’ve earned nothing but fear, disdain, and hatred.”

“Yet, I haven’t lost honor like you, Stone.” List’s eyes narrowed. “You lost the one title you earned, Black Knight. All that remains is the one married into your name—and even that’s your wife’s, not yours, Earl.”

Greg’s jaw twitched. “Whatever privilege I have left, I will use it for something greater than myself.”

List turned, dismissive. “Whatever works.” He lifted a gloved hand, signaling the customs officer. “He’s boarding this ship.”

The officer nodded. “Ship fourteen is final call.”

Victor stared at the gangplank.

Behind him, England blurred into fog. Ahead of him, exile. And inside him—only Gail.

When the Pearlers’ landau rolled to a stop with the polished hush of wealth, the wheels hissed on the damp quay, fog swallowing the light from its lanterns.

Gail descended first, her gloves damp with sweat despite the morning chill. Rachel and Fave followed, each clutching sealed documents that had taken months to arrange—papers for entry, names spelled carefully, numbers aligning with records no one dared to question.

They had done everything right. Every movement, every form, every favor called in.

And now—they were here.

Mist clung low over the stones, curling like coiled ropes, mixing coal smoke with sea brine. Somewhere beyond the docks, a bell clanged—long and hollow—as if to signal a beginning… or an end.

Gail’s pulse thrummed. So close. He’s coming. He’s real.

Fave scanned the berth numbers, then pointed through the shifting mist. “That’s it. The ship from Calais.”

They moved as one—Gail’s boots quick over slick stone, Rachel lifting her skirts, Fave calling to the porter. Maia trailed behind, barely keeping up, cheeks flushed with excitement.

The ship groaned against the ropes as it docked, deckhands leaping to secure lines. Steam hissed. The crowd surged, but Gail stood rooted. Her eyes searched the gangway, breath caught in her throat.

An old man in a long black coat staggered down slowly, carefully. A worn valise in one hand, the other gripping the railing as though it were the spine of the world. Thin, but upright. Stern mouth, pale from the cold. A shadow of a man, yet unmistakable.

“Dedushka. Grandfather,” she whispered.

Her vision blurred. Her knees nearly gave way.

Dmitry.

He looked up—his eyes scanning, searching. She came forward, raising a hand. He froze, brows furrowing—then his face broke into a smile of recognition.

“ Vnuchka moya ?” My granddaughter, he called, voice rough, the accent thicker than she remembered.

Gail nearly crumpled. Yes. Yes, it’s me.

Rachel gasped softly beside her. Fave let out a breath. Behind them, Maia clutched her satchel. “Is that him? Is that your grandfather?”

Gail nodded, tears caught in her lashes.

Maia beamed. “He looks like you!”

A laugh, wet and soft, escaped Gail’s throat. She’d nearly closed the distance—hand rising to wave again. But her gaze caught on something behind him. Beyond the gangplank. Across the quay.

Victor.

Satchel in hand. Coat buttoned high. Standing still as the ship at his back prepared to cast off.

Her breath caught like a hook in her chest. No. It’s too soon.

Greg stood near him, arms folded, jaw tense. And looming just behind— List—speaking with a customs officer like he was selecting wine from a list.

The gangplank to Victor’s ship was being lowered. He was minutes from boarding.

Gail turned blindly back to Dmitry. He was still coming. Still watching her. But he hadn’t seen the danger and couldn’t fathom…

Fave swore under his breath. “I didn’t realize List was moving this fast. He’s putting Victor on the first ship.”

“Oh, Gail!” Rachel rushed to her side. “He must have picked him up from… oh look, Greg’s there!”

The words slammed into her. Gail staggered.

Rachel’s hand gripped her elbow. “There’s List. If he sees us with Dmitry…”

Gail turned her head slowly, dread crawling up her spine.

Baron List stood no more than twenty yards away, one finger lazily pointing toward the ship’s manifest. The customs officer nodded.

“If he sees your grandfather,” Rachel said under her breath, “Dimitry won’t make it ten feet unless Victor leaves.”

Gail’s mouth went dry. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She turned back again—Dmitry, walking steadily toward her. Alone. Brave. So near.

And Victor—her Victor—was walking away. Her fingers curled around nothing.

Two ships. One river. No time to calculate. No room to retreat.

The game had shifted. And this move—this single breath—was hers to make.

The wind sliced across the quay, sharp with salt and coal smoke, biting through Victor’s coat as he stood by the gangplank. He didn’t flinch when the gull shrieked overhead or when the crate beside him dropped with a thud. He was too far gone for nerves now.

He told himself she wouldn’t come or that she couldn’t. But something inside him—some foolish, aching part—had waited anyway.

“Victor!” Her voice sliced through the crowd.

He turned. And the world stopped. She was there. Wild-eyed. Breathless. Beautiful. He didn’t believe it—couldn’t. But her eyes found his. And something inside him cracked open. Hope was the worst opponent; it always returned when it shouldn’t.

List’s voice cut through the fog like oil through water. “Too late. He’s boarding.”

“No. He’s not.” She grabbed his satchel.

He let her.

She opened it—only the chess set. Her eyes flicked to the Thames.

Victor followed her gaze. What remained of his work drifted, waterlogged, sinking beneath the tide. List had already thrown them .

List saw her expression shift. “What are you doing?”

“Setting the board,” she answered.

Victor caught the movement behind her—Greg’s wife, Fave, a child, and the man he’d once studied from. Dmitry Tarkov. Real. Alive. Watching.

But she didn’t look away.

List barked a laugh. “Let her keep the chess set. She’ll need something to remember him by.”

“One moment, Baron,” Gail said evenly.

Victor’s breath hitched. Her tone—he’d never heard her sound like that. Like steel.

List sneered. “What do you want, Jew girl?”

The customs officer flinched. Victor saw it—the tightening of the officer’s mouth. The flicker of something almost human. Something buried.

Gail straightened her back. “You agreed that the Black Knight would take the title from the Earl.”

“I didn’t think it’d be a Jew,” List spat. “I entered the best from White’s.”

“But the agreement stands?” Her voice was cool as steel.

Victor found his voice. “She’s the Black Knight now. She earned what you and your wife never could. She deserves your respect.” He placed every word deliberately. Precisely. For the crowd. For the officer. For her.

List turned red. “It’s only a matter of time before she ruins it.”

Greg’s voice rose from near the customs desk. “She’s already accomplished more than any man on your roster.”

Gail turned to Victor. “Play me.”

He blinked. “Here?”

“One match. Your rules.” She pointed at the baron like a piece she’d already captured. “You said the Black Knight could only protect one.”

List’s face darkened. “And I meant it. One stays with her. Not both.”

“If he wins,” Gail said, looking at Victor, “he stays. Protected. If I win, you go. The Black Knight stays no matter what.”

List hesitated.

The customs officer raised a brow. “This I’d like to see. I’ll delay departure.”

A hush passed over the dock. The hiss of steam. The creak of rigging. A whisper from the crowd, “It’s her.”

“Fine,” List snapped. “One match. Let the Jews claw each other. But only one stays. One family. One future.”

Victor didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Until the customs officer murmured, “Play fast. The tide waits for no one.”

A crate was flipped. A board produced.

Gail’s fingers shook as she unlatched the set.

She sat.

Victor sat opposite her.

Their eyes met.

He could still walk away. He could still lose her. But not without a fight.

Chess had always been the language of their lives—why shouldn’t it decide everything?

Now, it was only a matter of play.