Page 34 of Love Is A Draw (Check Mates #2)

T he wind howled off the Thames, rattling crates, slicing through Victor’s coat as if trying to push him out of the country itself.

A gull shrieked overhead—mocking, it seemed—as the customs officer glanced over his shoulder. “It’s time for the passenger to board, sir, unless he agrees to the match against a woman.”

She snapped the pieces into place, each movement clean, sure, relentless—even as the wind clawed at her shawl and rattled the edge of the board. She pressed one hand to the corner to steady it.

Victor moved before she asked. His hands remembered the weight of the pieces. His heart remembered her.

This board—they both knew—was the only battlefield they had left—the only order in the chaos.

She opened with white: e4.

He answered e5.

They played fast—no time for flourishes.

A crowd of spectators, but no elegance. Just survival.

Every move echoed with memory.

Bishop for knight.

Queen for tempo.

Sacrifices.

Escapes.

Precision.

Their eyes locked. What are you doing? His gaze demanded.

Her answer lived in her next move. Trust me. She cleared the board—methodical, vicious, brilliant.

Her knight cornered his rook.

He struck back.

And then, all that remained were two pawns. Two kings. The endgame.

Victor’s hand hovered over his king. Then he stilled and looked past Gail.

There, just beyond the customs line, stood Dmitry.

Coat buttoned to the throat, valise in hand, unmoving.

His silvered hair caught in the wind. His expression was unreadable—except his eyes. Those eyes burned with expectation.

He nodded once. “Sdelai kak ya uchil.”

Quiet. Certain. Do as I taught you.

Victor flinched. The words hit like a blade. His stomach turned. The king piece blurred beneath his fingers. Everything in him screamed not to move. And yet—he did.

Three squares forward. Across from her. Opposition. The winning move.

And the costliest one.

A line drawn.

If played right, he would win. But then she would lose everything. Dmitry. London. The life she’d fought for with nothing but strategy and sheer will. And Dmitry Tarkov—her family, her beginning—would vanish again.

Unclaimed. Forgotten.

“If she loses,” List sneered to the customs officer, “she can return to the Pale with her relic.”

Victor’s fists clenched. His mouth went dry. There was no honor in this. “He’s a legend, not a relic.”

“And you are nothing.”

She looked up. No fear. No doubt. Only trust me.

He turned back to the board.

Moved.

She answered.

He responded again.

She repeated her move.

And again.

His breath caught.

A third time—same reply.

The customs officer harumphed. “That’s repetition.”

A beat.

“Draw,” Gail said softly.

Victor stared at the board. Then at her.

She’d seen it. All along. She hadn’t played to win. She’d played to refuse to lose.

Not a checkmate.

Not a resignation.

A draw.

List growled, eyes blazing. “That’s not a win?—”

“No,” the customs officer interrupted, his voice suddenly hard. “But it’s not a loss either. And your agreement was with the title—not the outcome. No winner means they split the prize.”

“They are both the Black Knight!” Greg gave Fave a meaningful look, and they applauded.

“All hail the Black Knights!”

Dmitry looked at them both. “You two. Together.”

Victor barely heard the cheers. The roar. The tide.

He only saw her. That spark. That certainty. That girl he loved.

Victor didn’t move. He couldn’t. His chest rose and fell in silent heaves.

Gail rose slowly, her hand trembling slightly, and offered it to him.

He took it.

“Black Knight. We split the title,” Gail said.

Their fingers locked—cold, tight, real.

“It would be my honor.”

And that’s when he saw him. Dmitry Tarkov. His master.

And together, they stood.

In the wind, with the chessboard between them and the past behind them, Victor knew. They had chosen what mattered. And finally—finally—they hadn’t lost what mattered most.