Page 120 of Unveiled

“That’s a mistake, Anya,” he murmurs.

I swallow hard and whisper, “Not if the pawn doesn’t have a choice.”

His fingers freeze against the rook.

Slowly, he moves his queen—not forward in attack, but sideways. A defensive move.

“There’s always a choice.”

I glance at the board, my chest tight. I pick up another pawn and set it forward, my words a whispered rush. “Not when you’re being watched, and every move you make puts the others in danger.”

Voices sound behind us. His aunt and uncle. “I can’t believe after all he’s been through, they’re playing chess,” he mutters, loud enough for us to hear him. I roll my eyes.

Semyon goes completely still. He holds my gaze. Finally, he moves his queen forward, blocking my king.

A silent declaration.No one is taking you.

I blink, a hot tear rolling down my cheek, and reach for his hand. I give his a squeeze.

“There’s too much at risk,” I whisper. “You can’t play recklessly.”

Semyon shifts in his chair, his eyes locked on mine. “And you can’t play to lose.”

I finally move the knight, a bold move, one that puts me in danger but sets up an opening. My heart hammers.

“If I fall, the rest of the board crumbles,” I whisper.

He doesn’t blink but moves his rook, cutting off my knight’s escape.

“Then I won’t let you fall.”

I believe him. Oh god, I believe him.

He leans forward with a chilling smile. “That’s why we win. No more defense.” He moves his queen again, a final shift.

A setup. A trap.

"One more move.” He’s watching me. “And they’re in checkmate."

My chest tightens, something hot and unbearable flooding through me. He understands. He’s already planning. Already calculating.

Already preparing for war.

Chapter 31

SEMYON

The scentof cinnamon and freshly baked bread gives the bakery an almost nostalgic, homey feel, hiding the tension under the surface.

It’s quiet in here, emptied forthismeeting. I lean against the display case, my arm crossed and my expression neutral. Anya stands behind the counter, wiping her fingers for the hundredth time on a dishtowel.

I casually clear my throat to get her attention.

The Irish have no idea what they’re walking into. I know why she’s nervous, but she doesn’t have to be. I’ve got this. I’ve gother.

The Irish only think they have control. They don’t realize I already have them in checkmate.

“They’re in the neighborhood,” Anya murmurs, hervoice low.

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