Page 68 of Love Is A Draw
Now, it was only a matter of play.
CHAPTER 29
The 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.
