Page 47 of Love Is A Draw
Greg blinked. “Who?”
“Gail,” Rachel said. “She’s played every round. She’s earned her place. She’s in the final too. I read the rules, and they speak of players, not me. So she’s a player in the final round.”
A hush fell, broken only by the low pop of the fire.
Victor’s breath hitched. Gail. Not just a prodigy. Not a footnote. A force.
Victor eyed the scattered pieces on the chessboard. They were nothing but shapes—ivory knights, dark pawns, a king chipped at the base—yet each carried more than position. They carried him. He saw not wood, but the pulse of everything he had fought to claim. Awe struck him. Love followed, fierce and unbidden.Shehad always been more than he saw.
And now he’d fight beside her. Not to save her. But because she believed he was still worth saving, and he wanted nothing more than to be everything for Gail and worthy of her.
CHAPTER 21
Still the same night…
In the quiet corridor outside Maia’s room, the only sound came from the muffled tick of the longcase clock at the end of the hall. Gail eased the door shut, fingers lingering on the latch, then turned slowly, as if the shadows themselves might ask her to stay.
But they didn’t. The house had settled. All the danger and hope had folded itself into stillness.
Downstairs, one lamp flickered and cast shadows onto the staircase. She followed it.
The faintest light and the steeping scent of tea warmed the half-dark drawing room. Victor sat near the hearth, long legs folded beside a low table, shoulders hunched in the way of men too used to solitude. A teacup sat before him, untouched but still steaming.
He didn’t hear her at first. Gail stood in the doorway, watching. The fire cast him in bronze and soft shadow. His jacket hung on the back of a chair, and his rolled-up shirtsleevesrevealed forearms that bore the memory of long hours over chessboards.
She cleared her throat, and Victor turned.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
“I thought you’d gone to bed,” he said. “But I’ve been hoping to speak to you before I leave.”
She stepped inside, letting the door click softly behind her. “I checked on Maia. She’s asleep. I can stay here with you now.”
He nodded. A pause. Then, “She’s brave.”
Gail crossed the rug, unsure whether to sit or stay standing. In the end, she stopped beside the table, her fingers grazing the back of the armchair beside him. “She is. Too much so. She believes in fairy tales.”
Victor’s brow lifted faintly. “You don’t?”
“I used to.” Gail let her hand fall to her side. “Not anymore.”
He reached for the tea, cradling it in both hands like a talisman against the things they hadn’t said. The silence between them stretched—awkward, expectant.
Still, she didn’t leave.
Finally, he spoke. “You never told me why Dmitry hid you.”
Gail looked down. “You never asked.”
“I’m asking now.”
Her throat worked. She moved to the chair across from him and lowered herself slowly, as if the truth would hurt less if she said it sitting down. “There was a riot in Bessarabia. Rumors spread that Jewish children were being trained to carry messages for revolutionaries. My parents were named. They were”—her voice caught—“Grandfather got me out before they came for me too.”
Victor’s gaze stayed on her face. “You were what, seven?”
“Six. Like Maia now.” Her hands twisted in her skirts. “He told everyone we were traveling for chess. But we were running. He gave up his students, his lectures, his legacy. All for me.”
“Until he sent you here to the Pearlers?”
