Page 74 of Love Is A Draw
“May I?” The openness in his eyes undid her completely.
This was Victor, always measured and respectful, yet so yearning it shook her. She gave him a soft nod, unable to form words, and gasped as his fingers grazed the length of her leg, pulling the fabric along with them. The warmth of his hand against her bare skin sent shivers up her spine, not from the cold but from sheer intimacy.
He leaned over her, drawing her into a kiss that was achingly slow and heartbreakingly tender. His lips moved against hers, tasting, giving, claiming, but never taking more than she offered freely. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers curling against the rugged ridges of muscle as if anchoring herself to the moment, to him. Their breaths mingled, the airbetween them charged with unspoken promises and shared vulnerability.
Briefly, he pulled back, their foreheads resting together as the world narrowed to just him, her, and now. She saw the words in his eyes before he even spoke them, raw and overflowing with everything he kept so guarded.
She smiled softly, brushing her fingers along his jaw. “I know,” she whispered. And she did. She knew what it meant to be his, to trust him with everything, and to give herself completely in return.
He lowered them to the bed with unhurried grace, his movements sure yet tender, as if she were something sacred. And as she lay beneath him, her heart full and her soul bared, Gail knew with absolute certainty that this was her everything, too.
Later, as the candles flickered low and the world outside their chamber faded into silence, Gail lay nestled against Victor’s chest, her fingers tracing idle paths across the place where his heart beat steady and sure. He murmured something in Russian, barely more than breath against her hair, and she didn’t need the translation. She understood him now—in every language that mattered. This wasn’t just a victory. It was a beginning. A life they’d chosen, not one they’d been given. The war had ended, the match played. But love—that quiet, defiant force—was still unfolding. And as she closed her eyes, her hand curled into his, she knew: whatever came next, they would face it together.
Piece by piece.
Move by move.
Always together.
EPILOGUE
The Chessman’s Chronicles
Special Edition: An Announcement to Turn Kings Pale and Knights Giddy
The ink has barely dried on the most thrilling chess match ever played on the docks of London—where the Black Knights stunned not just the customs officials but the entire nation— a Jewish couple from Bessarabia has won the Boardsmen’s Tournament and taken the title from Gregory Stone, Earl of Ashby—formerly the Black Knight.
We are pleased to confirm the next excitement stirring in London: Avigail Tarkov and Victor Romanov, known henceforth as The Black Knights, currently residing (and rumored to be scandalously in love) under the generous roof of the Earl and Countess of Ashby, are preparing to host the most ambitious tournament in recent history.
They are to be joined by none other than Dmitry Tarkov, the man once thought lost in the Pale of Settlement, now very much alive as a chess legend, upright, and, according to our sources, even more formidable than the myths suggest.
Set to take place on English soil—with whispers of a royal venue—the tournament promises to attract talentfrom every corner of the globe. Even a prince from India has made tentative inquiries.
One thing is certain: this will not be a polite English affair. This will be a battle of minds, a feast of strategy, and—if we are very lucky—perhaps a rematch or two that will keep the ton talking until next Season.
So polish your pawns, dear readers. The game is far from over.
Dusk settled like a veil over Vauxhall Gardens. Beyond the gates, the last strains of music drifted faintly—flutes, laughter, the trill of a soprano fading into the summer night. But here, on the far edge where the lanterns burned low and the grass ran uneven underfoot, another gathering had begun.
Tables, borrowed and carried out from the kitchens, stood crooked in the meadow. Upon them, chessboards gleamed, their carved pieces catching the lanternlight. Children circled them, wary at first, as though these boards were doors to worlds they could not yet enter. Some clutched one another’s hands; some stood alone, faces sharp from hunger, hair uncombed, eyes darting as if expecting to be chased away.
Victor stood among them, a box of pieces balanced in his hand. He set it down gently and opened the lid. The scent of wood polish rose faintly, familiar and anchoring, a reminder of all the cities where he had once done the same. But never like this. Never for children who looked at him as if he were a conjurer and the board his stage.
He met the gaze of the boy he remembered—the boy who had once gripped a knife with those same scarred hands. Now theboy hovered at the edge of a table, wary, uncertain. Victor slid the white pieces toward him.
“You go first,” he said, voice steady, unyielding. “Tonight, the Black Knight gives you the opening.”
The boy’s mouth opened in disbelief. Slowly, the boy’s fingers closed around a pawn and nudged it forward. A move so small, yet enough to shift the air around them.
At another table, Gail bent beside a girl whose eyes were wide as moons. The child’s fingers trembled as she touched a pawn. Gail steadied the small hand in her own. “It moves straight,” she explained, guiding the piece, “but it takes diagonally. Do you see? Two ways of being strong at once.”
The girl frowned in concentration, then gasped softly as the meaning clicked. Gail smiled, the warmth of it catching in her chest. Her grandfather had once said the same words to her. Passing them on now felt like a victory greater than any trophy.
Nearby, Dmitry, broad-shouldered and loud as ever, had drawn a crowd of his own. Three children clustered around his board, their heads bumping as they leaned close. When one attempted to cast across an impossible gap, Dmitry barked a laugh so loud a bird startled from the hedges.
“Bold! I like bold,” he said, clapping the boy’s shoulder. “But even kings must follow rules. Protect the king, eh? Then—attack.” His Russian accent rolled, foreign yet rich, making the children grin as though he had given them a secret worth keeping.
And Maia, sharp little sweetness, had taken a seat opposite a solemn boy twice her size. Her braid bounced as she leaned forward, eyes fierce, queen already on the march. “Check,” she announced, chin tilted, pride radiating from her small frame. The boy blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or bow. The other children cheered, and Maia’s smile widened, triumphant and unshaken.
