Page 50 of Love Is A Draw
“You’re not ruining me. You’re running from me.”
And then she kissed him.
Soft. Sure. Devastating.
His hands lifted before he could stop them, one cupping her cheek, the other at her waist—and for a moment, he forgot everything.
Then, slowly, achingly, he pulled away.
She let him.
Victor stared at her, every part of him breaking. “If I kiss you again, I’ll never be able to walk away.”
She didn’t flinch. “Then don’t.”
But he did.
Because he was still trying to be a man Dmitry would respect, and maybe—just maybe—that meant leaving the one thing he loved most behind.
Unless he could protect her as the Black Knight, and tomorrow that title was on the table to be earned by the best player.
CHAPTER 22
Victor had walked through the night, each step carrying him farther from Gail and deeper into a hollow he could not quiet. Sleep had mocked him; every time he shut his eyes, he saw her—saw the way her breath caught when his fingers brushed hers, imagined how it would be to kiss her, to cherish her, to hold her as if the world could not intrude. But dawn had come, and with it the tournament. If he could not command the board today—if he failed to stand as the Black Knight—then what right had he to think of her at all, let alone protect her.
The next morning, the townhouse was cloaked in an uneasy stillness, the air heavy with last night’s smoke and the faint tick of the mantel clock. Victor stood on the landing, adjusting his cuffs with mechanical precision, trying to force his body into readiness even as fatigue dragged at his limbs.
That was when the knock came—hard, echoing against Greg’s front door, the sound splitting the silence like a summons.
The butler answered swiftly. A tall man entered—severe, official, with the clipped authority of someone who didn’t expectquestions. He held a small silver badge. “I need Lord Ashby and Mr. Romanov.”
Greg emerged from the study with wary eyes. “And you are?”
“Special investigator. I have it on credible authority that Mr. Romanov is connected to activities against the Crown. He’s been declared an enemy of the state.”
Victor froze. The banister bit into his hand.
Greg didn’t waver. “By whom?”
The man didn’t answer. More boots sounded. Three men entered—dark coats, stony expressions. Weapons holstered but visible.
The air shifted. Still, lethal.
“This is a private residence,” Greg said coldly. “And I’m the Earl of Ashby. Explain your presence.”
One of the men came forward and handed over a thick bundle tied with twine.
Victor’s breath stopped. His notebooks. Frayed. Water-stained. Creased from too many foreign hands.
The investigator pointed at the bundle of ledgers. “These were intercepted en route to a private club. They appear coded. Numbers, diagrams. Military?” Private club, pah! List stole them and was probably meeting with the investigators on his way to or from White’s.
Victor stepped forward. “Those are chess studies. My own.”
The man’s mouth curled. “You admit they’re yours then?”
“Yes.”
The investigator flipped another page. “This isn’t any chess I’ve seen. Not in theTimes. Not in theChessman’s Chronicles. Looks like code to me. Against the Crown?”
