Ronin smirked. “I thought you didn’t know how to play?”
“I don’t,” she said, picking up a piece that looked like a tiny turret. “What’s this one called?”
“Guess,” Ronin grinned.
“Castle?”
“Guess again.”
“Fortress,” she tried.
“Nope.”
“Stronghold.”
“Try again.”
“Turret. Tower. Citadel. Outpost,” she peppered him, earning shakes of his head every time. “What the fuck is it called then?”
Ronin’s soft mouth formed a delighted smile and she wanted to leap into his arms and kiss it off of him. “Rook.”
“Rook? That makes no fucking sense.”
He threw his head back and laughed. So different from his earlier gloom. “I didn’t name the pieces.”
“Why’s it called a rook?”
His dark brows furrowed. “I honestly have no clue.”
“Teach me. Payment for your fake dance lessons.”
His grin grew wider as he gathered up the board and strode to the bed where he sat cross-legged, beckoning her to join him.
Outside, snow continued to fall, large, fluffy flakes dotting the darkness and imparting a coziness to the room despite the lurking dangers.
She climbed onto the mattress and flung her hair over her shoulder as Ronin arranged the pieces with long, elegant fingers.
“Go easy on me, Matakos.”
The smile he aimed at her was a thing of dazzling, heart-wrenching beauty.
“Never, Valette.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Something hard and sharp dug into Ronin’s ass cheek.
He groaned awake, lifting his hips and pulling out a black chess piece—the bishop. He tossed it to the foot of the bed where the board and remaining pieces lay in a haphazard pile.
He took a moment to study Mireille’s peaceful, sleep-softened face on the pillow beside him. So different from the hard-ass exterior she put on while awake.
He was growing to appreciate both sides of her.
Maybe too much.
He barely remembered what had happened last night, but his head was blissfully clear thanks to the blood she’d given him.
And likely also thanks to her listening.
