Page 69 of Immortal Game

“Ciara…”

Ciara grabbed hold of Shea’s sleeve and clung to it. Her eyes shone. “If you win, you will kill me. Do you understand that?”

“I…”

“This life is unbearable to me,” Ciara pressed. “Do you not care?”

“Of course I care,” Shea snapped. “But what am I supposed to do? You’re asking me to give up my sister for you. I can’t do that. I’d never be able to live with myself.”

At that, the invisible awning over Shea’s head gave way. All the rain that had collected there crashed onto her head with force. She gasped at the shocking cold of it—then promptly spit out a mouthful of water. She glared at Ciara through the wet hair plastered to her face. “Real mature.”

Ciara wrapped her arms around herself. Standing there in the rain, she looked so fragile. It took all of Shea’s strength to remain where she was. She wanted to rage against her. She longed to pull her closer, to promise her that they could find some way to make this work. But their situation was a hopelessly lost position. There were no more resources. No more tricks.

“Well, then,” Ciara said. “I suppose that’s it.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

Although it tore her heart in two, Shea turned and walked away.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door. It was either Fuamnach, here to plunge a knife in her chest—or Ciara, to twist the one she’d already sunk into Shea’s heart. In all honesty, Shea was not sure which she preferred at this point. Death might be a welcome respite from this feeling. It’d been so long since someone truly hurt her. She’d almost forgotten loss felt like this.

The knock sounded again, more insistently this time. Shea grabbed the iron poker from the fireplace and approached the door. The knob jiggled menacingly. Shea took hold of it, raising her makeshift weapon.

“Open the door,” Daniil said impatiently. “I know you’re in there.”

“Jesus,” Shea muttered. “Hold on a second.”

She twisted the lock, then opened the door. Daniil stood in the hallway with a lantern dangling from the crook of his elbow. The light cast his features in an eerie half glow. His gaze flitted from the poker in her hand to her bloodshot eyes. He looked deeply unimpressed. “Crying again?”

“No,” she said defensively. “What do you want?”

“Have you reviewed Ciara’s games recently?”

Never had chess sounded less appealing. “You know, Danya, I’m not really in the mood.”

“What, did you break up with your girlfriend?” His voice oozed with mock sympathy.

Something in her snapped. Hadn’t she been beaten down enough tonight? She didn’t need Daniil Tsoi and his bad attitude. The poker clattered to the floor between them. She seized him by the collar of his shirt. His lantern swung between them, casting them both in stark shadow.

“You’re a real asshole,” she hissed. “You know that?”

His pupils dilated in anticipation, but he didn’t so much as flinch. He looked as smug as ever. “Go on,” he goaded. “See what happens.”

Her fist flexed at her side. She really might do it. He was bluffing, anyway. There was no way in hell a waifish rich boy knew how to throw a punch. But slugging him wouldn’t makeher feel any better. None of this was his fault, as much as she wanted it to be. With a scoff, she let go.

“That’s what I thought.” He straightened his collar primly. “The semifinals are tomorrow. You don’t have time to sulk.”

“Just go away.”

He put his foot in the doorway before she could shut him out. He pushed past her, shoving a serving dish into her hands. She hadn’t noticed him carrying it before.

“What’s this?”

“Table scraps. They’re cold. Sorry.”

Shea lifted the lid from the dish. As he said, it was a portion of dinner. Cold, maybe, but it still smelled divine. Her empty stomach twisted around itself violently. Very warily, she said, “Thanks.”

While she ate this strange peace offering at her desk, Daniil took a seat at her chessboard. His signet ring glinted in the near-darkness of the room as he rearranged the pieces. After a few minutes, he asked, “Feeling more reasonable now?”