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“Likewise. It’s rare to find young students who are interested in chess.”
“It’s my favorite hobby and my number one coping mechanism.”
His attention slides from the phone to my face. “Interesting.”
I internally cringe. That was definitely too much information for a person I just met. What is it about this Kayden that seems awfully familiar?
“My sister is in pre-law. I also have a cousin who’s studying law at TKU. Maybe you know him? His name is Gareth Carson.”
Kayden’s eyes skim over the text, pausing for an uncomfortable beat again, then he says, “Could be.”
“He only joined The King’s U this year,” Frank says from beside him as if he’s his designated butler. “He can’t possibly know all the students.”
“You’d be surprised,” Kayden deadpans. “How close are you with this cousin of yours?”
“Very. We were brought up together, so he’s like a brother.”
“I see.” For a fraction of a second, I think I see a smirk, but I must be imagining things since it quickly disappears.
I play white as usual and the start goes well. In no time, I manage to use the tricks Landon taught me, but unlike Frank, Kayden isn’t completely oblivious. He counters each and every one of them and drives me into a corner.
The last stage of the game is basically me fighting a hopeless war against his relentless and highly strategic attack.
“Checkmate,” he finally announces with emotionless coldness.
I purse my lips and study the board to try and figure out where I went wrong.
“You want to know your fault?” he asks, the question obviously rhetorical since he continues, “Instead of playing chess, you’re playing a treacherous war-like game with no codes of honor whatsoever. Instead of focusing on the pieces, you were too busy trying to outsmart me.”
“Chess is all about playing the player, not the game,” I type, then wince. Those are that bastard Landon’s exact words.
“You need to be psychologically stronger than your opponent before you can attempt to play him.”
“I tend to agree.” The low, deep voice catches me completely by surprise.
I was so caught up in my tragic loss that I momentarily let my guard down. None other than Landon ruthlessly used that gap to come into my vicinity.
He strolls inside wearing nonchalance like a second skin and psychopathy as a personality trait. Pressed black ankle-length pants add elegance to his long legs, and the crisp white shirt that’s tucked in them outlines his lean waist and broad shoulders.
His hair is styled and I can smell the expensive cologne that seems to be made exclusively for him.
A chill spreads down my spine as my flight response zings through every fiber of my being.
I need to run.
Run…
Landon stops beside my chair and wraps a casual hand around my shoulder as if it’s the most natural motion in the world.
His fingers dig in the bare skin of my upper arm, keeping me completely immobile. My temperature rises and, to my horror, it has nothing to do with rage and more to do with an outrageous sensation.
Like how good his touch feels.
How much my body is starved for the intensity.
The manhandling.
The unknown.
