The Pawn (Endgame #1)(35)

On the table beside the fireplace are a stack of books—Fairy Tales from around the Mediterranean, The Myth of Homer Revealed. It’s too much to think Gabriel spends his evenings reading Greek mythology. These are for me.

“Ready to play?” comes a low voice.

I whirl, dropping the book I’m holding. Fairy Tales from around the Mediterranean lands spread open, its spine stretched. I pick it up before it bends, hugging the large volume to my chest. “Play?”

He steps out from behind the spiral staircase. Was he waiting for me there? “Chess.”

What would you do with her? Damon asked.

Play chess, Gabriel answered, turning me into a joke.

“No, thank you.”

“Do you think you can say no?”

Defiance burns in my veins. My mind, my soul. That’s my leverage, Candy said, and I don’t plan to give him any. “You bought my body, that’s all.”

“I bought all of you.”

“You can make me move around the pieces. Is that what you want?” An empty brainless automaton. That’s all I’d give him, as plain as the actual pawn piece on the board. Chess is the game my daddy taught me, the game he played with me every week. And this is the man who ruined him. It would be a betrayal to play it with him.

He eyes the chess set with something like regret. “I’ll leave you to your reading, then. I have some work to finish.”

“Great,” I manage, my voice tight.

I’m a little freaked out by Gabriel’s uncanny knowledge of me. Justin got me a tennis bracelet for our last anniversary, shiny and bland. This is officially the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. From the man I hate the most.

Freaked out, but not enough to leave the room. I sit down and start to read.





Chapter Eighteen





For the rest of the morning I manage to distract myself in the brutal poetry of the Iliad. There’s war and famine, but it feels so far removed. I can get lost in the alien lands. When I stand up again, my back is stiff. I find a clear space on a rug in the corner, near the spiral staircase, and practice my yoga poses from memory. I’m wearing my favorite comfy jeans, soft but still restrictive in my movements. I manage the simple poses, though, to center my mind.

I’m feeling almost calm, considering the circumstances. Mrs. Burchett brings me lunch on a silvery tray. A wide slice of the chicken pot pie, pleasantly flaky on the outside, still bubbling on the inside.

It’s only during the restless afternoon hours that I look up the Minotaur.

Every myth has some basis in fact, which is why the study of ancient history is so important. Archeology can uncover some of the secrets. Myths whisper the rest of what we know. In that way myths provide more room for error and more room for discovery.

Ancient debts. War. Even human sacrifice. All of these have their roots in fact.

The Labyrinth was most likely the palace at Knosses, an elaborate architectural triumph that spanned six acres and climbed five stories. One thousand rooms probably accounted for the sense of a maze.

There are numerous pieces of evidence of human sacrifice on Crete, a morbid side of ancient mythology where I prefer not to dwell. Especially in light of my current situation.

It’s the Minotaur himself who holds my fascination.

The child of Pasiphae, Minos’s wife, who fell in love with a beautiful white bull. From their union came a child. A monster in every sense of the word, the Minotaur was banished to the Labyrinth and fed on sacrifice alone. Was the Minotaur some wild historical figure, distorted by the lens of superstition and poetry? Or was he the dark side of King Minos himself, the bastard child born of jealousy and greed?

These are the questions that plague me while I curl up in the giant armchair, the fire growing dim. There’s a slam from behind me—a door? A whoosh of wind sucks the air from the room. The faint flames from the log vanish, leaving me in darkness.

The book slides from my lap, hitting the rug with a thump.

I stand and whirl, facing the door. “Who’s there?”

“Good evening,” Gabriel says, strolling close.

I’m not sure when he became so familiar to me, but I can recognize his low voice without seeing him. I can make out his broad shoulders in the shadows. He tosses his jacket on the chair where I sat, and I catch a whiff of his masculine spice.

“What are you doing?”

“What I should have done last night. Tasting that…what was it he called you? The ripe peach?”

I take another step back, but there’s a fireplace. The last dying embers. “Now?”

“I think a cherry would have been a better analogy, don’t you?”

Having reached the end of the room, I walk sideways, circling, trying to keep the same distance away. He doesn’t seem perturbed by my retreat. He doesn’t slow at all.

“Wait,” I say because I need to plan for this. I know he didn’t have to give me last night. That was a reprieve I haven’t earned, a night I already owe. I’m in his debt, but that doesn’t mean I’m able to pay. “Just wait.”

He laughs. “Almost twenty-four hours and I haven’t touched you.”

“You want to keep me a virgin,” I say desperately, searching for anything to hold him back. I’m almost to the corner of the room now, on the soft rug with deep orange tones where I did yoga earlier.