Checkmate, p.1
Checkmate, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by K.D. Tabith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Cover Art by Marosar_Art
Font – Christian Bentulan
Editor – Andrew Cheek
Contents
Content Warning
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
1. Chapter One – Luka
2. Chapter Two – Theo
3. Chapter Three – Luka
4. Chapter Four – Theo
5. Chapter Five – Luka
Part Two
6. Chapter Six – Theo
7. Chapter Seven – Luka
8. Chapter Eight – Theo
9. Chapter Nine – Luka
10. Chapter Ten – Theo
11. Chapter Eleven – Luka
12. Chapter Twelve – Theo
13. Chapter Thirteen – Luka
14. Chapter Fourteen – Theo
Part Three
15. Chapter Fifteen – Luka
16. Chapter Sixteen – Theo
17. Chapter Seventeen – Luka
18. Epilogue
Luka and Theo will return in PAWN'S SACRIFICE
Glossary and Pronunciation Guide
Content Warning
Please be aware this novel may contain scene or themes which reader might be triggered by. This book contains topics of domestic abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, death, talk of suicide, parental abuse, murder, adult scene, and adult themes.
To my mom (okay, you can stop reading now, thanks!)
Prologue
The following is a short excerpt from Cesse: A Complete History:
Cesse – or Ravage, as it is known in the North – is a game of wits, wills, and most importantly, dominance. One cannot think of it without also thinking of the brothels in which it was born; of the rooms heavy with smoke and eyes, of the two players locked in attention, hands white knuckled around a whalebone board, trapped in a tension so delicious all else pauses to bear witness.
One cannot think of Cesse without also thinking of the sex that follows.
It is as simple as fighting. The attacks and messages conveyed by the momentum of the pieces – the sacrifice of a spy on square A7 is an invitation, a dare on B12 a reply. And just as in battle, there must be winners and losers.
And, in the case of the whores and the rulers – the founders of this game – there must be the dominator and the dominated.
The whorehouses that birthed Cesse could not contain it for long; within weeks of its conception, the game had spread across the countryside, swallowing the land and spawning a new capital in the Western country of Siacchi, named after the very game, a capital I’m sure you’re very familiar with – Cesscounthe.
Cesscounthe flourished under the select watchers and the players brought to enjoy Cesse. The intellect that led to victory within the game became the country’s most sought feature. After all, there is nothing more alluring than a dominator who takes the loser.
As it grew, the game disentangled itself from its sexual roots. It became something integrated into school systems, into classrooms. The Northern Kiterans, for all their barbarism and love of physical prowess, with a complete disregard for superior intellect, would find this strange. But Cesse helped to hone the mind, to train the pacifists of the West how to conquer in a non-violent manner. Cesse still maintained its hold on dominance, however, and many moves were banned from children’s tournaments because they were entirely too sexual in nature.
As Siacchians will crow, Cesse became their crowning jewel: those who won the yearly tournament in Cesscounthe would receive fame and fortune for years to come, so highly sought after was a strong player’s intellect.
But Cesse was not content to be contained merely in the West. It soon flocked to the South – and later, the North.
It was there, in the wintery lands of Northern Kitera, that it became something different. Dominance in the far North was not a concept rooted merely in intellect, but also in strength… and thus, Cesse’s twisted sibling, Ravage, was born.
Ravage was used to train military leaders, to hone the raw strength of the Kiterans as they prepared for the battles that the Siacchians were so opposed to. It was the whetstone to fuel their minds and their bodies – and it was the outlet for them to unleash any pent up energy.
But what would happen when the two games – when the two countries – collided? The answer became all too clear when Kitera launched its first attack on Siacchi’s borders.
Their beastly soldiers never could have guessed what would stand in their way.
Part One
Chapter One – Luka
Luka Lockehart smiles. “Check.”
The room goes still and jaws drop. The empty wooden tables around them have long since been cleaned and tidied, prepared for the next round of games in the morning. As the last match of the Cesse tournament’s opening round, Luka was told by his mother, Linne Lockehart, to anticipate being the main attraction. This is the only reason why Luka let the game drag on so long – his mother needs all the good press she can get with the upcoming elections.
Luka’s opponent stares at the board, eyes wide, hands tugging at his beard. His gaze darts about as he takes in the pieces – the fallen warriors, the hidden taunts Luka wove into each move – before his shoulders slump.
“Mate,” the man – whose name Luka cannot remember for the life of him – says, voice low and not nearly as glum as Luka anticipated. The man shifts his weight, eyes slowly flickering to Luka’s. He’s not an unattractive fellow; probably a few years Luka’s junior with long dark hair, brown eyes, and a smattering of freckles dusting his nose that crinkle as he attempts a smile.
Luka, remembering the attention on them, returns the gesture with teeth.
Around them, their audience leans closer. Other Cesse contestants take furious notes. One paper-runner sketches Luka’s profile. All are eager for a shot of the game’s victor – of the infamously elusive son of new Council Member hopeful, Linne Lockehart.
Luka raises a hand to offer a wave and the crowd’s hushed whispers escalate to excited murmurs. The silent tension that seized the chamber in a giant’s grasp snaps as onlookers shout questions. There are fewer than he hoped for. Linne Lockehart had hoped for more paper-runners, but it can’t be helped that Cesscounthe’s reporters have turned their focus toward their borders, darkened with reports of war and invasion and other eye-catching headlines. Luka will have to make do with the few present.
The half a dozen paper-runners circle closer, desperate for a quote. They work in pairs, one with a sketchpad and the other jotting down notes on Luka’s every movement and breath.
Beyond them, the victors and losers of the Cesscounthe Tournament’s first round of games hover, curious to see how the renowned once child prodigy – the second to ever achieve a perfect score on the Bombani Exam – has played. They gathered about the table near Luka and his opponent, but when the paper-runners elbow them away, the players retreat to the upper floors, leaning over the shining balconies and peering through their theater glasses to make out the board.
Looking around now, Luka can faintly make out that their usual pursed lips of distaste have given way to wide-eyed surprise. His heart flutters, and he has to resist the urge to smirk.
Finally.
The overall reaction isn’t surprising; Luka’s mother has been insistent that he be kept from national – or even local – tournaments until his twenty-first birthday, some three years after the official age of adulthood. His only infamy arose from an earlier incident and his testing scores – but while these were impressive, nothing showed intellect better than Cesse. Luka is a dark horse – an ambush on the Cesse Annual Tournament.
Cesse let Luka finally show the world his skill. And, if the whispered gossip leaking from his competitors hidden in the pews are any indicator, he can finally prove everyone wrong.
Could someone of a dirtied bloodline do this?
“Danessi Lockehart! Danessi Lockehart!” a pretty blonde paper-runner cries. “How do you feel about facing Evland Childes in the upcoming rounds?”
Luka’s smile crimps, and he barely manages to save it at the sound of that man’s name.
“I will answer questions later,” he says loftily, rising from his seat. He extends his hand to his opponent. “Come.”
The murmurs increase and charcoal flies across paper as the paper-runners lap up the shot of Luka lifting his adversary’s hand. Luka knows what they see; a young man, perfectly polished in both looks and manners, attending to his victory like every Cesse winner should: with pride and with certainty.
The dominance would come later – privately.
Luka groans as the man’s lips wrap around his cock, his knees sinking into the silk of the violet sheets. His hips stutter as he thrusts into the throat of the man – whose name he still can’t remember for the life of him. He wraps his hands in soft hair so he can go deeper – deeper –
The man gags as Luka hits the back of his throat and a low noise of pleasure escapes Luka’s lips. Luka admires how the dim lights of his hotel room highlight the hollows of the man’s cheeks – the way his hands are braced against Luka’s bed. Luka can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this – the last time things felt so easy, so good. How long has he dreaded this moment, knowing he would surely win the Cesse tournament?
But, just as his tutors promised, he takes to the dominance naturally despite his nerves.
It helps that he is still recounting his Cesse match.
“Do you see it now?” Luka asks as he eases back, his voice husky. “Do you see how you could have taken the assassin in that move? Had you merely read the board, you would have been able to pin me with that one mistake.”
There is no response beyond sucking, and Luka tries to lose himself to the sensation once again, but it is a difficult thing. Even with the pleasure, with all of Cesscounthe framed in the window across from his bed splayed out before him, like a body ripe for the taking – Luka cannot relax. There is still too much to do. Too many promises to fulfill to his mother. After all, there is only one thing in his life that truly frees from his always churning mind: the tight grip of Cesse.
Well. There used to be two. But the second matters no longer.
Luka lets the man suck for a while more before Luka pulls out and pumps his slick cock, watching the man’s face, his parted lips, his heavy eyes. He stares up at Luka, lost to it all, and Luka sighs.
“You want me, don’t you?” Luka asks, and the man responds with incoherent blubbering. Luka tries to imagine what it’s like; he had only experienced such domination once before, and it was immediately after he had come of age, some three years prior. Had it not been for the person he had lost to, Luka might have said he enjoyed it.
But he had not had the chance to experience such a thing thereafter.
After all, he had not lost a Cesse game since.
“You know,” Luka says, his eyes tracing the man’s wet mouth. “I’ve already told you everything I would do to you with the movements of my pieces. Did you see them? The little messages I left for you?”
Luka is unsurprised when the man shakes his head.
“I told you,” Luka begins as he strokes the man’s face. Luka had been right before; he is attractive. Those little freckles? Adorable.
“I was going to fuck your face until I come on it.”
And Luka, being a man of his word, does so.
After, the man curls up on his side, sweaty chest rising slow and steady with sleep. Luka scowls as he watches the twitch of the man’s eyelids as he escapes to dreams; Luka has not slept beside another body in two years, and he isn’t planning on breaking that streak tonight.
Luka climbs from the bed. He falls into a comfortable pace. The bamboo floor is cool beneath his feet, laid so as not to creak. The chambers are extravagant with their high ceilings and wispy curtains, but not nearly as fine as the Lockehart household. He had wished to return home after each game, but his mother insisted Luka take his opponents to bed here.
Cesscounthe’s Annual Tournament puts up its most likely champions in a suite containing a bed, bath, and a Cesse room. Each is painted the vital colors of thought: blue for the bedroom and for deep dreams, green for the bath for health and cleanliness, and a deep scarlet for the Cesse room – for agility and domination. Floor to ceiling windows mark the northern walls, filling the room with sunlight during the day and the flickering glory of Cesscounthe’s city during the night. A city that seems to move a bit to the left every time Luka glances at it, as if shrinking away from the rumors of the impending Northern invasion – repairs on the high walls, the outer Gamgy District drawn in, Aiutani watches scanning the night.
Luka is too peeved to pay it heed now. He has already taken it all in before, already marveled at the city night after night as a child – back when it was all an untouchable, unattainable thing. Back when his mother’s grasp would turn to an iron band around his wrist, a promise he would not leave the Lockehart compound – not until you can prove your intellect. He could draw the city from memory, so deeply is the image emblazoned into the back of his eyelids – the trail of lights marking the midnight markets and Hyacinth Square, which is left brilliant and golden until the early hours of the morning, when the scholars come to dim the lanterns; the cool dim of the Abraxi District, each noble house hidden behind the compound walls. The smudge of the Gamgy District and the wall surrounding his city, like a towering marble embrace.
Instead of watching, Luka makes straight for the scarlet chambers, footfalls soft as raindrops.
The Cesse room is made dim from the glow of the city, long contours cast from the board and its matching chairs. Luka lights one of the gas lamps resting on the mantle at the head of the room. He sets the flame across from the board, the fire turning the motions of his hands into exaggerated shadows as he lays out the pieces.
With the room now lit, the windows across from him reflect his naked body as he moves. Luka casts half an eye to the flex of muscles in his back, to the fall of dark hair across his cheek. He is a composition of opposites; where his eyes are as light as a summer sky and his skin unnaturally paler than a bitter winter, his hair is blacker than the night itself. His body is still growing into the strength of manhood. Already he can see the small muscles of his back and arms – muscles his father names for him in his yearly physicals – flexing in his back as he moves.
Muscles brought on not by work, but by a wretched and long-forgotten inheritance.
The dirty Lockehart line.
Anxiety rolls in Luka’s stomach at the thought, and something silver flickers across Luka’s eyes in the window’s dark reflection, like the fire from the candle at his side has been captured in his irises. Disquieted, Luka shifts his weight, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and forcing an exhale from his nostrils, just as his tutors had ordered. The unruly and disrespectful emotions of fear and nervousness unwind, and he turns to the board once more.
“Partaking in some late night practice?” a voice asks, and Luka all but jumps out of his skin.
The man from before chuckles at Luka’s response, and Luka tries to act like nothing happened, sulkily returning from the game.
“You could certainly benefit from it,” Luka says.
The man hadn’t seen Luka's eyes; Luka’s shoulders relax marginally.
“You aren’t what I expected,” the man says, and Luka’s tension returns. He decides it best to hold his tongue as the man looks Luka over. “I thought you would be… taller.”
“And I thought you would be a better Cesse player,” Luka replies cooly. “We’ll have to settle for less.” His tutors always warned him his tongue would never make him any friends, but it’s a good thing he’s only here to win this tournament and the fame and fortune that would come with victory. Most victors were awarded an apprenticeship with a Council Member, which wouldn’t guarantee a position in government, but it was as close to a promise as one could get. And Thought knows that the Lockehart family could use the prestige of having a Cesse Tournament winner to clean their name and prove their wisdom.
“Then show me how to play better, Luka,” the man replies, taking a seat across from him. “I still have my second chance tomorrow. I could still rank.”
“You will call me Danessi Lockehart,” Luka corrects. “We are not friends.”
The possibility of this man claiming victory is so infinitesimally slim, Luka contemplates ordering the man to leave. But Cesse is always so much better with a partner.
Besides, his cock is already hardening at the thought of being buried deep in this man’s soft, warm throat once more.
“Listen carefully,” Luka says. “As I do not like to repeat myself, and I’ll make sure you have a chance of winning tomorrow.”
The following morning, standing before the boards announcing that day’s matches, Luka says, “You have no chance of winning.”
The man, whose name… is… well, it probably started with a J. Luka isn’t sure how he doesn’t remember – he just read it seconds before – looks at Luka, dismayed. “But you said –”
