Page 58

KIRA

The forest whispers around me. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves sends electric currents across my skin. I freeze, ears straining for the sound of Ryker’s pursuit.

Twenty minutes. That’s all the head start he gave me. How many minutes have passed?

A bird calls overhead, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My breath catches in my throat as I press myself against the rough bark of an oak tree. My skin burns beneath the thin fabric of the robe, hypersensitive to every sensation—the brush of cotton, the kiss of wind, the memory of his hands.

“This isn’t normal,” I tell myself, but the words lack conviction now.

When did this change? When did the thought of him hunting me down shift from terror to... anticipation? My nipples are hard, thighs damp with more than just exertion.

I think of his kiss before he released me into this forest. The way he claimed my mouth like a man drowning. The realization that those were his first kisses still staggers me. All his power, his obsession—and yet I’m the first person whose lips he’s tasted. Something about that knowledge has cracked open my resistance.

A twig snaps somewhere to my left.

My breath hitches. Is it him? The thought sends a rush of adrenaline through me, but it’s not fear driving me anymore. It’s hunger.

I move deeper into the trees, my shoes silent on the forest floor. Every sense is heightened. The forest smells green, alive, and dangerous—like him.

God knows how long ago at the start, I would have given anything to escape this nightmare. Now my fantasies have blurred with reality. The line between captor and lover has smudged beyond recognition.

Another sound—closer this time.

My skin flushes hot. My heart pounds not with terror but with want. I shouldn’t feel this. Shouldn’t crave his touch, his possession. But knowing I broke through his armor, that I affect him as deeply as he affects me—it’s intoxicating.

He’s coming for me. And God help me, I want him to find me.

I rush forward without direction, navigating the forest with clumsy urgency. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut—I’m just running blindly. No plan. No strategy. Exactly what he wants.

“Stop thinking like prey,” I coach, slowing my pace. “Think like a gamer.”

This is just another level in his sick game, but games have rules. Patterns. Exploitable mechanics. I’ve conquered enough virtual worlds to know better than to panic-sprint through unfamiliar territory.

I spot a dense thicket of brambles ahead, backed by a small depression beneath a fallen tree. I slide into the hollow space, wincing as thorns catch at my robe. The natural cave offers coverage from three sides while providing a clear view of the approach. It’s defensible—the first rule of survival gaming.

Catching my breath, I finally take stock of my surroundings. Three acres, he said. I need to understand the boundaries, the terrain. What would I do if I were designing this level?

I listen to the birdsong above, noting how it shifts and changes. There—a pattern interruption to my right. Something disturbed them. He’s circling, not directly pursuing.

My mind catalogs available resources: stones for distraction, mud for camouflage, and thorny branches for defensive barriers or traps.

If this were Call of Duty, I’d create a diversion, then flank. If it were Horizon, I’d set traps along predictable patrol routes.

I gather a handful of small stones, tucking them into my robe pocket. Then I smear cool mud across my exposed skin, masking my scent and breaking up my silhouette against the forest floor.

“Think, Kira,” I murmur. “He knows you. Anticipates your moves. So don’t be you.”

What would Ryker never expect? He’s counting on my fear driving me forward, making predictable choices. So I’ll be unpredictable. I’ll think like a hunter, not like prey.

I settle deeper into my hiding spot, organizing my thoughts and forming a plan.

The mud cools against my skin as I reconsider my strategy. Hiding feels too passive, too predictable. Ryker knows I’m resourceful—he’s played enough games with me to understand my tendencies.

“What would he never expect?” I ask myself, the answer crystallizing instantly.

He expects me to run forward, to seek escape. But what if I double back? Circle around behind him? The hunter becomes the hunted. It’s the move I’d make in our late-night gaming sessions—sacrificing the obvious advantage for a surprising counter-attack.

I slip from my hiding place, moving with renewed purpose. No longer running blindly but executing a strategy. I track my footprints backward, carefully stepping precisely where I’ve already disturbed the ground. The forest feels different now, less threatening, more like a game board I can understand.