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“Biology?” Ryker laughs, the vibration rumbling through his chest into mine. “This isn’t a fucking science experiment, Mischief. This is what happens when someone knows you.”

“Don’t call me that,” I whisper, the nickname cutting deeper than it should. “Not here. Not like this.”

His pace slows suddenly, his eyes finding mine through his mask. “Why? Because it reminds you that this isn’t just about bodies? That I knew you before I ever touched you?”

“Shut up,” I hiss, rolling my hips against him. “Just fuck me and stop trying to get in my head.”

“Too late,” he drives into me harder, making me moan. “I’ve been in your head for years. And now I’m under your skin, too.”

The worst part is, he’s right. But even that doesn’t justify any of this.

His thrusts become more erratic, more desperate. The mask he wears can’t hide the wild look in his eyes— how he takes and demands unrestrained.

“Let go,” he growls against my ear. “Give it to me, Kira.”

My body responds to his command like it’s been programmed to obey. The tension that’s been building explodes, sending shockwaves through every nerve ending. I cry out, the sound echoing through the darkened forest as my body tightens around him.

“Fuck—yes—” Ryker groans, burying himself deep inside me one final time. I feel the pulsing of his release, his body shuddering against mine as he comes. We stay frozen together, our ragged breathing the only sound at night.

Slowly, he eases me down, my legs trembling so badly I nearly collapse. Without a word, he lifts me into his arms. My head falls against his chest, where I can hear his heart beneath my ear.

As he carries me through the darkening forest, I float in a haze of conflicting emotions. How can something so wrong feel so intensely right? How can I hate what he’s done to me but crave his touch? The lines between captor and lover blur with each step he takes. My mind roils with contradictions.

Ryker’s arms tighten around me as we approach a small cabin with floor-to-ceiling windows at the front. Inside, there’s a simple bed with clean linens and a small fireplace already glowing with warmth.

He lays me gently on the bed, then strips his clothes off.

As he stands before me, I see Ryker—truly see him—for the first time. The mask is gone, his clothes discarded, and what’s revealed steals my breath.

His body is a masterpiece of power and precision. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, every muscle defined with the sharp clarity of someone who has spent years refining his form. The firelight plays across his skin, highlighting ridges in his abdomen, the cut of his hip bones, and the thick cords of muscle in his thighs. This isn’t just gym-built strength—this is a body shaped through obsession.

But it’s the ink that truly captivates me. Tattoos cover his arms and chest in intricate patterns—gaming icons, complex code sequences, and darker symbols I don’t recognize swirl across his skin like a roadmap of his mind. Some look professional, while others have the raw quality of self-infliction.

My eyes are drawn to the centerpiece—a Ghost mask tattooed over his heart—the one from his GhostDaddy videos. The lines are crisp, the shading is on point, and the placement makes my stomach clench.

“When did you get that?” I whisper, unable to look away from the ghost staring back at me.

“A week after I first saw you stream,” he answers hesitantly. “The first time I heard you talk about what Ghost meant to you.”

I should be terrified by this admission—this permanent mark of his obsession. Instead, I feel a twisted sense of appreciation. No one has ever wanted me enough to carve my passion into their skin. No one has ever seen me so completely.

My fingers reach out before I can stop them, tracing the mask’s outline on his chest. His skin is hot beneath my touch. It stares back at me—a promise, a threat, a proclamation.

He lies down and stretches out beside me, pulling me against him. His mask is gone now, and I can see the exhaustion in his features, the vulnerability that wasn’t there before.

“Level five is complete,” he murmurs, brushing hair from my face with surprising tenderness. “Rest now. Sleep. We’re done for tonight.”

I should fight him, should demand answers or freedom. Instead, I feel my eyelids growing heavy as his warmth surrounds me.

“What happens tomorrow?” I whisper, my voice barely audible.

“Tomorrow will come soon enough. Just sleep.”

Despite everything—the kidnapping, the games, the twisted levels—I find my body relaxing into his. His arms around me feel like a sanctuary. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear lulls me toward sleep, each thump a hypnotic drum drowning out the screaming contradictions in my mind. I should be plotting escape, not melting into his warmth. I should be terrified, not comforted. His fingers draw lazy patterns across my skin, and truth I’m not ready to face in daylight rears its ugly head: here, wrapped in the arms of my captor, is the safest I’ve felt in years.

No expectations. No pretending. This strange, broken connection between two people who recognize each other on a soul level that the rest of the world couldn’t see. My eyelids grow heavy, thoughts blurring at the edges. As consciousness slips away, one final thought drifts through my mind—what does it say about me that the arms holding me prisoner are the same ones setting me free?

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