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“Robert James Wilson,” she says quietly, as if reading my thoughts. “That’s his name.”

I commit it to memory instantly, a new priority overriding everything else. Vengeance for Kira has suddenly become Level Seven, though she doesn’t know it yet.

“He won’t touch you again,” I promise. “And soon, he won’t be smiling in any more family photos.”

I feel Kira tense against me at my words, her muscles rigid for a fraction of a second. A small movement that my hyperaware body catches immediately. Then, just as quickly, she relaxes, melting back into me with a sigh that sounds almost... content.

“Thank you,” she whispers, the words barely audible over the gentle lapping of the cooling bathwater.

My arms tighten around her instinctively. The sensation of her bare skin against mine sears through my nerves, but it’s different now. There’s no usual desire to dominate; it’s replaced with an aching tenderness I’ve never experienced, a need to shelter rather than dominate. The unfamiliar warmth spreading through me feels dangerous, unplanned, like a vulnerability I never coded into my systems.

She shifts, adjusting her position to nestle more comfortably against my chest. Her head fits under my chin, wet hair spreading across my collarbone. Another sigh escapes her, this one deeper, more satisfied.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice small but steady.

“Yes,” I answer, the single syllable containing multitudes.

Her breathing slows, matching mine. The synchronicity feels right in ways I can’t articulate. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to be there, curves and edges aligning with mathematical precision.

“I’ve never felt safe like this before,” she confesses. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

It doesn’t. Nothing about this makes sense anymore. My carefully constructed plan is disintegrating with each passing moment, each unscripted word between us.

She turns her head slightly, pressing a light kiss against my throat. The gesture is so unexpected and gentle that something in my chest contracts painfully.

I want to make her happy. The thought comes unbidden, powerful in its simplicity. I want her to be happy—not just submissive, not just mine—happy. I want her smile to be genuine, her pleasure real, and her contentment lasting. I want to erase the shadows that Robert James Wilson cast across her childhood. I want to build a life with her.

I have no idea what will happen next for the first time in my life, and I’m surprised that uncertainty doesn’t terrify me.

26

KIRA

Iwake with a start, surrounded by unfamiliar softness. My body feels weightless, cradled by what must be the plushest mattress I’ve ever experienced. Silky sheets glide across my skin as I stretch, realizing I’m completely naked beneath them.

This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my room.

Blinking away sleep, I push myself up on my elbows and take in my surroundings. The space is massive—at least three times the size of my bedroom. Midnight blue walls create a cocoon-like atmosphere, complemented by sleek furniture that screams expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a stunning mountain view, early morning sunlight spilling across hardwood floors.

As I move, I notice the careful ministrations that have been applied to my battered body. My knees are wrapped in soft gauze, and I can feel the slight pull of medical tape across my back where the tree bark had scraped me. The cuts on my palms have been cleaned and covered with small bandages, and a faint medicinal smell clings to my skin—some kind of antibiotic ointment. Even the deep bruises on my hips and thighs have been treated with what feels like arnica cream, the skin cool and slightly numb.

Ryker must have tended to me while I slept, cleaning and bandaging each wound with the same meticulous attention he gives everything. The thought of him carefully treating the injuries he inflicted sends a confusing wave of emotions through me—gratitude tangled with resentment, comfort twisted with fear.

“What the hell?” I whisper, my voice sounding small in the cavernous room.

My mind races to catch up. The last thing I remember is being in a bath—warm water surrounding my aching body, Ryker’s strong arms holding me against his chest as he washed away dirt, blood, and tears. I remember telling him about... No. I can’t think about that now. The memory of what I revealed makes my stomach clench.

I pull the sheets tighter around me; their thread count must be in the thousands. This doesn’t look like the replica of my bedroom he’d created. This feels personal, like I’ve been allowed into some inner sanctum.

The bedside table holds a glass of water and two small pills. A note in meticulous handwriting, each letter beautifully formed, sits beside them.

For any pain. I’m downstairs when you’re ready. —R

Everything about this space feels like Ryker—precise, luxurious, and somehow both welcoming and intimidating. A strange sense of calm washes over me despite my confusion. How quickly I’ve adapted to waking up in strange places, never knowing what new test or “level” awaits me.

I stretch and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my muscles protest. The cool air against my naked skin reminds me of my vulnerability. I notice some clothes draped over a sleek armchair in the corner.

For the first time since my capture, Ryker has left me something other than lingerie or a robe to wear.