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16

KIRA

I wake with startling clarity, my eyes snapping open to the same ceiling I’ve been staring at for... I don’t even know how long anymore. My body feels heavy, but my mind is sharp—too sharp. The fog of whatever drugs he’s been pumping into me is gone, replaced by a crystalline awareness that cuts worse than any knife.

My fingers grip the sheets beneath me. Not restrained. That’s new. The absence of bindings should feel like freedom, but my wrists still burn with phantom pressure. I don’t move. Can’t move. Something inside me has shattered.

Level three. God, level three.

The physical pain from the shocks was nothing compared to the way he peeled back every layer of my mind. Made me confess things I’d never spoken aloud, desires I’d buried so deep I barely acknowledged them myself. Things I typed into incognito browsers at night. Things I whispered into the darkness when I thought no one could hear.

But he heard. He saw. He knew.

A tear slips down my temple, soaking into the pillow. The worst part wasn’t the violation of privacy or even the humiliation. It was the recognition. The terrible, undeniable mirror he held up to my soul.

The quiet in this room feels like a courtesy now, a small mercy after the storm. My chest rises and falls with even breaths, but inside, I’m in a war zone. Every structure I built to define myself lies in ruin. Gamer. Independent woman. Strong. Free. All those identities feel like costumes now, superficial layers he stripped away with surgical precision.

I curl onto my side, drawing my knees to my chest. The movement doesn’t trigger pain or restraints. Nothing stops me but the knowledge that there’s nowhere to go. He’s mapped every escape route—from this place and myself.

Level three didn’t just break me. It revealed me.

I’m still curled on my side when I hear the door open. My body tenses instinctively, every muscle coiling tight. I don’t turn to look at him. Don’t need to. The weight of his footsteps, the particular rhythm of his breathing—I know it’s Ryker without seeing his face.

“Look at me, Kira.” His voice is softer than before, almost gentle.

I roll over slowly, expecting to see that cruel smile, that predatory gleam. Still, his expression is neutral, almost business-like.

“Time to eat.” He sets a tray on the bedside table. The smell of food hits me—real food, not those protein shakes he’s been forcing down my throat. My stomach clenches painfully, reminding me how empty it is.

“Why?” The word scratches out of my dry throat.

Ryker sits on the edge of the bed, his weight creating a dip that pulls me slightly toward him. “Level four starts in an hour. You’ll need your strength.” His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face. “It’s more physical this time. Less... in here.” He taps his temple.

Relief floods through me so intensely that I nearly sob. Physical pain I can handle. Bruises heal. But what he did to my mind in level three—the way he crawled inside me and made me speak my darkest truths—left wounds I can’t even locate, let alone treat.

“Thank God.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That bad, huh?” There’s actual humor in his voice, like we’re sharing a joke.

I push myself to a sitting position, keeping my back against the headboard, creating whatever distance I can. “You know exactly how bad it was. You designed it that way.”

He reaches for the tray, placing it across my lap. “Eat. All of it.”

The food looks normal. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Fresh fruit. A glass of water. It could be a room service breakfast at any hotel. The absurd normalcy of it makes me want to laugh or scream—I’m not sure which.

I force down each bite of food, not because I want to, but because I need the energy to fuel whatever resistance I can still muster. Ryker glares at me as I eat with unnerving intensity, eyes tracking every movement of my hand from plate to mouth. When I finish, he takes the tray away, setting it aside with methodical precision.

“Good girl. Now it’s time to get you cleaned up.” Ryker extends his hand, and when I hesitate, his expression hardens just enough to remind me of the consequences of disobedience. I place my trembling hand in his and let him guide me off the bed.

The bathroom is all sleek tile and chrome, bigger than the one in my actual apartment. Ryker turns on the shower, steam quickly filling the space. He turns to me, expectation clear in his eyes.

“I can wash alone,” I manage, hating how my voice wavers.

“You can, but that’s not how this works.” He hooks his fingers under the hem of my oversized t-shirt—his shirt—and pulls it over my head smoothly.

Standing naked before him isn’t new, but it still burns. I cross my arms over my chest, a futile attempt at modesty that makes his lips quirk up in amusement.

“Into the shower, Kira.”

The hot water would feel good if I were alone. However, I’m acutely aware of Ryker’s eyes on me through the glass door. I soap my body and rinse my hair. Every movement feels performative, my skin prickling with unwanted awareness.

He wraps me in a towel when I step out and pats me dry with unexpected gentleness. The tenderness is worse than cruelty—it confuses everything.

“Put these on.” He gestures to items on the counter: a black lace bra with matching panties, a garter belt, and sheer stockings. There are no clothes and nothing to provide any real coverage.

“Why this?” My fingers hover over the delicate fabric.

“Level four.” His gaze locks with mine in the mirror. “Every level has its uniform.”

My hands shake as I pull on each piece, hyper aware of his eyes tracking every movement. The lingerie fits—of course, it does. He’s measured everything about me, inside and out.

I follow Ryker down a hallway I haven’t seen before, the lace and silk of the lingerie offering no protection against the cool air or his hungry gaze. Each step on the hardwood floor feels like walking toward my own execution.

“Level Four is about endurance,” Ryker explains, his hand firm on the small of my back. “How much can you take? How long can you last?”

He opens a door to reveal a room unlike any I’ve seen. It’s circular, with mirrored walls and a polished wooden floor. In the center stands what looks like a ballet barre, but modified with restraints at various heights. Surrounding it are different stations: weights, resistance bands, and devices I don’t recognize.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Your training room.” He guides me to the center. “You’ll hold positions while I touch you. Move, flinch, or make a sound without permission, and there are consequences.”

My stomach twists as he positions me, arms extended along the barre, legs spread with my feet shoulder-width apart. The mirrors force me to see myself from every angle—vulnerable, exposed, terrified.

“We begin with thirty minutes. Each time you fail, we add ten minutes.”

The first touch is gentle—fingers mapping my spine. Soon, he’s alternating between soft caresses and sharp pain, pinching sensitive skin, and dragging ice cubes followed by burning wax. My muscles scream from holding the position. Sweat drips down my temples.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fighting so hard not to move.”

When his hand slides between my thighs, I bite my lip until I taste blood, desperate not to make a sound. The conflicting sensations—my aching muscles, his knowing touch, fear mingling with inescapable pleasure—all of it creates a hellish cocktail of confusion.

“You’re dripping wet, but can your mind overcome it? That’s the real question of Level Four.”

I close my eyes, trying to escape, but his voice pulls me back.

“Eyes open, Kira. I want you to see everything I do to you. I want you to see yourself breaking.”

I feel his patience snap like a rubber band stretched too far. One moment, he’s circling me; the next, his fingers are digging into the lace of my bra, tearing it from my body with a violence that makes me gasp. The delicate fabric gives way easily, shredding beneath his hands.

“Enough games,” he growls, his voice hitting a register I haven’t heard before.

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s ripping the panties from my hips, the elastic biting into my skin before snapping. The stockings follow, leaving me in tattered scraps of black lace.

“Hands forward,” he commands, and when I hesitate, his palm connects with my ass in a stinging slap. “Now.”

My body responds before my mind can catch up, leaning forward over the barre. The cool metal presses against my stomach as Ryker secures my wrists to the attachments on either side, pulling them taut so I’m stretched across the barre like an offering.

The position forces me to bend at the waist, my back arched, and my legs straight. The mirrors surrounding us reflect every angle of my exposure, leaving nowhere to hide from my vulnerability or his hungry gaze.

“Look at you,” he breathes, his hands gripping my hips. “Fucking gorgeous.”

I close my eyes, trying to escape the sight of myself splayed open for him, but snap them open when his tongue makes sudden contact with the sensitive flesh between my legs. The shock tears a strangled sound from my throat—half protest, half something I don’t want to name.

Ryker devours me like a starving man. His tongue explores with devastating precision, finding every nerve ending. His hands grip my ass, spreading me wider as he licks and sucks without mercy. The intensity is overwhelming, building a pressure inside me that conflicts violently with my fear.

My wrists strain against the restraints as his tongue delves deeper. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror—my face flushed, eyes wide with shock and unwanted pleasure, his head buried between my thighs, completely focused on dismantling whatever resistance I have left.

The pleasure builds higher and higher, a tsunami quickly gathering force. Despite my hatred for this situation—for him—I’m lost completely as his fingers replace his tongue, curling inside me with terrifying precision. His thumb circles my clit with just the right pressure, and pleasure builds that’s different from any orgasm I’ve ever experienced.

“Stop fighting it,” he growls against my inner thigh. “Let go, Kira.”

I can’t hold back any longer. The climax crashes over me with such violent intensity that I scream, my entire body convulsing against the restraints. And then a rush of wet heat pulses from inside me, gushing over his hand and down my thighs.

I’m mortified and confused, but still riding waves of the most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt. Through tear-blurred eyes, I catch Ryker’s expression in the mirror, and it stops my breath.

His calculating precision, which has defined every moment since my capture, shatters. His eyes widen, pupils blown black with hunger as he tracks the evidence of my release dripping down his wrist.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice ragged. “You squirted for me.”

He laps up the wetness with his tongue, groaning against my flesh like a man possessed. It’s animalistic, desperate—nothing like his usual measured dominance.

“Always knew you could,” he pants between licks. “So fucking beautiful when you fall apart. I’ve wanted to taste this since I first saw you.” His words tumble out unfiltered. “Your sweet little pussy, gushing all over my hand, my mouth.”

The restraints bite into my wrists as aftershocks ripple through me. I’ve never seen him like this—face flushed, movements frantic, composure completely abandoned. His hand trembles against my thigh, and the realization hits me: I’ve somehow broken through his armor.

“Christ, Kira,” he moans, meeting my gaze through the mirror with reverence. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I stare at Ryker through the mirror, shocked by his transformation. His meticulous persona—the man who’s been ten steps ahead this entire time—is unraveling. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, his eyes wild with a hunger I’ve never witnessed before.

“Can’t wait,” he growls, more to himself than to me. His fingers fumble with his belt buckle, hands trembling in their urgency. “Need to—fuck?—”

The restraints hold me in place, bent over the barre, forced to watch as he yanks down his zipper and shoves his pants and underwear down just enough to free himself. His cock springs out, thick and long, the metal of his Prince Albert piercing catching the light. I can’t look away as he wraps his hand around himself, already slick with my release.

“Look what you do to me,” he pants, stroking himself with an intensity that seems almost painful. “Always so fucking perfect.”

The controlled persona he’s maintained dissolves into a beast. His eyes lock with mine in the mirror as he positions himself behind me, the tip of his cock brushing against the curve of my ass. But instead of pushing inside, he continues stroking himself furiously, his free hand gripping my hip so hard I’ll have bruises.

“I’ve wanted you for so fucking long,” he groans, his voice breaking. “Dreamed about this—about you?—”

His rhythm becomes frenzied, his whole body tightening. A guttural sound tears from his throat as he comes, hot pulses landing across my lower back and ass. The sensation makes me flinch in the restraints, the warmth of it spreading across my skin as he marks me with his release.

The only sound in the room for several beats is our combined panting. In the mirror, I see him stare down at his handiwork with an expression of reverent disbelief, his fingertips gently spreading his cum across my skin like an artist signing his canvas.