Page 17

17

RYKER

M y hand trembles as I wipe it clean. This wasn’t part of the plan.

I stare at the mess I’ve made across Kira’s skin, at how her body still quivers from her release. Her scent hangs thick in the air—that thick arousal that’s driven me to the edge. I’ve mapped out every second of our time together and calculated her responses to the millisecond. Still, this... this wasn’t in my programming.

When she squirted, a beast I barely recognized clawed to the surface. In that instant, it became nothing but instinct—an animal snarling at the gates of my restraint that had to be sated. The sound that tore from my throat wasn’t mine. The way I pounced, consumed, marked her... that wasn’t scripted.

I unfasten her restraints around her wrist. “Get up.” My voice sounds foreign even to me. Harder than intended.

Kira flinches, and I hate how that satisfies the demon within. She moves slowly, her limbs unsteady. I grab a blanket and wrap it around her shoulders, not meeting her eyes.

“Follow me.”

The hallway stretches before us, my footsteps measured while hers shuffle behind. My mind races through calculations and recalibrations. I need to reset. We need to reset.

I unlock a door at the end of the corridor and step aside. “Recreation room. You have three hours.”

Her eyes widen at the sight—comfortable seating, a wall of books, a gaming console, television. A slice of normalcy in this underground prison.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because I need to...” What? Think? Regain composure? Remember who’s in charge here? “You earned a break. Don’t make me regret it.”

I move to the observation panel hidden behind a one-way mirror. From here, I can see everything while remaining invisible.

“I’ll be watching.”

As I close the door, locking her inside, I press my forehead against the cool metal. There’s a glitch I need to debug in my system. I feel my control slipping like falling without a parachute.

I can’t allow it again.

I settle into my chair on the other side of the one-way glass, fingers drumming against the metal desk. The monitors surrounding me display every angle of the recreation room—a space I designed specifically for her comfort and pleasure. She should be thrilled and grateful.

Kira sits motionless on the edge of the couch, blanket clutched around her shoulders like armor. Her eyes—those expressive eyes I’ve stared at for countless hours through her webcam—stare blankly at the wall. The gaming console remains untouched. The books are unread. Everything I’ve provided, ignored.

“What the fuck?” I mutter, leaning closer to the glass. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. She should explore, test boundaries, and enjoy herself despite her circumstances. This broken shell wasn’t part of my calculations.

I pull up her vitals on the nearest screen. Her heart rate is steady but elevated, and her respiration is normal. Physically, she’s fine, but her expression makes my stomach clench.

A single tear tracks down her cheek, and she doesn’t even bother to wipe it away.

I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots. Did I push too far? Break something essential in her? The thought makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t recognize. This isn’t satisfaction. It’s... something I didn’t account for.

“Use the fucking console,” I whisper against the glass. “Play something. Anything.”

But she doesn’t move. Just sits there, shoulders curved inward, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her. The fierce gamer girl who trash-talked opponents and bounced with excitement over new releases is nowhere to be found.

For the first time since I brought her here, doubt creeps in. Not about my right to have her-she’s mine, always has been—but about my methods. The broken look in her eyes wasn’t part of the fantasy. I wanted fire and challenge, not this hollow response.

I press my palm flat against the glass, suddenly desperate to reach through and shake her back to life.

I stare at the monitors, checking the timestamp. She’s been sitting in the same position for exactly fifty-eight minutes and twenty-three seconds. There has been no movement except occasional blinking and the silent tears that have dried on her cheeks.

This is a serious miscalculation on my part. Breaking her wasn’t the objective—molding her was. What good is a perfect doll if she’s shattered inside?

I run simulations in my mind, calculating variables and outcomes with the same precision I used to plan her abduction. Physical comfort won’t work. Threats are counterproductive at this stage. And continued isolation will only deepen whatever dissociative state she’s entering.

The answer comes to me like code resolving: vulnerability. Show her the man, not the monster. Let her see behind the mask, just enough to form a connection without sacrificing my plan.

I gather what I need at precisely two hours and unlock the recreation room door. The sound makes her flinch, but her eyes remain fixed on that same spot on the wall.

“Kira.” My voice comes out softer than intended.

No response.

I cross the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and set down two steaming mugs on the coffee table. The scent of hot chocolate fills the space between us.

“You haven’t moved in two hours,” I say, settling onto the couch beside her, carefully leaving space between us. “Your choice, of course. But I thought... maybe you’d like this.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the drink or my presence. I expected resistance, not this emptiness.

“I went too far.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. Admitting a miscalculation isn’t in my nature. “That wasn’t... how I wanted things to be between us.”

Still nothing. Just the hollow stare of someone retreating deep inside themselves.

I reach out slowly, telegraphing my movement and gently turning her face toward mine. Her eyes finally meet mine—vacant, distant, yet still defiant in their emptiness.

“I need you here with me, Mischief.” The nickname slips out, the one I’ve used a hundred times through our headsets while gaming. “Not just your body. Your mind. Your fire.”

Something flickers in her expression—recognition, perhaps. The smallest spark in a dark room.

I slide closer to Kira, anxiety clawing at my chest. This emptiness in her eyes—it’s wrong. All wrong. I didn’t hack into her life, study her for years, create this space just to break her into this hollow shell. I need her fire, her challenge, her mind. Without that, she’s just another failed experiment.

“Look at me.” My voice comes out harsher than intended. I soften it. “Please, Kira.”

Nothing. Just that vacant stare.

I run my hand through my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. Pain centers me and reminds me of what’s real. I must give her something real, too—something beyond the monster she sees.

“When I was eight,” I start, “my father made me watch him play Doom for fourteen hours straight. If I looked away, he’d hit me. If I fell asleep, he’d pour ice water over me.”

My throat tightens. I’ve never told anyone this, not even in the mandatory therapy sessions after I was found half-starved in that internet café at twelve.

“He was drunk, high... Said he was going to make me into the best gamer.” A bitter laugh escapes me. “The perfect soldier in his imaginary war. I pissed myself twice before morning. Wasn’t allowed to clean up.”

Kira’s breathing changes—just barely. I press on.

“That night, gaming became two things for me: torture and escape. My prison and my freedom.” I stare at my hands. “When I found you online—saw how you played, how you loved it—it was like finding someone who understood both sides without knowing they existed.”

I look up to find her eyes on me. The expression is not vacant anymore but wary. Calculating. Good. That’s my girl.

“I didn’t plan to lose control like that. With you... The script keeps changing.” I reach out slowly and touch her cheek with just my fingertips. “I need you here. Not some broken doll. The real you. The one who cusses me out when I steal her kills. The one who makes me feel... human.”

I swallow hard, my hand still hovering near her face, afraid to complete the touch. “The internet café where they found me—I’d been living there for weeks. Hacking security systems just to stay warm inside at night. The owner started leaving food out after hours. Never called the cops. First kindness I’d ever known.”

My voice catches. These aren’t tactical revelations. This isn’t part of the plan. But her retreat into herself triggered pure panic. I need her present, even if it costs me this exposure.

“I learned to code there. Learned to game seriously. Created my first online identity.” I drop my hand and curl my fingers into a fist on my thigh. “You know what the first username I chose was? SafeNow. Pathetic, right?”

A flicker crosses her face—recognition, maybe even understanding. It terrifies me.

“When I watch you game—how you throw yourself into those worlds—I recognize it. That escape. That hunger.” I risk reaching for her hand, not grabbing it, just covering it with mine. “But you also have this joy I never found. This pure fucking happiness that I...”

My throat closes around the words. I can’t finish.

Her fingers twitch beneath mine.

“What?” The single word is barely audible, but it’s the first she’s spoken voluntarily in hours.

“That I want for myself,” I finish, the confession burning my throat. “That I thought maybe I could have, through you.”

She’s looking at me now, really looking—eyes tracing my face like she’s seeing me for the first time. Not Ghost. Not Rogue. Not her captor. Just the broken man beneath it all.

“That doesn’t make this okay.” Her hand turns slightly beneath mine, not quite holding it but not pulling away.

“I know,” I admit. “But I need you here with me. Not lost inside your head. I want all of you—your anger, fear, and fight. Not this emptiness.”

A tear slides down her cheek, but it’s different now, conscious, present.

“I’m still here,” she says, voice stronger. “I don’t break that easily.”

Relief floods through me, so intense it’s almost painful. My Kira is returning to me. The fire in her eyes has rekindled.

The way she’s looking at me now—eyes alive with that familiar defiance—makes something shift inside my chest. Her gaze drops to my lips for just a fragment of a second, but it’s enough to trigger an urge I’ve never experienced before.

I want to kiss her.

Not fuck her. Not own her. Not mark her.

Kiss her.

The realization hits like a system crash. In all my years of existence, through every meaningless encounter and physical release, I’ve never felt the need to press my lips against another human’s lips. It’s too intimate, too vulnerable, too real.

My hand moves of its own accord, fingertips grazing her jawline. This wasn’t part of the plan.

“Kira,” I whisper, her name a question I don’t know how to ask on the tip of my tongue.

I lean forward slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, to reject this deviation in the character I’ve presented to her. Our breaths mingle in the space between us—hers quickening slightly, mine unsteady.

When our lips finally meet, the contact is so light it’s barely there. Experimental, cautious. My eyes close instinctively, and other senses heighten to compensate. The softness of her lips surprises me—how something so simple can feel so overwhelming.

I start to pull back, already cataloging this new data point, when Kira makes a small sound in the back of her throat. Before my brain can process what’s happening, she presses forward, her mouth capturing mine with unexpected hunger.

My entire body goes rigid with shock.

She’s kissing me back.

My hands find her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto my lap. She comes eagerly, her body molding against mine as if designed for this exact configuration. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make every nerve-ending fire simultaneously.

I freeze as her lips press harder against mine, a circuit overloading with unexpected data. Kira’s mouth moves with purpose, with knowledge I don’t possess. My hands hover with uncertainty at her waist as she takes complete control.

She angles her head, deepening the contact, and I let her lead. How could I not? This territory is unmapped in my experience—no algorithm exists for how her soft lips press and retreat, for the gentle pressure that sends electricity down my spine.

For once in my life, I’m completely out of my depth.

Her fingers grasp my hair, tugging slightly, and something clicks into place. A switch flips inside me—instinct overriding my paralysis. I pull her tighter against me, my tongue tentatively tracing the seam of her lips before pushing inside. The taste of her hits my system like a drug.

I devour her mouth now, claiming territory I didn’t know I wanted until this moment. My hands span her back, holding her against me.

A confession tumbles from my lips when we break apart before I can analyze the strategic advantage of revealing or concealing this truth.

“I’ve never...” I struggle to find the words, hating how vulnerable this makes me. “This is my first kiss.”

“Your first...?”

I look away. “Your lips are the first to ever touch mine.”

I’ve had sex. I’ve fucked and been fucked. I’ve used bodies and let mine be used, but this press of lips, this breath-sharing, was too intimate, too vulnerable to allow.

Until Kira.

“No one?” Her fingers trace my jawline with soft, languid caresses

“No one,” I confirm, feeling naked in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.

Her eyes hold mine for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in their depths. Then, to my shock, she leans forward again and captures my lips.

This isn’t happening. It can’t happen after everything I’ve done, not after Kira knows who I am— what I am.

But her mouth moves against mine with undeniable intent, her fingers sliding into my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp. A shudder runs through me—a completely involuntary response that I couldn’t control if I tried. I’ve never felt anything like this destabilizing rush of sensation.

I continue to let her lead, uncertain of the protocols for this exchange. Her tongue darts across my bottom lip, then pushes inside when I open for her. The first slide of her tongue against mine sends electricity down my spine, and I hear a sound—a groan—and realize it came from me.

Her weight shifts on my lap, body pressing closer as her kiss deepens. This isn’t a simulation. This isn’t a calculation. This is Kira, my Kira, choosing to touch me. To taste me.

“Breathe,” she whispers against my lips, and I realize I’ve forgotten how.

I inhale sharply, then capture her mouth again, less tentative now. My hands frame her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed. Something protective— primitive even unfurls in my chest—not possession, not control, but equally powerful.

Minutes blend together as we explore each other’s mouths—sometimes deep and hungry, sometimes so light it’s barely a brush of lips. I memorize the curve of her lower lip, how she sighs when I tug it gently between my teeth, and the small sounds she makes when our tongues meet.

Her fingers thread through my hair with tender curiosity. I mirror her movements, learning the contours of her face and the softness of her skin under my calloused fingertips. For once, I’m not calculating my next move or planning three steps ahead. I’m simply... here, present in this moment.

It’s terrifying. Exhilarating.

“Is this real?” I murmur against her mouth, the question escaping before I can contain it.

“Yes,” she confesses against my lips. “It’s real.”

Two words. Simple. Direct. Yet they crash through my system like a virus I have no defense against. My fingers tighten against her skin, suddenly afraid she’ll vanish if I don’t hold on.

Her admission rattles something loose inside me. Something I’ve kept locked down tight since that first night in the internet café—the understanding that control is safety, that deviation means danger.

I’m so far off-script right now, I can’t even see the original code. None of this was in my plan. Kira wasn’t supposed to kiss me. She wasn’t supposed to look at me with those eyes—not vacant, not terrified, but curious. Searching. She wasn’t supposed to touch me with gentle fingers that burned my skin in ways my punishments never could.

I planned every minute of her captivity. Created algorithms to predict her responses. Built contingencies for resistance, tears, rage, and attempted escape.

I never built a contingency for this, for her mouth soft against mine. For the way her weight feels on my lap. For how badly I want to taste her.

This isn’t dominance. This isn’t power. It’s new—something pure and unfamiliar, making my hands tremble against her skin.

I should reset, return to the programming, and get back on schedule with the next level, the next test, and the next step in making her mine.

But I don’t want to.

For the first time since I found control in code and calculations, I don’t want to follow the script. I want to stay here, in this unplanned moment, with her breath mingling with mine.

My entire life has been about control. It’s about never being the scared kid huddled in the dark again. It’s been about building systems where I dictate every outcome.

Yet here, with Kira looking at me like I’m not just the monster who took her, I don’t care that I’ve veered completely off course.

I don’t care that this wasn’t part of the plan.