Page 22

22

KIRA

I lose track of time in this forest of feelings. How long has it been since Ryker took me from the convention center? I lean against a tree, catching my breath.

The strangest part isn’t the kidnapping, the twisted games, or even the way my body responds to his touch. It’s how familiar he feels. All those nights gaming with Rogue, our voices tangled in the darkness while our characters fought side by side. The way he anticipated my moves before I made them. The way he always knew exactly what I needed in the game.

That wasn’t just gaming chemistry. That was him learning me.

My skin tingles where his fingers were earlier. I hate that I crave his touch now. I hate that I feel empty when he releases me from his grasp. Lost.

“You’re insane,” I whisper, sliding down against the rough bark. “Stockholm syndrome. That’s all this is.”

Something deeper contradicts that easy explanation. The connection we had as MistressOfMischief and Rogue wasn’t fabricated. The hours spent talking through headsets, laughing until sunrise, and sharing secrets in the safety of anonymity were real. But in there, I was safe.

I’ve known him for years, really. Just not like this.

A twig snaps nearby, and my pulse quickens, not with fear but anticipation. My hands shake as I realize I’m excited for him to find me again. Excited for whatever comes next. I should be terrified.

When did the game become a game I wanted to play? When did his voice become the one I listen to in the silence?

His mask can’t hide those blue eyes I’ve come to recognize, from my time in captivity and countless streams and videos I’ve watched of GhostDaddy. Two separate men I’ve fantasized about, all folded into one dangerous reality.

And God help me, I’m falling for him.

I don’t want to make this too easy for him.

Despite our twisted connection, I refuse to just roll over for Ryker. If he wants to play games, fine—I’ll play too. And I’m damn good at games.

Rising from my spot against the tree, I scan the forest floor. The ground here is covered in leaves that will crunch under his footsteps. An advantage for me. I’ve spent hours learning Rogue’s gameplay—I know his patterns now. He flanks. Always tries to come at his target from unexpected angles.

The tree beside me has low branches.

I grab the lowest one, testing its strength before pulling myself up. My muscles strain as I climb higher, finding a sturdy perch about fifteen feet up where branches create a natural seat. The leaves provide decent cover while giving me visibility in all directions.

From here, I can see much of the forest floor. My breath catches when I spot him—a dark shadow moving between trees about fifty yards away with predatory grace. Ryker hunts like he games: methodical, patient, calculating.

He’s searching the ground for footprints, touching tree trunks where I might have rested. His mask glints in patches of sunlight filtering through the canopy. I press myself against the trunk, making myself smaller.

My heart pounds so loudly I fear he’ll hear it. Seeing him hunt me and knowing I have the upper hand for once is intoxicating.

I could call out, end this chase now. Part of me wants to.

Instead, I bite my lip and remain silent. Ryker circles closer to my tree. He hasn’t looked up yet.

My fingers grip the branch tighter as he approaches. What will I do when he passes beneath me?

I hold my breath as Ryker stalks directly beneath my hiding spot. My muscles lock tight, every instinct screaming to stay still. Fifteen feet up in this tree, I should be invisible to him. Should be.

Suddenly, Ryker stops. His head tilts slightly, like a predator catching a scent. He runs his gloved hand along the bark of my tree, caressing it almost lovingly.

“Clever girl,” he murmurs, so softly I almost miss it.

Ice floods my veins. He knows.

He’s circling the tree now, never looking up, continuing his bizarre performance of searching. At the same time, his fingers paint invisible patterns on the trunk. It’s like he’s touching me by proxy, and my skin prickles in response.

“You always did prefer higher ground in our games, Mischief.” His voice carries just enough for me to hear it. “Taking the sniper position.”

The use of his nickname for me, which he’d said through our headsets during late-night gaming sessions, makes my stomach flip. How many of our gaming strategies is he pulling from now? How much of our virtual connection is he weaponizing against me?

Ryker leans his back against my tree, still not looking up.

“I wonder,” he says casually, tapping a rhythm against the tree with his knuckles, “if you’re comfortable up there. If your muscles are starting to cramp yet. If you’re weighing whether to stay silent or to surprise me.”

A small branch beneath my foot cracks slightly as I shift my weight.

“The thing about trees, Kira...” He pauses, finally tilting his head back, eyes searching upward through the branches. Our gazes lock. “They make escaping much harder than hiding.”

His eyes linger on mine through the branches, and my breath catches. That familiar thrill—half fear, half excitement—courses through me.

“Caught you,” he calls up, voice rich with satisfaction.

“You haven’t caught me yet.” My voice exudes more confidence than I feel.

Ryker chuckles, the sound rumbling through the forest. “I know exactly where you are. I’d say that counts.” He settles at the base of my tree, legs stretched out, looking completely at ease. “I can wait. Time is on my side, Mischief.”

Damn him. He’s right, and we both know it. Another game where he’s three steps ahead. My muscles already protest from holding this position, and the branch beneath me digs uncomfortably into my thighs.

“What happens when I come down?” I keep my voice steady.

“You already know the answer to that.” He doesn’t look up, just pulls something from his pocket—a knife that glints in the fading light. He begins whittling a stick, completely unhurried.

Minutes stretch into hours. The sun sinks lower, painting the forest in amber and shadow. My legs cramp painfully. My fingers, stiff from gripping the branch, struggle to maintain their hold. Thirst scratches at my throat.

Ryker hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. Just sits there, carving his stick, occasionally glancing at his watch. Patient. Calculating. Waiting for gravity and exhaustion to deliver me to him.

The worst part? A part of me wants to drop into his arms.

Darkness creeps through the trees. I can barely make out Ryker’s form below now. His head lolls slightly against the trunk. Is he... sleeping?

This might be my only chance.

Carefully, I shift my weight. My muscles scream in protest as I maneuver to a lower branch, then another. Each movement feels thunderous in the quiet forest. A small shower of bark and leaves rains down, but Ryker doesn’t stir.

The final branch hangs six feet above the ground. I hang from my arms before letting go. My feet hit the earth with a soft thud.

Ryker’s form doesn’t move. I squint, taking a hesitant step closer.

He’s gone. The jacket and hat I mistook for him in the darkness lie arranged against the tree trunk.

Before I can take another step, strong hands grab me from behind. My heart stops, then races wildly as fingers wrap around the back of my neck, yanking me around.

Ryker.

I gasp, the sound sharp in the quiet forest as I come face to face with him. His eyes gleam in the darkness, feral and hungry. How did he move so silently? How did I not sense him?

“Did you really think I’d fall for that?” His voice is rough.

His body presses against mine, hard and unyielding. I’m trapped between Ryker and the tree, the bark rough against my back even through the thin robe. I can feel every inch of him, the heat radiating through his clothes.

“I could hear your breathing,” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “Could smell your fear... and your fucking desperation.”

He yanks my robe open in one swift motion, the fabric parting easily. Cool night air rushes across my exposed skin, raising goosebumps everywhere it touches. I should feel shame, should cover myself, but his gaze holds me still.

His hands grip my waist, fingers digging into my flesh as he lifts me effortlessly against the tree. My back scrapes against the bark, but the pain only heightens everything I feel. My legs part instinctively as he positions himself between them, pinning me in place.

“I’ve been dying for this,” he growls, his forehead pressing against mine. “Every second you were up in that tree was torture.”

His breathing is ragged, matching my own. One of his hands slides up to cup my face, the gesture almost tender compared to the need in his eyes.

The sound of his zipper cuts through the night air. My body trembles with anticipation as his hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider. There’s no hesitation, no gentle easing—just the blunt pressure of him positioning himself against me before he thrusts forward in one powerful motion.

I cry out, the sound echoing through the empty forest. My back scrapes against the rough bark as he fills me completely, stretching me in ways I’ve only fantasized about.

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze through the eyeholes of that mask. Behind it, his eyes burn with an intensity that steals my breath—wild, possessive, ravenous. The mask keeps our faces apart, prevents our lips from meeting, and makes everything more intense.

His hips slam against me in a punishing rhythm. There’s nothing meticulous about this—none of the measured movements I’ve come to expect from him. This is Ryker coming undone. This is him losing himself completely.

My nails dig into his shoulders as he pounds into me against the tree. Each thrust forces small gasps from my throat. The forest spins around us, but all I can focus on is the fire building inside me, the delicious friction of his cock, the way his fingers bruise my skin.

“You feel that?” Ryker growls against my ear, his voice ragged and desperate. “This is what you’ve been doing to me for years—every fucking headshot, every victory dance, every goddamn laugh through my headset.”

My head falls back against the tree as another moan escapes me. “God—Ryker—I never knew?—”

“But you wanted it,” he pants, adjusting his angle until I scream. “Tell me you wanted this too. That it wasn’t just me going crazy.”

I can’t lie—not with him buried inside me, not with my body betraying every secret I’ve ever kept. “Yes,” I gasp. “I used to—fuck—I’d touch myself after our gaming sessions. Thinking about your voice. Wondering.”

His rhythm falters. “Goddammit, Mischief. If I’d known?—”

“What?” I challenge, finding my voice despite the pleasure threatening to overwhelm me. “You’d have kidnapped me sooner?”

He slams into me harder, making me see stars. “I’d have made you mine two years ago.”

“I’m not yours,” I pant, even as my body clenches around him. “This doesn’t make me yours.”

Ryker laughs, the sound vibrating through me. “Your mouth says no while your cunt says yes. Which should I believe?”

His hands grip my hips tighter as he drives into me, my back scraping against the tree bark with each thrust. I want to hate this, but every moan that escapes my lips is impossible to stop.

“Fuck—you feel so good wrapped around me,” he growls, voice strained and gritty. “Tell me nobody’s ever made you feel like this.”

I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but he slows his pace torturously until I’m whimpering.

“If you don’t fucking tell me that nobody has made you feel like this, I’ll find the bastard who did and gut him,” he threatens.

“Nobody,” I gasp as he rewards me with a deep thrust. “Nobody’s ever—Jesus Christ—filled me like you do.”

“That’s because nobody knows what you need like I do.”

“You don’t know me,” I challenge, even as my nails dig crescents into his shoulders.

“I know exactly when to touch you,” his fingers slide between us, circling my clit with maddening precision. “Exactly how to make you fall apart.”

My head falls back against the tree. “That’s—that’s just biology. It’s the human body’s reflex to stimuli.”

“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?