Page 25

25

RYKER

I ’m losing my grip on reality.

The realization hits me hard as I carry Kira’s sleeping form back to the compound from the forest. Her body is limp against mine, exhausted from our activities. My schedule says we should continue to Level Seven tomorrow, but looking at her skin marked with evidence of my possession, breathing shallow with fatigue—something unexpected twists in my chest.

I glance down at her face, noticing for the first time how pale she’s become. Her lips have a bluish tint, and her skin feels clammy against mine. This isn’t just exhaustion—this is physical shock setting in. Her body is shutting down from the stress, the fear, and the extreme conditions I’ve put her through.

A flash of panic cuts through me, unfamiliar and unwelcome. This wasn’t in my calculations. She wasn’t supposed to break like this, not physically. I wanted to break her will, not her body.

She wasn’t supposed to shatter like this. It’s not just her body, it’s her soul. I wanted to reform her into my worshipped version of her. She’s lost all fight, the spark that was her. And with that, the mental toll has manifested physically. I don’t know how to fix her. I didn’t account for negative variables enough.

“Kira?” I say her name, but she doesn’t respond, and her breathing becomes shallower.

We’re going back early. One full day ahead of schedule.

This isn’t part of the plan—the plan I spent two years calculating, the plan that accounted for every variable except the one I’m experiencing now: genuine concern for her well-being.

“Time to go home,” I whisper against her hair as I carry her through the forest. She barely stirs, utterly spent.

The next level was supposed to push her further into submission, test her limits again. Instead, I’m... what? Taking care of her?

My fingers tighten on her. This isn’t me. And yet, it is.

Back at the compound, I carry her straight to my suite, not the replica of her bedroom where she usually stays. This is another deviation. My personal space was never meant to be shared with her this early.

I run the bath, testing the water temperature with scientific precision. It’s not too hot, not too cool—perfect, like everything I do—except my emotions lately, which are anything but perfect.

I ease her into the water, and her eyes flutter in momentary confusion.

“Shh,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “You’ve been so good. You deserve this.”

I take a soft cloth, soap it carefully, and wash her body. As the dirt and grime rinse away, the true extent of what I’ve done to her becomes impossible to ignore. Her back is a canvas of angry red abrasions where the tree bark scraped her raw. Deep purple bruises bloom across her hips and thighs, where my fingers dug in too hard. Her knees are torn and crusted with dried blood from being repeatedly forced onto the forest floor. Her palms bear crescent-shaped cuts where her nails dug into them during moments of intense pleasure or pain.

Each stroke of the cloth is deliberate, thorough, caring—yet I hesitate over the worst injuries. I’m cleaning away the forest, the sweat, the evidence of our activities—but not my claim on her. Never that. The marks I’ve left run deeper than skin, and seeing them mapped across her body fills me with a confusing mixture of pride and possibly regret.

“Level Seven?” she murmurs, only half coherent.

“Postponed,” I reply, the word foreign on my tongue. I don’t postpone. I execute. I achieve. I reign.

But not today. Today, I’m washing her hair, massaging her scalp, and she melts under my touch for reasons that have nothing to do with sexual pleasure or psychological manipulation.

“Why?” she asks.

Because I’m breaking my own rules. Because you’re changing me.

“You need to rest,” I tell her, continuing to wash her body with methodical care. “You’ve been so good. Better than I could have predicted.”

Kira looks up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded but more lucid than before. The water swirls around her marked skin, steam rising between us like a veil. There’s been a change between us. I can feel it in the air, in how she’s looking at me, not with fear or defiance, but with something dangerously close to affection.

“Get in with me,” she whispers, touching my forearm. “Please. I just... I need you to hold me.”

I freeze, the washcloth dripping onto the tile floor. This wasn’t in my calculations. Physical intimacy with purpose, yes. Claiming her body, demonstrating dominance—all part of the plan. But this? This naked request for simple comfort?

“The next level doesn’t start until?—”

“Fuck the levels,” she interrupts, her voice soft but firm. “Just for a little while. Just be here with me.”

I’m torn. The game I’ve meticulously designed is unraveling, threads of my control slipping through my fingers like water. But perhaps it was never truly a game—it was always heading toward this moment.

My obsession with Kira has always bordered on madness—something I refused to acknowledge even to myself. The endless hours spent learning her, wanting to possess every part of her—it was never just about possessing her.

I care for her. The realization doesn’t shock me as it should. It settles into place like a key finding its lock. Deep down, I have cared for her in an obsessive, possessive way since I first saw her dancing in her room, unaware of my gaze, completely herself.

“Ryker?” Her voice pulls me back.

I begin unbuttoning my shirt, a decision made without conscious thought. My body moves of its own accord, drawn to her by forces stronger than my desire to dominate.

“Yes,” I say simply. “I’ll hold you.”

I strip methodically, folding each garment precisely before setting them on the counter.

The water embraces me as I slide in behind her, its heat nothing compared to the warmth of her body as she settles against my chest. I adjust my position, creating a cradle for her smaller frame. Her head rests just beneath my chin, wet hair tickling my throat.

“Is this what you wanted?” I ask.

She nods, the movement vibrating through my chest. “Thank you.”

Two simple words that shouldn’t affect me. I’ve heard gratitude from employees, targets, and people I’ve manipulated. This is different. She means it.

My body responds instantly to her naked form pressed against me, cock hardening against the small of her back. I feel her tense slightly as she notices, and I consider taking what I want, what my body demands.

“Ignore it,” I tell her, surprising myself. “That’s not what this is about.”

Her muscles relax gradually as I wrap my arms around her, careful of the bruises forming where my fingers gripped her too tightly in the forest. Evidence of my loss of control. I should be disturbed by this failure, but I trace one mark gently with my thumb, concerned.

The water laps against our skin as she shifts, settling comfortably against me. Steam rises around us, clouding the bathroom mirror and obscuring our reflection. Perhaps that’s fitting—I barely recognize myself in these moments.

“Just breathe,” I instruct, though whether I’m talking to her or myself remains unclear.

Her breathing synchronizes with mine, deep and even. I hold her, nothing more. No agenda. No next level. No manipulation. Just this—her body against mine, vulnerable and trusting despite everything. My erection persists, but I make no move to act on it.

For the first time, I’m putting someone else’s needs before my desires.

I hold Kira in the cooling water, her back pressed against my chest, neither of us speaking for several minutes. The intimacy is unfamiliar territory—this unscripted moment beyond my careful planning. I need to understand more, to recalibrate.

“Tell me about your life,” I say, quiet in the steam-filled bathroom.

Kira’s laugh vibrates against my chest, short and incredulous. “Seriously? You know everything about me already, remember? You’ve been in my apartment, computer, and probably my bank accounts.”

“I do,” I admit, my arms tightening slightly around her. “But I want to hear it from you. The things surveillance can’t capture.”

She’s silent for so long that I think she won’t answer. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a different weight.

“On paper, I had the best childhood. Nice neighborhood, good school, mom who decorated for every holiday.” She shifts against me, uncomfortable with the memories. “The records don’t show my mother’s brother—my ‘uncle’ Rob.”

My body tenses at her tone, but I remain silent, letting her continue.

“When I was eleven, he started...” her voice falters. “He would come into my room when he was babysitting. Said it was our special game.”

My vision darkens at the edges, but I force myself to remain still, not to frighten her with my rage.

“I told my mom,” she continues, voice hollow. “She slapped me. Told me I was lying, that I shouldn’t say such horrible things about family. That I’d ruin his life with stories like that.”

Her breath hitches, and I can feel her trembling against me. “Nobody ever knew. I just retreated into gaming. Into fantasy worlds where I could be powerful, where I could be in control of my choices—have some semblance of power, safety even; somewhere I could be in charge of what happened to me.”

A growl builds in my chest, escaping before I can contain it. “I didn’t know that,” I say, my voice dangerously low. “You never searched for it. Never wrote about it. It wasn’t in any of your files.”

“Not everything lives in the digital world, Ryker.”

My arms tighten around her protectively, possessively. “What’s his name? His full name.”

Kira stiffens against me, her body suddenly rigid in the cooling bathwater. “Why do you want to know that? Why does it even matter?”

“Because I won’t rest until he’s brought to justice,” I say with absolute certainty. “Men like that don’t deserve to walk free.”

The irony doesn’t escape me—a kidnapper seeking justice. But this is different. What I’ve done with Kira has purpose, design. What her uncle did was pure predation of an innocent.

Kira shakes her head, water droplets flying from her damp hair. “You can’t do anything, Ryker. It was years ago. No evidence. No proof.”

“I don’t need conventional proof.” My algorithms can destroy a man’s life with less information than a name.

“He still visits for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” she continues. “Mom makes his favorite pumpkin pie. Everyone acts like nothing ever happened.”

My muscles lock, jaw clenching so tight I taste blood where my teeth cut into my cheek. The water around us seems to drop ten degrees with the ice forming in my veins.

“He sits at the table,” she continues, each word driving my rage deeper, “and asks me about my life while my mother smiles and passes the gravy.”

My breathing becomes measured—how it does when I’m most dangerous.

“The family takes photos with him holding the carving knife,” Kira whispers. “I have to stand beside him and smile.”

That’s the detail that breaks me. My arm moves from around her waist to grip the tub’s edge, knuckles white against the porcelain. Code already runs through my head—bank accounts, credit scores, employment records, criminal databases. A man like that has secrets beyond what he did to Kira. I’ll find them all.

“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.