Page 26

26

KIRA

I wake 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.

I move toward the chair, slightly unsteady on my feet. It’s a soft grey lounge dress made of what feels like cashmere. The material flows through my fingers like water. When I hold it up against myself, I notice it will hug my curves while still allowing movement—comfortable but undeniably sexy.

I search for underwear but find none. Of course not.

“Better than nothing,” I mutter, slipping the dress over my head.

The fabric caresses my skin as it falls into place, hitting mid-thigh. Despite everything, I feel a strange relief at being clothed again, even if the absence of underwear keeps me acutely aware of my exposure. My nipples harden against the soft material, visible through the thin fabric.

I find a brush on the dresser and attempt to tame my hair before entering the hallway. The house is silent except for faint sounds coming from below. Following the noise, I descend a floating staircase designed to make every step dramatic.

At the bottom, I pause. The open-concept main floor is bathed in natural light. A gourmet kitchen connects to a living area with more floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the mountains.

And there he stands.

Ryker’s back is to me as he works at the stove, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips. The morning sun highlights the contours of his broad shoulders, the defined muscles of his back, and the intricate tattoos covering his skin. I track the line of his spine down to where the sweatpants cling to his hips.

My mouth goes dry. A traitorous heat blooms between my thighs, and I hate myself for it. This man kidnapped me, violated me, and yet my body responds to him like a compass finding true north.

I remain frozen at the bottom of the stairs. As if sensing my presence, Ryker turns, spatula in hand. His bare chest is even more impressive from the front—sculpted muscles covered in intricate tattoos.

“Morning,” he says with a smile that transforms his usually intense face into almost... normal. “Sleep well?”

The casual question throws me off balance. Like we’re just any couple on a lazy Sunday morning. Like he didn’t kidnap me, traumatize me, and break me down until it felt like there was nothing left to break. Like I chose to be here.

“I...” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “Where am I?”

Those piercing blue eyes study me, noticing my dress, posture, and the wariness I’m trying and failing to hide.

“The compound,” he says, turning back to flip whatever he’s cooking. “This is where I live. The section you were in was custom-built, but this is the main section.”

I take a tentative step forward, every muscle tense. Is this the start of another level? Some new twisted game where he pretends we’re in a real relationship? My eyes dart around, looking for clues, for hidden cameras, for any sign of what fresh hell awaits me.

Ryker glances over his shoulder, his expression softening. “You’re overthinking. I can hear the gears turning from here.”

He wipes his hands on a towel and turns fully toward me, dropping the spatula on the counter.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to one of the barstools at the kitchen island. It’s not quite a command, but not a suggestion either. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

I hesitate, mistrust warring with hunger.

“It’s not a trick, Kira,” he adds quietly, reading my thoughts unnervingly. “No games. Not today.”

I stand there, hesitating for another moment before my legs decide. There’s no reason to think he’s lying about ‘no games today,’ honestly, I’m too exhausted to fight anymore. I slide onto the barstool, my muscles protesting even this simple movement.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, unsure what I’m thanking him for. The food? The clothes? Not torturing me today?

Ryker places a plate in front of me—fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast that looks homemade. Steam rises from a mug of coffee, prepared exactly how I like it. Of course he knows how I take my coffee.

“Eat,” he says, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard. “You need the protein.”

My stomach growls loudly in response. I pick up the fork and take a bite. The eggs practically melt in my mouth.

“This is... really good,” I admit between bites, surprised by how quickly I devour the food.

Ryker’s attention stays fixed on me, gleaming with satisfaction as he leans against the counter, sipping his coffee. The domesticity of it all is jarring after everything we’ve been through.

Everything I’ve been put through by him, I correct myself mentally.

As I eat, the full weight of the past days crashes down on me. My body feels like it’s made of lead, each movement requiring concentrated effort. My mind isn’t much better—foggy and fragmented, emotions pinging wildly from fear to confusion to this strange, uncomfortable sense of solace, even if it might be fleeting.

I’ve been hunted, violated, broken down, and built back up. I’ve revealed things I’ve never told anyone about my fantasies. I’ve screamed, cried, and come undone in ways I never imagined possible. And now I’m sitting in this beautiful kitchen, eating breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

A wave of exhaustion hits me so hard I nearly drop my fork. I’m drained—completely and utterly. Everything hurts, inside and out. The mental gymnastics required to process what’s happening are beyond my grasp.

I stare down at my half-eaten breakfast, suddenly overwhelmed by everything. The fork feels heavy in my hand, and I can’t seem to coordinate the simple movement of bringing food to my mouth anymore. My vision blurs slightly at the edges.

Ryker’s gaze sharpens. He sets his coffee down with deliberate care.

“Kira,” he says, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. “You’re crashing.”

Before I can speak, he’s beside me, lifting me into his arms. The sudden movement sends my world spinning on its axis. Leaving my plate, he moves toward the living room to settle me onto the large sectional couch. “What are you?—”

“Just hold on, let me get you settled, then I can get your plate.”

I know the mountain vista stretches before us through those massive windows. Still, I barely register it as Ryker returns with my plate, sits down carefully, and repositions me on his lap so I am straddling him. I should feel exposed, vulnerable in this position, but I am too exhausted to fight anymore.

“I need you to eat for me.” he says, taking the plate in one hand. He grabs a piece of the toast, scoops some egg onto it, and brings it to my lips. “Eat.”

I blink at him, confusion breaking through my exhaustion. “What on earth are you doing?”

His blue eyes hold mine, uncharacteristically soft around the edges. No mask, no coldness, just... Ryker.

“I pushed you too far,” he says simply, still holding the food near my lips. “Your body’s in shock, your mind isn’t far behind. You need care right now, so I’m taking care of you. Helping you heal.”

“By feeding me? After everything, you think that will heal me?” I ask, incredulous despite everything.

“By whatever means necessary,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Now eat, Kira. Please.”

That “please” catches me off guard. I open my mouth and accept the food, too confused and tired to argue.

I swallow the food, studying his face as he prepares another bite. His expression is focused, almost tender, starkly contrasting with the cruelty I’ve witnessed for the last week. When he returns the fork to my lips, I open without hesitation.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his free hand stroking my back in slow circles. “Small bites.”

The gentleness is disarming. Each time I finish a bite, he offers me sips of water. His hands are warm against my skin, steadying me when I sway slightly from exhaustion.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask between bites, my voice barely above a whisper.

His thumb brushes my lower lip, wiping away a crumb. “Because you need it.”

“Is this another test? Level seven or whatever?” The question slips out before I can stop it, but I’m too far gone to care

Something flickers across his face—but it’s gone before I can process it.

“No, Kira. This is just... care.” His voice drops lower. “You told me something last night that changed things.”

My confession about my past. The memory makes my chest tighten.

“So this is... what? Pity? A bit late for that, isn’t it?” I try to inject some anger into my voice, but it comes out fragile.

Ryker shakes his head, feeding me another bite before responding. “Not pity. Understanding.”

I chew slowly. Is this real? Or just another move to manipulate me? The line between sincere care and psychological warfare has blurred so completely that I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

As his hands continue their gentle ministrations—feeding me, stroking my hair, adjusting the dress when it rides up too high—I find myself leaning into his touch. My body recognizes what my mind resists: comfort and safety.

“I still don’t trust this,” I confess, even as I allow him to dab the corner of my mouth with a napkin. “I can’t tell if you’re being kind or this is another way to break me down.”

Ryker’s expression hardens at my words. “I’ll prove it to you,” he growls softly. The sound reverberates through my body, causing my skin to prickle despite the comfortable temperature.

Before I can respond, he cups my face in his hands. His touch is gentle but firm as he leans forward and kisses my lips. Unlike our previous kisses—hungry, desperate things born of power struggles and games—this one feels different. Tender. Almost reverent.

My brain short-circuits as his lips move against mine. Despite everything, my body responds, leaning into him, seeking more contact.

When he pulls away, I’m breathless. He gently positions me on my back on the couch and then slides off it, lowering himself to his knees before me. The sight of this powerful man kneeling makes my chest tight.

“Lie back,” he instructs, his voice a low rumble. “Relax.”

I hesitate, confused and wary, battling exhaustion and the strange pull I feel toward him. Slowly, I shift, reclining against the plush cushions of the couch.

Ryker takes one of my feet in his hands, his touch careful, almost clinical as he begins to massage it. His strong fingers find pressure points, working out knots of tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

“I know I’ve gone too far,” he says. “But you’ve always been precious to me, Kira. Always.”

A small sound escapes me—half disbelief, half something I don’t want to name.

“This game,” he continues, thumbs pressing into my arch, sending waves of relief up my leg, “I thought you’d like it in the end. After all, you’re a gamer.”

His eyes lift to mine, and what appears to be regret shadows them.

“I just didn’t know about your trauma. How this might have been triggering for you.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. I stare at him as he continues to massage my feet, his fingers working magic on muscles I didn’t even realize were sore. The contradiction of this man who has been my kidnapper, a monster, and now... suddenly wants to be a caretaker makes my head spin.

“You didn’t know,” I repeat quietly, testing the words. “But you still took me. You still... did all those things.”

Ryker’s hands pause momentarily before resuming their rhythmic pressure. “Yes.”

No excuses. No justifications. Just an acknowledgement.

I let my head fall back against the cushions. “I don’t understand any of this. What do you want from me? What I’m feeling. What happens next.”

His fingers move up to my calves, finding knots of tension that make me wince and then sigh as they release.

“You don’t need to understand everything right now,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Just let me take care of you today.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Take care of me? After everything you’ve done?”

“Especially after everything I’ve done,” he answers.

I should fight. I should scream. I should demand that he let me go. But the exhaustion pulling at every cell in my body makes even thinking about resistance impossible. And beneath that exhaustion lies a part of me that doesn’t want to resist anymore.

“I still don’t know if I can trust this,” I whisper, gesturing vaguely between us. “Any of it, or you.”

Ryker moves his hands to my other foot, his touch firm but gentle. “I know.”

His simple acknowledgment breaks through a wall inside me. Tears spill over before I can stop them.

“I’m so tired,” I admit, my voice cracking. “Of fighting. Of being afraid. Of not knowing what’s real anymore.”

Ryker’s hands move from my feet to my calves, his thumbs working into muscles I didn’t even realize were knotted. Each press of his fingers sends waves of relief through my body, and despite everything—despite who he is and what he’s done—I feel myself melting into the couch cushions.

My eyelids grow heavy. I should be terrified. I should be planning an escape. Instead, I’m giving in to the gentle pressure of his hands, to the warmth spreading through my limbs.

“That feels...” The words slip out before I can catch them.

His eyes meet mine, satisfaction flickering in those blue depths. I hate giving him that, but I’m too exhausted to maintain my walls.

As his hands work higher, massaging my thighs through the thin fabric of the dress, my thoughts begin to drift and blur around the edges. How he’s capable of such cruelty and tender care makes my head swim. How can the same hands that trapped me, hunted me, and hurt me now bring such comfort?

Stockholm syndrome, my mind whispers. But it’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? The line between captor and savior has smudged beyond recognition. The game levels, the tests, the way he broke me down—was it destruction or deconstruction? Am I being remade or unmade?

I can’t hold onto the questions as they flit through my consciousness. My body yields to his touch, to the relief of finally letting go. My breathing slows. The tension drains from my muscles one by one.

He’s humming under his breath now, a melody I almost recognize. The sound vibrates through his fingers into my skin. It should feel invasive. Instead, it feels like being wrapped in a weighted blanket—heavy, secure, impossible to fight against.

My last coherent thought before sleep claims me is that I’ve never felt so conflicted, broken, and strangely whole. Like I’m falling apart and coming together all at once in his hands.