Page 27

27

RYKER

I can’t stop watching her breathe.

Kira has slept on my living room couch for sixteen hours and thirty-seven minutes. Her chest’s steady rise and fall becomes the only metric that matters in my universe. Every inhalation resets the stopwatch in my head—proof she’s still alive. Still mine.

This wasn’t in the plan.

I run my fingers through my hair for the thousandth time, pacing silently across the hardwood floor. My calculations never accounted for this variable—this fucking hurricane of emotion tearing through my carefully constructed systems.

What is happening to me?

The question burns through my synapses like acid. I’ve always understood myself as a machine with predictable variables and outcomes. I control the variables. Therefore, I can predict the results. Yet here I stand, my hands shaking, an ache so utterly terrifying spreading through my chest that I’m finding it nearly impossible to breathe.

Is this... love?

The word feels foreign in my mind, as if it’s part of a language I’ve never spoken. I didn’t think I had the to capacity to love. I possess. I obsess. Control— everything .

However, this all-consuming need to protect her, to see her smile—the panic I felt when I realized I’d gone too far—is not in the clinical definition of who I am.

Yesterday, something inside me broke when she wanted me to hold her in the bath. I lost the ability to calculate my next move. I just held her. I was afraid—not for myself, but for her.

I sink to my knees beside the couch, studying the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her eyelashes. My trembling hand hovers above her face, not daring to touch her. What if she’s broken beyond healing? What if I’ve completely desecrated what I’ve come to care for?

The thought of life without her now is unbearable. A gaping abyss void of her that I can never be free of. I’ve had her—felt her warmth, heard her laugh—and can’t return to the cold emptiness of before.

This isn’t an obsession. This is dependence. Weakness. Need.

This is love.

Finally, movement. Kira stirs beneath the blanket, her fingers twitching against the fabric. I freeze, holding my breath as her eyelids flutter open. She blinks slowly, taking in her surroundings with confusion before her gaze settles on me.

“Ryker,” she breathes.

My name on her lips hits me hard. Something explodes in my chest—hot and all-consuming—sending shockwaves through my nervous system. This single word from her mouth eviscerates me, recreates me, and undoes everything I thought I knew about myself.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m right here, Mischief.”

My hand moves to her face without intent. I brush strands of hair back from her forehead, my fingertips trembling against her skin. I lean forward and press my lips to her brow, breathing in the scent of her—the soap from her bath, the permeating sweetness that’s uniquely Kira.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

The question isn’t tactical. It isn’t meant to gauge her physical state for the next level of my game. I genuinely need to know if she’s okay—if I’ve damaged her beyond repair. If I have, I don’t know how I will recover from the loss of her.

My thumb strokes her cheek, and I marvel at how gentle my touch has become. These hands that have coded exploits, wielded knives, built cages—these hands that have only known how to dominate—now comfort with an instinct I never knew existed within me.

She looks up at me with those eyes—those fucking beautiful eyes—and I’m paralyzed by the weight of what I feel. The surgical precision with which I’ve always navigated life has been replaced by this stifling ache.

I continue stroking her hair, each touch a revelation. I’ve memorized every inch of her from surveillance and fantasy. Still, feeling her beneath my fingertips, caring about her comfort—this is uncharted territory.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, the words spilling out unbidden.

“Better,” she whispers, her voice still rough with sleep. “I was so tired when you were massaging me. It felt... nice.”

Her words send warmth spreading through my chest. Nice. Such a simple word, but any praise coming from her lips is everything.

“How long did I sleep?” Kira shifts slightly, wincing as she adjusts her position.

“Sixteen hours and...” I check my watch, “forty-two minutes now.”

“Sixteen hours? That’s... that’s almost a full day.”

“Your body needed it,” I say, resisting the urge to touch her again without permission. “You were exhausted. Physically. Emotionally.”

I gesture to the first aid supplies I’ve set on the nightstand. “Your bandages need changing. May I?”

Without waiting for her response, I gently take her hand, turning it palm-up to examine the cuts from where her nails dug into her skin during our time in the forest. The wounds are clean but still angry red around the edges. I carefully peel off the old bandage, apply fresh antibiotic ointment, and wrap a new piece of gauze around her palm.

“The abrasions on your back need attention too,” I say, my voice clinical as I move behind her. My fingers trace the edge of the tape holding the gauze in place, feeling her tense at my touch. “The tree bark did quite a number on you.”

I work methodically, removing the old dressings to reveal the raw skin beneath. Some areas have begun to scab over, while others still weep clear fluid. I clean each wound with antiseptic, my touch gentle despite the efficiency of my movements.

“Your knees are the worst,” I observe, kneeling before her to unwrap the bandages around her scraped knees. The skin there is a patchwork of purple bruises and angry red scrapes. “These will take longer to heal.”

By my hand. Because of what I’ve done to her. The thought cuts through me like glass.

She looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “What about... what about the levels? Aren’t we supposed to be on level seven by now?”

The clinical, calculating part that developed the levels crumbles away like ash.

“No more levels,” I say, my voice rough with emotion I don’t try to hide. “They were... they were fun for me, but...” I swallow hard, meeting her gaze directly. “Only if you willingly choose it will there ever be another level. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever again.”

Kira studies my face, skepticism evident in the slight furrow of her brow. But there’s a vulnerability too, a need that mirrors my own. She looks like she just wants to be held, to feel safe despite everything that’s happened between us.

I take a deep breath. “Can I... can I hold you, Kira? Just hold you?”

The question hangs between us—perhaps the first real question I’ve asked her since this began. Not a command disguised as if she had a choice, not a manipulation. A genuine request that she has every right to refuse.

After a moment that stretches into eternity, she nods.

“Yes,” she whispers.

I slide onto the sofa, careful not to startle her. The leather creaks beneath my weight as I settle into the cushions. For a moment, I just wait, holding my breath.

Kira studies me, searching for permission. Without a word, she shifts her body and crawls toward me. She climbs onto my lap, her movements tentative but deliberate.

She’s so fucking tiny against me. Even with her curves—the soft swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips that I’ve memorized through countless hours of surveillance—she feels delicate. Breakable. My hands span her waist completely, fingers nearly touching at her back.

The contrast between us hits me hard. I’ve built myself into a weapon—every muscle, tattoo, and move designed to intimidate. Yet she fits against me like she was designed for this space.

When her weight settles fully against me, my body responds instantly. Blood rushes south, and I harden beneath her, my cock straining against my pants where she’s seated directly over it.

A small, surprised sound escapes her throat—a moan that vibrates through her body into mine. She shifts her hips, grinding against my erection in a slow, deliberate circle. The friction sends a sensation racing up my spine.

I freeze.

This isn’t part of the game.

Everything before this moment—the maze, the hunt—followed my script. Every reaction is extracted rather than freely given.

But this...

Her body moves against mine with no prompt, no threat hanging over her head. Just her soft warmth responding to mine. Her breaths quicken, eyelids fluttering as she rocks against me again, seeking more friction.

I remain frozen, afraid to break whatever spell has fallen over her. My hands hover at her hips, not directing, existing in this moment.

This isn’t the rough claiming I’ve forced on her before. Not the power exchange of predator and prey. This is her choice, her own desire, in action.

This is just us and our bodies recognizing each other. Chemistry cuts through the trauma I inflicted.

And it terrifies me more than anything.

“Ryker.” Kira’s voice breaks as she looks at me. Her fingers dig into my shoulders as she presses herself closer. “I need you. Please. Fuck me.”

Her freely given request destroys me more thoroughly than any resistance ever could.

“Kira,” I whisper, my voice cracking with emotion I’ve never allowed myself to feel, let alone show. “Are you sure?”

She nods, her lips parting. “I’m sure. I need this.”

The last thread of control I’ve been desperately clinging to snaps completely. I cup Kira’s face between my hands, touching her like she’s made of glass, like she’s the most precious thing I’ve ever held.

“You’re all I’ve ever fucking wanted,” I tell her, the bittersweet honesty burning my throat. “My whole life. Every miserable fucking day. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in. My thumbs stroke her cheekbones, gentle in a way I never knew I could be.

“You’re my world, Mischief. Not the game. Not the hunt. You.”

I kiss her then, not the bruising, claiming kisses I’ve forced on her before, but something tender and reverent. My lips brush against hers softly, asking rather than taking. When she responds, parting her lips beneath mine in invitation, I groan against her mouth.

I deepen the kiss, unable to contain the intensity that’s natural to me. My fingers tangle in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, giving me better access to her mouth. The gentleness remains.

“I love you,” I confess against her lips, the words I never thought I’d say to anyone. “I fucking love you, Kira.”

I feel Kira’s sharp intake of breath against my lips when I say those words. Her body tenses momentarily, and I know she’s not ready to say it back. How could she be? She’s only beginning to know me, while I’ve been learning her for two years. And if I am being honest, I’m not sure I even know me now. But I know I would like to explore it with her.

Instead of words, she answers with her body. Her lips find mine again, urgent and hungry. The kiss deepens, and I taste her need, so different from fear or manipulation. This is real. This is Kira choosing me.

My hands slide down her sides, memorizing every curve as if I haven’t mapped her body a thousand times through screens and surveillance. But this—her warm skin beneath my fingertips, the slight tremble in her muscles as I touch her—is infinitely better than fantasy.

I fumble with my pants, suddenly clumsy with want. I yank them down just enough, freeing myself. My fingers lift the hem of her dress, exposing her to my gaze.

When I enter her, it’s with a gentleness I didn’t know I possessed. Her warmth envelops me, and a groan, unlike anything I’ve ever heard, claws its way up my throat. This isn’t taking. This isn’t claiming. This is joining, a mutual endeavor by two people who desire to be one.

“Fuck, Kira,” I breathe against her neck, overwhelmed the by sensations and untethered emotion colliding inside me.

She begins to move above me, finding her own rhythm. My hands settle on her hips—not directing, just following, supporting. She sets the pace, rolling her body against mine with a grace that stills my breath for that moment of realization.

I look up at her in wonder. Her head tilted back, lips parted, pleasure washing over her features. She’s magnificent. She’s everything.

My hands slide up her sides, cupping her breasts with reverence. I lean forward, pressing my lips to the soft swell, tasting her skin. I worship every inch of her—this body I’ve coveted, now being offered to me so enticingly.

“Beautiful,” I murmur against her skin, kissing a path across the swell of her tits. “So fucking beautiful.”

She moves above me like she was made for me, and I fall completely. I, who never surrendered to anything in my life, give myself over to Kira Ellis without reservation.