Page 74 of Game Over

“RYKER!” I scream, tears streaming down my face from the intensity. “I can’t take any more—please?—”

“You’ll take what I give you,” he snarls, slapping my ass hard enough to leave a handprint. “Your body belongs to me now. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

Each word punctuated with a brutal thrust has me spiraling into yet another climax. I’m delirious, drowning in sensation, unable to tell where one orgasm ends and another begins.

“I’m going to fill this tight cunt,” he growls, pace becoming erratic. “Going to breed you deep. Make you take every drop.”

“Yes—please—fill me,” I sob, barely conscious of what I’m saying anymore.

“Whose pussy is this?” he demands, grinding deep.

“Yours! Yours!”

“That’s right,” he groans. “Taking my cum like you were made for it. No protection. Nothing between us.”

His rhythm falters as he drives impossibly deeper. “Fuck—taking it all?—”

I feel the hot pulse of him emptying inside me, flooding me with warmth as he groans my name. The sensation triggers one final, shattering orgasm that breaks a fundamental part of me.

I collapse entirely, boneless and spent, consciousness flickering at the edges. I’m vaguely aware of him withdrawing, of gentle hands turning me over, of being lifted against a solid chest.

“My good girl,” Ryker murmurs, cradling me as my eyelids grow impossibly heavy. “Rest now. You’ve earned it.”

His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath my ear, a rhythm that shouldn’t comfort me but somehow does. What the hell is happening to me?

Two weeks ago, I was a normal woman obsessed with video games and TikTok, and now I’m naked in a forest, covered in marks and fluids, cradled in the arms of my kidnapper. And the worst part? I don’t want him to let go.

The way his arms envelop me completely, like he’s built a fortress around my body, makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt—which is absolutely fucking insane considering he’s the danger. He’s the one who took me, who’s holding me captive, who’s systematically breaking down every wall I’ve built.

Yet here I am, nuzzling closer, craving the heat of his skin against mine, the possessive way his hand splays across my back. I should be fighting, screaming, running. Instead, I’m melting into him, memorizing the scent of his skin, the texture of the scar that runs along his collarbone, the way his breath hitches when I press my lips against his chest.

This isn’t Stockholm Syndrome—it’s deeper, like he’s awakened a darkness that was always inside me, waiting. And that terrifies me more than the restraints, the pain, or even the pleasure. Because if this was always inside me, what does that make me?

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.

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