Page 92 of Game Over

“Hold tight,” he warns.

I cling to him as he begins swimming through the waves, his powerful strokes cutting through the water with surprising efficiency. My cheek rests against his shoulder, eyes half-closed as I feel the rhythm of his movements beneath me. The contrast is jarring—moments ago he was inside me, brutal and demanding, and now he’s carrying me to safety with the same strength he used to dominate me.

31

RYKER

The drive back to the compound stretches in silence. Kira stares out the window, her face a mask I can’t read. The water still clings to her hair, salt crystals forming as it dries. I keep glancing at her, cataloging every detail—the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremble in her hands, the way she tucks her legs underneath her on the seat.

“You’re free to go,” I say, the words cutting my throat on their way out. “When we return, I’ll take you to your place if that’s what you want.”

Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “What?”

“You’re not my captive anymore.” My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “It’s your choice now.”

We pull into the compound, and I kill the engine. The silence feels like a wall between us. I wait, not daring to look at her, afraid of what I might see—or worse, what I might do if she chooses to leave.

“Ryker?” Her voice is small, uncertain.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want this to end.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I want to be with you. Stay with you.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, my voice rough.

She nods, reaching for my hand. “I’m sure.”

Inside, I guide her to the shower while I head to the kitchen. For once, I’m not calculating, not planning—just feeling. I pull ingredients from the fridge, making her favorite pasta dish I discovered when surveilling her. The familiar motions of cooking center me.

When she emerges in one of my t-shirts, hair damp and cheeks flushed, I can’t help but stare.

“What?” she asks, self-conscious.

“Nothing.” I smile, setting a plate before her. “Just thinking I’d like to take you on a proper date. Our first one.”

“A date?” Her lips curve upward.

“Yes, a real date—dinner, maybe a movie. Whatever normal people do.” I brush a strand of hair from her face. “No levels, no games. Just us.”

Emotions play across Kira’s face—vulnerability, desire, hesitation. She takes a bite of pasta, closing her eyes briefly as she savors it.

“I’d like that,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes. “A real date sounds nice.”

I nod, relief washing through me. But then she continues, her voice growing stronger.

“But I quite like the levels, too,” she admits, a blush creeping up her neck. “Maybe we could do the remaining levels you planned spaced out over time? Not all at once, like we’ve been doing.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. I set it down carefully.

“You’d want to continue?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended.

Kira nods, tracing patterns in her pasta sauce with her fork. “I actually—” She stops, swallows. “I loved Level Seven.”

The beach. The tide. Her bound to the post as the water rose around her. Her fear and arousal mingled as I took her in the crashing waves.

A darkness surges through me, a possessive heat. In all my calculations, I’d factored in Stockholm syndrome, trauma bonding, and even eventual acceptance. But not true desire. Not her asking for more.

“You loved it?” I repeat, needing to hear it again.

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