Page 41 of Game Over

My stomach drops. “No more. I can’t?—”

“You can. You will.” His voice hardens as he stands, towering over me. “Level one was about claiming what’s mine. Level two tested your survival instincts.” His fingers trace the edge of my restraint. “Level three is about truth.”

He wheels over what looks like a medical cart. My pulse spikes when I see the array of items—small devices, wires, a laptop, and things I don’t even recognize.

“What are you going to do to me?” My voice sounds small, broken by fear.

“We’re going to play a simple game.”Rykersits beside me again, opening the laptop. “For every truth you tell me, you earn a reward. For every lie...” He holds up a small remote with a red button. “Consequences.”

“How would you even know if I’m lying?” I challenge, fighting against the fear crawling up my throat.

He taps the laptop screen, where a program displays a series of graphs and metrics. “Your physical reactions betray you. I’ve been researching you long enough to know your tells.”

“This is insane!” Tears well in my eyes again.

“This is intimacy,Kira. Real intimacy. No screens between us. No usernames to hide behind.” He connects a small sensor to my finger and another to my temple. “People spend their whole lives lying—to others, to themselves. Not here. Not with me.”

The clinical precision of his movements makes this somehow more terrifying than if he’d just raged or threatened me.

“We have all the time in the world.” He checks the restraints one last time. “Weeks, if necessary. However long it takes you to accept that your place is with me.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. Level three isn’t just another game—it’s completely dismantling who I am. A surgical excavation of every secret I’ve buried.

Ryker’sfingers move with clinical precision, attaching more sensors to my body—one on my chest, another at my wrist. Each touch is businesslike yet intimate, giving my skin goosebumps. His fingertips brush against the side of my breast as he places a sensor, and to my horror, I feel my nipple harden in response. A flash of heat travels through my body, pooling low in my belly.

I turn my face away, disgusted with myself. How can I respond to his touch when my mind is screaming in terror?

“Almost ready,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me. From the cart, he retrieves something black and sleek. “Lift your hips.”

“What? No.” Fear surges through me again.

His eyes lock with mine, patient but unyielding. “Either you lift your hips, or I force them up. Your choice, but one preserves your dignity.”

With burning cheeks and fresh tears, I raise my hips as much as the restraints allow.

Rykerslides what looks like high-tech underwear up my legs. The material is soft but fitted with small metal contacts that press against my most sensitive areas. My breath hitches when I realize what it is, and a sob escapes my throat. As his knuckles brush against my inner thigh, I feel another unwelcome pulse of arousal that makes me want to scream with frustration. What is wrong with me?

“Remote controlled,” he confirms, reading my expression. “The sensors detect your physiological responses to questions, but this”—he holds up the sleek black remote—“provides immediate feedback for lies.” His thumb caresses the button almost lovingly. “It can deliver anything from a gentle vibration to a significant shock, depending on the severity of the deception.”

Terror floods my system as he connects the final wires to the laptop. This isn’t just about monitoring my responses—it’s about conditioning them, training me like a lab rat.

“Please don’t do this,” I beg, all pretense of strength abandoned.

“Truth shouldn’t hurt. It only hurts when we fight it.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “I’m setting you free. You just don’t know it yet.”

The machine hums to life, displaying my vital signs in real time: elevated heart rate, respiration, and rising temperature.

“First question.”Ryker’seyes lock with mine. “What frightens you more—that I might hurt you or that you might enjoy it?”

His question hangs in the air between us, invasive and raw. My mind races with potential answers, each more shocking than the last.

What frightens me more? The truth is complicated, twisted up in my own contradictions. I’ve fantasized about someone wanting me so badly they’d cross lines to have me. But this—this real-life nightmare version—is something else entirely.

Then I realize something. He’s so confident in his system, in his ability to read me. I should test it. See if there’s a weakness, a way to fool his precious technology.

“I’m afraid you’ll hurt me,” I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. I try to believe my words as I speak them, to convince myself they’re the complete truth. “I’m terrified of the pain you could inflict.”

The lie sits awkwardly on my tongue. It’s not completely false—I am afraid he’ll hurt me—but it’s not what frightens me most. What truly terrifies me is the part of myself that responds to his dominance, to his obsession—maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for all along.

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