Page 47 of Game Over

But he heard. He saw. He knew.

A tear slips down my temple, soaking into the pillow. The worst part wasn’t the violation of privacy or even the humiliation. It was the recognition. The terrible, undeniable mirror he held up to my soul.

The quiet in this room feels like a courtesy now, a small mercy after the storm. My chest rises and falls with even breaths, but inside, I’m in a war zone. Every structure I built to define myself lies in ruin. Gamer. Independent woman. Strong. Free. All those identities feel like costumes now, superficial layers he stripped away with surgical precision.

I curl onto my side, drawing my knees to my chest. The movement doesn’t trigger pain or restraints. Nothing stops me but the knowledge that there’s nowhere to go. He’s mapped every escape route—from this place and myself.

Level three didn’t just break me. It revealed me.

I’m still curled on my side when I hear the door open. My body tenses instinctively, every muscle coiling tight. I don’t turn to look at him. Don’t need to. The weight of his footsteps, the particular rhythm of his breathing—I know it’s Ryker without seeing his face.

“Look at me, Kira.” His voice is softer than before, almost gentle.

I roll over slowly, expecting to see that cruel smile, that predatory gleam. Still, his expression is neutral, almost business-like.

“Time to eat.” He sets a tray on the bedside table. The smell of food hits me—real food, not those protein shakes he’s been forcing down my throat. My stomach clenches painfully, reminding me how empty it is.

“Why?” The word scratches out of my dry throat.

Ryker sits on the edge of the bed, his weight creating a dip that pulls me slightly toward him. “Level four starts in an hour. You’ll need your strength.” His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face. “It’s more physical this time. Less... in here.” He taps his temple.

Relief floods through me so intensely that I nearly sob. Physical pain I can handle. Bruises heal. But what he did to my mind in level three—the way he crawled inside me and made me speak my darkest truths—left wounds I can’t even locate, let alone treat.

“Thank God.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That bad, huh?” There’s actual humor in his voice, like we’re sharing a joke.

I push myself to a sitting position, keeping my back against the headboard, creating whatever distance I can. “You know exactly how bad it was. You designed it that way.”

He reaches for the tray, placing it across my lap. “Eat. All of it.”

The food looks normal. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Fresh fruit. A glass of water. It could be a room service breakfast at any hotel. The absurd normalcy of it makes me want to laugh or scream—I’m not sure which.

I force down each bite of food, not because I want to, but because I need the energy to fuel whatever resistance I can still muster. Ryker glares at me as I eat with unnerving intensity, eyes tracking every movement of my hand from plate to mouth. When I finish, he takes the tray away, setting it aside with methodical precision.

“Good girl. Now it’s time to get you cleaned up.” Ryker extends his hand, and when I hesitate, his expression hardens just enough to remind me of the consequences of disobedience. I place my trembling hand in his and let him guide me off the bed.

The bathroom is all sleek tile and chrome, bigger than the one in my actual apartment. Ryker turns on the shower, steam quickly filling the space. He turns to me, expectation clear in his eyes.

“I can wash alone,” I manage, hating how my voice wavers.

“You can, but that’s not how this works.” He hooks his fingers under the hem of my oversized t-shirt—his shirt—and pulls it over my head smoothly.

Standing naked before him isn’t new, but it still burns. I cross my arms over my chest, a futile attempt at modesty that makes his lips quirk up in amusement.

“Into the shower, Kira.”

The hot water would feel good if I were alone. However, I’m acutely aware of Ryker’s eyes on me through the glass door. I soap my body and rinse my hair. Every movement feels performative, my skin prickling with unwanted awareness.

He wraps me in a towel when I step out and pats me dry with unexpected gentleness. The tenderness is worse than cruelty—it confuses everything.

“Put these on.” He gestures to items on the counter: a black lace bra with matching panties, a garter belt, and sheer stockings. There are no clothes and nothing to provide any real coverage.

“Why this?” My fingers hover over the delicate fabric.

“Level four.” His gaze locks with mine in the mirror. “Every level has its uniform.”

My hands shake as I pull on each piece, hyper aware of his eyes tracking every movement. The lingerie fits—of course, it does. He’s measured everything about me, inside and out.

---