Page 65 of Game Over

Suddenly, Ryker stops. His head tilts slightly, like a predator catching a scent. He runs his gloved hand along the bark of my tree, caressing it almost lovingly.

“Clever girl,” he murmurs, so softly I almost miss it.

Ice floods my veins. He knows.

He’s circling the tree now, never looking up, continuing his bizarre performance of searching. At the same time, his fingers paint invisible patterns on the trunk. It’s like he’s touching me by proxy, and my skin prickles in response.

“You always did prefer higher ground in our games, Mischief.” His voice carries just enough for me to hear it. “Taking the sniper position.”

The use of his nickname for me, which he’d said through our headsets during late-night gaming sessions, makes my stomach flip. How many of our gaming strategies is he pulling from now? How much of our virtual connection is he weaponizing against me?

Ryker leans his back against my tree, still not looking up.

“I wonder,” he says casually, tapping a rhythm against the tree with his knuckles, “if you’re comfortable up there. If your muscles are starting to cramp yet. If you’re weighing whether to stay silent or to surprise me.”

A small branch beneath my foot cracks slightly as I shift my weight.

“The thing about trees, Kira...” He pauses, finally tilting his head back, eyes searching upward through the branches. Our gazes lock. “They make escaping much harder than hiding.”

His eyes linger on mine through the branches, and my breath catches. That familiar thrill—half fear, half excitement—courses through me.

“Caught you,” he calls up, voice rich with satisfaction.

“You haven’t caught me yet.” My voice exudes more confidence than I feel.

Ryker chuckles, the sound rumbling through the forest. “I know exactly where you are. I’d say that counts.” He settles at the base of my tree, legs stretched out, looking completely at ease. “I can wait. Time is on my side, Mischief.”

Damn him. He’s right, and we both know it. Another game where he’s three steps ahead. My muscles already protest from holding this position, and the branch beneath me digs uncomfortably into my thighs.

“What happens when I come down?” I keep my voice steady.

“You already know the answer to that.” He doesn’t look up, just pulls something from his pocket—a knife that glints in the fading light. He begins whittling a stick, completely unhurried.

Minutes stretch into hours. The sun sinks lower, painting the forest in amber and shadow. My legs cramp painfully. My fingers, stiff from gripping the branch, struggle to maintain their hold. Thirst scratches at my throat.

Ryker hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken. Just sits there, carving his stick, occasionally glancing at his watch. Patient. Calculating. Waiting for gravity and exhaustion to deliver me to him.

The worst part? A part of me wants to drop into his arms.

Darkness creeps through the trees. I can barely make out Ryker’s form below now. His head lolls slightly against the trunk. Is he... sleeping?

This might be my only chance.

Carefully, I shift my weight. My muscles scream in protest as I maneuver to a lower branch, then another. Each movement feels thunderous in the quiet forest. A small shower of bark and leaves rains down, but Ryker doesn’t stir.

The final branch hangs six feet above the ground. I hang from my arms before letting go. My feet hit the earth with a soft thud.

Ryker’s form doesn’t move. I squint, taking a hesitant step closer.

He’s gone. The jacket and hat I mistook for him in the darkness lie arranged against the tree trunk.

Before I can take another step, strong hands grab me from behind. My heart stops, then races wildly as fingers wrap around the back of my neck, yanking me around.

Ryker.

I gasp, the sound sharp in the quiet forest as I come face to face with him. His eyes gleam in the darkness, feral and hungry. How did he move so silently? How did I not sense him?

“Did you really think I’d fall for that?” His voice is rough.

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