Page 75 of Game Over

Back at the compound, I carry her straight to my suite, not the replica of her bedroom where she usually stays. This is another deviation. My personal space was never meant to be shared with her this early.

I run the bath, testing the water temperature with scientific precision. It’s not too hot, not too cool—perfect, like everything I do—except my emotions lately, which are anything but perfect.

I ease her into the water, and her eyes flutter in momentary confusion.

“Shh,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “You’ve been so good. You deserve this.”

I take a soft cloth, soap it carefully, and wash her body. As the dirt and grime rinse away, the true extent of what I’ve done to her becomes impossible to ignore. Her back is a canvas of angry red abrasions where the tree bark scraped her raw. Deep purple bruises bloom across her hips and thighs, where my fingers dug in too hard. Her knees are torn and crusted with dried blood from being repeatedly forced onto the forest floor. Her palms bear crescent-shaped cuts where her nails dug into them during moments of intense pleasure or pain.

Each stroke of the cloth is deliberate, thorough, caring—yet I hesitate over the worst injuries. I’m cleaning away the forest, the sweat, the evidence of our activities—but not my claim on her. Never that. The marks I’ve left run deeper than skin, and seeing them mapped across her body fills me with a confusing mixture of pride and possibly regret.

“Level Seven?” she murmurs, only half coherent.

“Postponed,” I reply, the word foreign on my tongue. I don’t postpone. I execute. I achieve. I reign.

But not today. Today, I’m washing her hair, massaging her scalp, and she melts under my touch for reasons that have nothing to do with sexual pleasure or psychological manipulation.

“Why?” she asks.

Because I’m breaking my own rules. Because you’re changing me.

“You need to rest,” I tell her, continuing to wash her body with methodical care. “You’ve been so good. Better than I could have predicted.”

Kira looks up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded but more lucid than before. The water swirls around her marked skin, steam rising between us like a veil. There’s been a change between us. I can feel it in the air, in how she’s looking at me, not with fear or defiance, but with something dangerously close to affection.

“Get in with me,” she whispers, touching my forearm. “Please. I just... I need you to hold me.”

I freeze, the washcloth dripping onto the tile floor. This wasn’t in my calculations. Physical intimacy with purpose, yes. Claiming her body, demonstrating dominance—all part of the plan. But this? This naked request for simple comfort?

“The next level doesn’t start until?—”

“Fuck the levels,” she interrupts, her voice soft but firm. “Just for a little while. Just be here with me.”

I’m torn. The game I’ve meticulously designed is unraveling, threads of my control slipping through my fingers like water. But perhaps it was never truly a game—it was always heading toward this moment.

My obsession with Kira has always bordered on madness—something I refused to acknowledge even to myself. The endless hours spent learning her, wanting to possess every part of her—it was never just about possessing her.

I care for her. The realization doesn’t shock me as it should. It settles into place like a key finding its lock. Deep down, I have cared for her in an obsessive, possessive way since I first saw her dancing in her room, unaware of my gaze, completely herself.

“Ryker?” Her voice pulls me back.

I begin unbuttoning my shirt, a decision made without conscious thought. My body moves of its own accord, drawn to her by forces stronger than my desire to dominate.

“Yes,” I say simply. “I’ll hold you.”

I strip methodically, folding each garment precisely before setting them on the counter.

The water embraces me as I slide in behind her, its heat nothing compared to the warmth of her body as she settles against my chest. I adjust my position, creating a cradle for her smaller frame. Her head rests just beneath my chin, wet hair tickling my throat.

“Is this what you wanted?” I ask.

She nods, the movement vibrating through my chest. “Thank you.”

Two simple words that shouldn’t affect me. I’ve heard gratitude from employees, targets, and people I’ve manipulated. This is different. She means it.

My body responds instantly to her naked form pressed against me, cock hardening against the small of her back. I feel her tense slightly as she notices, and I consider taking what I want, what my body demands.

“Ignore it,” I tell her, surprising myself. “That’s not what this is about.”

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