Page 80 of Game Over

Before I can respond, he cups my face in his hands. His touch is gentle but firm as he leans forward and kisses my lips. Unlike our previous kisses—hungry, desperate things born of power struggles and games—this one feels different. Tender. Almost reverent.

My brain short-circuits as his lips move against mine. Despite everything, my body responds, leaning into him, seeking more contact.

When he pulls away, I’m breathless. He gently positions me on my back on the couch and then slides off it, lowering himself to his knees before me. The sight of this powerful man kneeling makes my chest tight.

“Lie back,” he instructs, his voice a low rumble. “Relax.”

I hesitate, confused and wary, battling exhaustion and the strange pull I feel toward him. Slowly, I shift, reclining against the plush cushions of the couch.

Ryker takes one of my feet in his hands, his touch careful, almost clinical as he begins to massage it. His strong fingers find pressure points, working out knots of tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying.

“I know I’ve gone too far,” he says. “But you’ve always been precious to me, Kira. Always.”

A small sound escapes me—half disbelief, half something I don’t want to name.

“This game,” he continues, thumbs pressing into my arch, sending waves of relief up my leg, “I thought you’d like it in the end. After all, you’re a gamer.”

His eyes lift to mine, and what appears to be regret shadows them.

“I just didn’t know about your trauma. How this might have been triggering for you.”

His words hit me like a physical blow. I stare at him as he continues to massage my feet, his fingers working magic on muscles I didn’t even realize were sore. The contradiction of this man who has been my kidnapper, a monster, and now... suddenly wants to be a caretaker makes my head spin.

“You didn’t know,” I repeat quietly, testing the words. “But you still took me. You still... did all those things.”

Ryker’s hands pause momentarily before resuming their rhythmic pressure. “Yes.”

No excuses. No justifications. Just an acknowledgement.

I let my head fall back against the cushions. “I don’t understand any of this. What do you want from me? What I’m feeling. What happens next.”

His fingers move up to my calves, finding knots of tension that make me wince and then sigh as they release.

“You don’t need to understand everything right now,” he says, his voice low and steady. “Just let me take care of you today.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “Take care of me? After everything you’ve done?”

“Especially after everything I’ve done,” he answers.

I should fight. I should scream. I should demand that he let me go. But the exhaustion pulling at every cell in my body makes even thinking about resistance impossible. And beneath that exhaustion lies a part of me that doesn’t want to resist anymore.

“I still don’t know if I can trust this,” I whisper, gesturing vaguely between us. “Any of it, or you.”

Ryker moves his hands to my other foot, his touch firm but gentle. “I know.”

His simple acknowledgment breaks through a wall inside me. Tears spill over before I can stop them.

“I’m so tired,” I admit, my voice cracking. “Of fighting. Of being afraid. Of not knowing what’s real anymore.”

Ryker’s hands move from my feet to my calves, his thumbs working into muscles I didn’t even realize were knotted. Each press of his fingers sends waves of relief through my body, and despite everything—despite who he is and what he’s done—I feel myself melting into the couch cushions.

My eyelids grow heavy. I should be terrified. I should be planning an escape. Instead, I’m giving in to the gentle pressure of his hands, to the warmth spreading through my limbs.

“That feels...” The words slip out before I can catch them.

His eyes meet mine, satisfaction flickering in those blue depths. I hate giving him that, but I’m too exhausted to maintain my walls.

As his hands work higher, massaging my thighs through the thin fabric of the dress, my thoughts begin to drift and blur around the edges. How he’s capable of such cruelty and tender care makes my head swim. How can the same hands that trapped me, hunted me, and hurt me now bring such comfort?

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