Page 82 of Game Over

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, the words spilling out unbidden.

“Better,” she whispers, her voice still rough with sleep. “I was so tired when you were massaging me. It felt... nice.”

Her words send warmth spreading through my chest. Nice. Such a simple word, but any praise coming from her lips is everything.

“How long did I sleep?” Kira shifts slightly, wincing as she adjusts her position.

“Sixteen hours and...” I check my watch, “forty-two minutes now.”

“Sixteen hours? That’s... that’s almost a full day.”

“Your body needed it,” I say, resisting the urge to touch her again without permission. “You were exhausted. Physically. Emotionally.”

I gesture to the first aid supplies I’ve set on the nightstand. “Your bandages need changing. May I?”

Without waiting for her response, I gently take her hand, turning it palm-up to examine the cuts from where her nails dug into her skin during our time in the forest. The wounds are clean but still angry red around the edges. I carefully peel off the old bandage, apply fresh antibiotic ointment, and wrap a new piece of gauze around her palm.

“The abrasions on your back need attention too,” I say, my voice clinical as I move behind her. My fingers trace the edge of the tape holding the gauze in place, feeling her tense at my touch. “The tree bark did quite a number on you.”

I work methodically, removing the old dressings to reveal the raw skin beneath. Some areas have begun to scab over, while others still weep clear fluid. I clean each wound with antiseptic, my touch gentle despite the efficiency of my movements.

“Your knees are the worst,” I observe, kneeling before her to unwrap the bandages around her scraped knees. The skin there is a patchwork of purple bruises and angry red scrapes. “These will take longer to heal.”

By my hand. Because of what I’ve done to her. The thought cuts through me like glass.

She looks down at her hands, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “What about... what about the levels? Aren’t we supposed to be on level seven by now?”

The clinical, calculating part that developed the levels crumbles away like ash.

“No more levels,” I say, my voice rough with emotion I don’t try to hide. “They were... they were fun for me, but...” I swallow hard, meeting her gaze directly. “Only if you willingly choose it will there ever be another level. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. Ever again.”

Kira studies my face, skepticism evident in the slight furrow of her brow. But there’s a vulnerability too, a need that mirrors my own. She looks like she just wants to be held, to feel safe despite everything that’s happened between us.

I take a deep breath. “Can I... can I hold you, Kira? Just hold you?”

The question hangs between us—perhaps the first real question I’ve asked her since this began. Not a command disguised as if she had a choice, not a manipulation. A genuine request that she has every right to refuse.

After a moment that stretches into eternity, she nods.

“Yes,” she whispers.

I slide onto the sofa, careful not to startle her. The leather creaks beneath my weight as I settle into the cushions. For a moment, I just wait, holding my breath.

Kira studies me, searching for permission. Without a word, she shifts her body and crawls toward me. She climbs onto my lap, her movements tentative but deliberate.

She’s so fucking tiny against me. Even with her curves—the soft swell of her breasts, the flare of her hips that I’ve memorized through countless hours of surveillance—she feels delicate. Breakable. My hands span her waist completely, fingers nearly touching at her back.

The contrast between us hits me hard. I’ve built myself into a weapon—every muscle, tattoo, and move designed to intimidate. Yet she fits against me like she was designed for this space.

When her weight settles fully against me, my body responds instantly. Blood rushes south, and I harden beneath her, my cock straining against my pants where she’s seated directly over it.

A small, surprised sound escapes her throat—a moan that vibrates through her body into mine. She shifts her hips, grinding against my erection in a slow, deliberate circle. The friction sends a sensation racing up my spine.

I freeze.

This isn’t part of the game.

Everything before this moment—the maze, the hunt—followed my script. Every reaction is extracted rather than freely given.

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