Page 78 of Game Over

I move toward the chair, slightly unsteady on my feet. It’s a soft grey lounge dress made of what feels like cashmere. The material flows through my fingers like water. When I hold it up against myself, I notice it will hug my curves while still allowing movement—comfortable but undeniably sexy.

I search for underwear but find none. Of course not.

“Better than nothing,” I mutter, slipping the dress over my head.

The fabric caresses my skin as it falls into place, hitting mid-thigh. Despite everything, I feel a strange relief at being clothed again, even if the absence of underwear keeps me acutely aware of my exposure. My nipples harden against the soft material, visible through the thin fabric.

I find a brush on the dresser and attempt to tame my hair before entering the hallway. The house is silent except for faint sounds coming from below. Following the noise, I descend a floating staircase designed to make every step dramatic.

At the bottom, I pause. The open-concept main floor is bathed in natural light. A gourmet kitchen connects to a living area with more floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the mountains.

And there he stands.

Ryker’s back is to me as he works at the stove, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips. The morning sun highlights the contours of his broad shoulders, the defined muscles of his back, and the intricate tattoos covering his skin. I track the line of his spine down to where the sweatpants cling to his hips.

My mouth goes dry. A traitorous heat blooms between my thighs, and I hate myself for it. This man kidnapped me, violated me, and yet my body responds to him like a compass finding true north.

I remain frozen at the bottom of the stairs. As if sensing my presence, Ryker turns, spatula in hand. His bare chest is even more impressive from the front—sculpted muscles covered in intricate tattoos.

“Morning,” he says with a smile that transforms his usually intense face into almost... normal. “Sleep well?”

The casual question throws me off balance. Like we’re just any couple on a lazy Sunday morning. Like he didn’t kidnap me, traumatize me, and break me down until it felt like there was nothing left to break. Like I chose to be here.

“I...” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “Where am I?”

Those piercing blue eyes study me, noticing my dress, posture, and the wariness I’m trying and failing to hide.

“The compound,” he says, turning back to flip whatever he’s cooking. “This is where I live. The section you were in was custom-built, but this is the main section.”

I take a tentative step forward, every muscle tense. Is this the start of another level? Some new twisted game where he pretends we’re in a real relationship? My eyes dart around, looking for clues, for hidden cameras, for any sign of what fresh hell awaits me.

Ryker glances over his shoulder, his expression softening. “You’re overthinking. I can hear the gears turning from here.”

He wipes his hands on a towel and turns fully toward me, dropping the spatula on the counter.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to one of the barstools at the kitchen island. It’s not quite a command, but not a suggestion either. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

I hesitate, mistrust warring with hunger.

“It’s not a trick, Kira,” he adds quietly, reading my thoughts unnervingly. “No games. Not today.”

I stand there, hesitating for another moment before my legs decide. There’s no reason to think he’s lying about ‘no games today,’ honestly, I’m too exhausted to fight anymore. I slide onto the barstool, my muscles protesting even this simple movement.

“Thank you,” I say quietly, unsure what I’m thanking him for. The food? The clothes? Not torturing me today?

Ryker places a plate in front of me—fluffy scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast that looks homemade. Steam rises from a mug of coffee, prepared exactly how I like it. Of course he knows how I take my coffee.

“Eat,” he says, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard. “You need the protein.”

My stomach growls loudly in response. I pick up the fork and take a bite. The eggs practically melt in my mouth.

“This is... really good,” I admit between bites, surprised by how quickly I devour the food.

Ryker’s attention stays fixed on me, gleaming with satisfaction as he leans against the counter, sipping his coffee. The domesticity of it all is jarring after everything we’ve been through.

EverythingI’vebeen put through by him, I correct myself mentally.

As I eat, the full weight of the past days crashes down on me. My body feels like it’s made of lead, each movement requiring concentrated effort. My mind isn’t much better—foggy and fragmented, emotions pinging wildly from fear to confusion to this strange, uncomfortable sense of solace, even if it might be fleeting.

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