Chapter 65 The Game of Survival
Amara
We watched as his footsteps faded down the corridor — that heavy, deliberate rhythm of a man who owned every inch of this place. Silence settled like smoke.
Liam’s brother was the first to break it.
“You okay, princess?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I’m fine.”
He tugged against the chains with a sharp clink of metal.
“There’s no use,” I told him softly. “No one ever breaks out of his chains.”
“Bullshit,” he grunted, muscles straining as he pulled again. “I gotta get you outta here.”
“You’re just going to wear yourself out.”
Phoebe stayed quiet in the corner, eyes hollow but alert.
“You okay?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Just counting our blessings that no one got tortured.”
We’d fallen asleep to the sound of him roaring, metal rattling, his fury echoing through the stone. But when I opened my eyes again, a darker presence loomed.
Killian.
He stood over me, his shadow swallowing the light. My heart pounded, but I forced my face into steel. No fear. No submission. Not again.
“Get up, little one,” his voice purred with venom. “Master wants to play a game with you.”
“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Liam’s brother’s voice tore through the room, rough, raw.
Killian’s eyes snapped toward him. “I am getting sick and tired of your mouth.”
He strode over, gagged him roughly, then turned back with a smirk. “There. Much better.”
He grabbed my arm, fingers bruising, and unchained me.
“Time to play,” he hissed, dragging me out the door.
Phoebe’s muffled sobs and Thomas’s enraged cries followed us down the hall. The house twisted and turned like a labyrinth, each corner colder than the last. Then — he shoved me hard through a doorway, slamming it shut behind me.
Locks clicked.
One.
Two.
Three.
A speaker screeched overhead, static biting my ears.
“Testing, one… two… three. Ah, perfect.”
“Let me out!” I shouted, pounding the door.
“Now, little one, we’re going to play.” His voice filled the room, smug, dripping with sick delight. “You’ll have a chance to escape. Unlikely, of course.” He chuckled darkly. “But if you impress me, I won’t punish your friends.”
“If I escape, you’ll kill them.”
“I give you my word,” he said smoothly. “Make it out, and you both go free. Impress me, and I’ll spare them punishment today. Fail… and I’ll paint these walls with regret.”
“Why should I believe you? How do I know you won’t kill them anyway?”
“You don’t,” he said. “Guess you’ll have to learn to trust your master.”
I grit my teeth at the word.
Not anymore.
He continued, “The rules are simple. Run before I catch you. Ten-minute head start. And, little one…” his tone turned dark, almost reverent, “when I catch you, you’re mine.”
A survival game. A hunt. His sick fantasy.
Fine.
Game on.
I twisted my hair into a ponytail, eyes scanning the room. A red clock blinked to life — numbers flashing down from 10:00.
With a metallic groan, a door opened across the room — red, heavy, its steel locks obvious. Behind it, a hallway stretched, lined with shadows. Too obvious. A trap.
He thinks I’ll go straight for it.
Tick-tock, little one…
I scanned the room. Medical bed. Nightstand. Books. A cup of water.
I smiled. Good. Let him think I’m predictable.
I shoved the bed toward the entry door — a barricade. He wouldn’t get in easily. Then I snatched the glass, splashed the water into the red door’s side panel. Sparks snapped, smoke curling.
“What are you doing, little one? Run!”
I ignored him. Wrapped my shirt around my hand, smashed the glass cup on the floor, and gripped a jagged shard. I sprinted toward the red door and jammed the shard into the seal — prying it just enough to force it open.
“Impressive,” his voice purred. “But you’ve only got six minutes left before the hunt begins.”
I slipped through, locking it behind me.
The next room hit me like a drug. Neon colors everywhere — swirling patterns, flashing lights, disorienting shapes on walls and floor. It spun like a carnival nightmare.
“What the actual…” My balance faltered. The ground itself shifted beneath me, rotating slowly, steadily.
Killian laughed through the speakers.
“What now, little one? Going to give up?”
“Never!”
The room spun faster. My stomach lurched — motion sickness clawing at me. Of course he’d remember. Every weakness, every vulnerability.
I forced my focus on the center of the room — a door set into the floor. One step. Then another. I counted rotations, waiting for the perfect beat between tilts. When it came, I lunged — hands catching the handle.
The world tilted as I swung it open and dropped through.
I hit hard, skidding across smooth floor. My palms burned, knees aching.
“I can taste you already,” his voice taunted, distorted and close. “Give up, little one. This place was built for you. To break you. To play with you.”
My lip curled. “You’ll choke on me first.”
I looked up. Five doors lined the walls — each a different color. No clues. No signs. Just time ticking down.
“Pick one quickly,” he hummed. “You’re running out of time.”
I scanned the walls — nothing. No air vents. No flickers. Just silence.
Fine.
Instinct then.
I stepped toward the purple door. My fingers trembled only slightly as I turned the handle.
It creaked open.
And I stepped through.