Page 16 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

I stood and moved to the chair, noting how he stepped back to give me space—another small victory in our ongoing psychological war. He'd learned that I reacted badly to him standing too close, to any hint of physical intimidation.

The meal was simple but well-prepared—a sandwich, soup, and a small salad. I picked at it while he took his usual seat across from me, watching me with that intense focus that never seemed to waver.

"You look better," he observed. "Less pale."

"Amazing what food and sleep will do," I replied dryly. "Basic human needs and all that."

"I've never denied you those things."

"Just my freedom. My autonomy. My entire life."

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Your life before was a construct, Grace. A careful performance designed to distance yourself from your family while still benefiting from their protection. It wasn't real."

"And this is?" I gestured to the room, to the locked door, to the situation we found ourselves in. "This bizarre captivity is somehow more authentic?"

"Yes." The certainty in his voice was chilling. "Because here, there are no pretenses. No performances. Just you and me and the truth of what we both want."

I set down my spoon, appetite suddenly gone. "And what is it you think I want, Rafe?"

He studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes unreadable. "The same thing everyone wants, deep down. To be seen. To be known. To belong to something—or someone—that won't betray or abandon you."

The words hit too close to home, finding the cracks in my carefully constructed defenses. I looked away, unwilling to let him see how accurately he'd read me.

"I need to use the bathroom," I said abruptly, standing up.

He nodded, gesturing toward the en-suite. "Go ahead."

I walked to the bathroom door, feeling his eyes on me the entire way. Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against it, breathing deeply, gathering my courage.

This was it. The opportunity I'd been waiting for.

Over the past few days, I'd noticed that Rafe always checked his phone when it buzzed—a brief distraction, but potentially enough. I'd also noticed that he never locked the main door when he was inside the room with me, confident in his ability to control the situation.

Two small weaknesses in an otherwise perfect system.

I flushed the toilet and ran the water in the sink, going through the motions of normal bathroom use. Then I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and opened the door.

Rafe was exactly where I'd left him, except now he was looking down at his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. The main door was about fifteen feet away, across open space with no obstacles between.

It was now or never.

I burst from the bathroom, sprinting toward the door with every ounce of speed I could muster. I heard Rafe's chair scrape against the floor, heard his curse of surprise, but I didn't look back. My entire focus was on the door, on the handle that would lead to freedom.

My muscles coiled. My breath hitched. Every detail of the room etched itself into my vision: the distance to the door, the slick tension of my palms, the faint scuff of my sneaker on the floor.

I felt like I’d been lowered into my body from above, hyper-aware of every inch of skin, every beat of blood in my throat.

I could feel the moment tightening like a wire pulled taut.

One more step. Just one more.

Then—his voice. Low. Amused.

“Really, Grace?”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t look back. I just ran harder, breath already catching, heart slamming against my ribs like it wanted out of my chest. The rest of the house was as decadent as the room he had me trapped in.

The corridor stretched ahead in a blur of antique wood and expensive art—too long, too open.

There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to go except forward and down, wherever the stairs might be.

Behind me, the unmistakable sound of his chair scraping back.

“I was trying to be civil,” he called out, maddeningly calm, like he was discussing the weather. “Thought we could talk. Sit down like adults. But if you’d rather make it interesting…”

I tore around a corner, socks slipping on the hardwood. My shoulder slammed the wall, but I caught myself. Kept going. I knew he was behind me. Not sprinting, not even really chasing. Just following. With purpose. Like a lion pacing after a wounded deer.

I was halfway down the staircase when a figure stepped into view at the bottom—a man I didn't recognize, tall and broad- shouldered, with the unmistakable bulge of a weapon beneath his jacket.

I froze, momentum nearly sending me tumbling down the remaining stairs.

"Ms. O'Sullivan," the man said, his voice professionally neutral. "I'm going to need you to return upstairs."

"Let me go," I said, desperation making my voice crack. "Please. I won't tell anyone. I just want to go home."

The man's expression didn't change. "I have my orders, ma'am. Please don't make this difficult."

I glanced over my shoulder. Rafe was at the top of the stairs, watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression. No anger. No panic. Just that same intense focus, as if my escape attempt was a mildly interesting development rather than a crisis.

I looked back at the guard, then at the door behind him. Could I make it? Could I somehow get past him, get outside, find help?

The odds weren't good. But I had to try.

I launched myself down the remaining stairs, feinting left before diving right, attempting to slip past the guard. For a big man, he moved with surprising speed, catching me around the waist and lifting me off my feet as if I weighed nothing.

I fought like a wild thing—kicking, scratching, even trying to bite the arm that held me. But it was useless. He simply held me at arm's length, absorbing my blows without retaliating, waiting for me to exhaust myself.

"That's enough, Matteo," Rafe's voice came from behind me, calm and controlled. "I'll take her from here."

The guard—Matteo—nodded and released me, stepping back but remaining close enough to intervene if needed. I whirled to face Rafe, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

"I hate you," I spat, the words torn from somewhere deep and primal. "I will never stop trying to escape. Never."

Rafe studied me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful rather than angry. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between us, gripping my upper arms in hands that were gentle but immovable.

"Listen to me very carefully, Grace," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

"There are three dozen men on this property, all armed, all loyal to me.

The gates are electrified. The perimeter is patrolled 24/7.

Even if you made it out of the house, you wouldn't make it off the grounds. "

I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just enough to hold me in place.

"But let's say you did," he continued, his dark eyes locked on mine.

"Let's say, by some miracle, you managed to escape.

Where would you go? To your father, who was planning to trade you to the Giordanos?

To the police, who are in your father's pocket?

To your brothers, who haven't even noticed you're missing? "

Each question was a knife, finding vulnerabilities I didn't want to acknowledge. I shook my head, refusing to listen, refusing to consider the possibility that he might be right.

"No one is looking for you, Grace," he said, his voice softening to something almost gentle. "No one has reported you missing. No one has called. No one has come."

"You're lying," I whispered, but doubt had already taken root. It had been six days. If my family was looking for me, wouldn't there have been some sign? Some indication that the world outside these walls had noticed my absence?

"I'm not." He released one of my arms to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture incongruously tender. "I'm many things, Grace, but I've never lied to you. I never will."

I jerked away from his touch, tears of frustration burning behind my eyes. "Then tell me why. Why me? Why this?"

Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a vulnerability I hadn't seen before. "Because from the moment I saw you, I knew you were mine. Not as a possession, not as a trophy, but as the other half of something I didn't even know was incomplete."

The raw honesty in his voice was more terrifying than any threat could have been. This wasn't just an obsession. This was conviction—bone-deep, unshakable certainty that what he was doing was right. Was necessary. Was inevitable.

Before I could respond, he turned to Matteo. "We're going back upstairs now. Make sure we're not disturbed."

Matteo nodded and stepped aside, his eyes carefully averted from my face, as if giving me the small dignity of privacy in my defeat.

Rafe's hand settled on the small of my back, guiding me toward the stairs. I could have fought. Could have screamed. Could have made another desperate attempt to run.

But what was the point? He was right. Even if I made it out of the house, where would I go? Who would help me?

For the first time since my abduction, a terrible thought took root: What if no one was looking for me? What if no one cared that I was gone?

We reached the top of the stairs in silence, the only sound our footsteps on the marble and the pounding of my heart. The hallway stretched before us, leading back to my luxurious prison.

"Why not just lock me in a normal room?" I asked suddenly. "Why all the..." I gestured vaguely at the opulent surroundings.

Rafe glanced at me, something like amusement flickering in his eyes. "Would you prefer a cell? Bars on the windows? A mattress on the floor?"

"I'd prefer to not be a prisoner at all."

"You're not a prisoner, Grace. You're a guest who hasn't accepted her invitation yet."

I laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. "Is that what we're calling kidnapping these days? An uninvited invitation?"