Page 17 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

We reached the door to my room—my cell—and Rafe paused, turning to face me fully. "This isn't forever," he said, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "Just until you understand. Until you accept what's happening between us."

"And if I never do?"

His expression hardened slightly, the vulnerability of moments ago disappearing behind a mask of control. "You will. Because deep down, beneath all the fear and anger and confusion, you feel it too. This connection. This inevitability."

He opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I hesitated, looking down the hallway one last time, measuring the distance to the stairs, calculating my chances.

"Don't," Rafe said quietly. "Please don't make me restrain you, Grace. I don't want to do that."

The threat was clear, despite his gentle tone. If I ran again, there would be consequences. The relative freedom I'd had within my gilded cage would be restricted further.

With a defeated sigh, I stepped back into the room. Rafe followed, closing the door behind him but not locking it—a pointed reminder that locks were a formality, not a necessity. He could control me without them.

"Your escape attempt was impressive, by the way. Well-timed. Strategic. You almost made it."

I stared at him, incredulous. "Are you... complimenting me on trying to escape from you?"

He smiled slightly. "I'm acknowledging your intelligence and resourcefulness. Qualities I've always admired in you."

"Don't do that," I said, wrapping my arms around myself. "Don't talk like you know me. Like this is some kind of... of relationship."

"But it is a relationship, Grace." He set the tray down and turned to face me fully. "Unconventional, yes. Difficult, certainly. But a relationship nonetheless. And like any relationship, it will evolve. Change. Grow."

"Into what?" I asked, genuinely curious despite myself.

His expression softened, something warm and almost tender replacing the clinical detachment. "Into something neither of us can fully imagine yet. Something powerful. Something necessary."

He stepped closer, and this time I didn't back away. I was too tired, too defeated, too confused by the swirl of emotions his words evoked.

"I know you don't believe me now," he said, his voice low and intimate. "But you will. In time, you'll understand that everything I've done—everything I'm doing—is because we belong together. Because some connections are too important to leave to chance or choice."

He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement, giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, his fingers brushed my cheek in a touch so gentle it made my breath catch.

"You were quiet that last night at home," he said, tone deceptively casual. "Didn’t toss or turn once. Slept like a dream."

My breathing faltered, just slightly.

He went on. “You were so good at lying still for me. Now look at you—running like your body doesn’t still remember.”

That ache. The dull pulse I’d felt in the morning, the wetness I’d chalked up to another too-vivid dream. It hadn’t made sense at the time. Nothing had. I’d felt... wrung out. Like I’d been unraveled in the night and only half-stitched back together by morning.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I snapped, but my voice betrayed me, thin and splintered. I already knew.

He laughed—low, satisfied. “I couldn’t help myself. Those little pink shorts and a tank top. No bra. You didn’t even flinch when I approached you. Just sighed and turned toward me like you knew I was supposed to be there.”

I wanted to scream. To rewind. To disappear.

“You’re lying.”

“You whispered my name. You started grinding against the pillow before I even laid a hand on you. You were soaked. When I touched you, you moaned like you’d been waiting for it. You came so soft and slow, like your body knew the rhythm.”

“You fucking touched me while I was asleep,” I snapped, fury breaking past everything else.

“I touched what already belonged to me,” he replied. “You can fight me all you want, Grace. But your body doesn’t lie.”

An arm locked around my waist, the other pinning my arms, and I was lifted, dragged, spun until my back hit the wall and his body caged me in. He was too close. Too solid. Too hot.

“Let me go!” I pleaded.

“You already did,” he said against my cheek, voice dark and gleaming with satisfaction. “You let go all over my hand.”

I choked on the sound in my throat, the denial, the shame, the rage. And all beneath it—the worst part—was how badly I still ached.

His thigh pushed between mine. I tried to twist away, but he only pressed closer.

“You want to tell me to stop?” he asked.

Yes.

But my mouth wouldn't open.

And my body was already giving him the answer.

His thigh stayed pressed between mine, warm and immovable. I could feel the tension in him—not just strength, but focus. Control. Every inch of him coiled like a trap that had already sprung shut around me. Heat radiated from him, dragging my body into awareness, into betrayal.

"You remember now," he murmured, mouth brushing the shell of my ear. His breath was warm, deliberate. "Not all of it, maybe. But enough."

I shook my head, weakly, a denial with no force behind it. My breath caught as he shifted, dragging the line of his thigh against me—against that aching, traitorous part of me that throbbed with raw memory. Shame crashed through me, brutal and blinding.

He saw it. Of course he did. He always saw too much.

"You think I’m the monster," he whispered, his voice dark silk. "But your body knew me. It welcomed me. You were soaked, Grace. Your thighs were trembling, your pussy gripping my fingers like you never wanted me to stop."

"Stop—" My voice cracked, but not from strength.

He pressed closer, hand skimming up to graze my jaw, then lower, teasing the dip of my collarbone.

"You moaned for me in your sleep. My name.

Like a prayer. Like a curse. You wore those little shorts—thin as breath—and I slid my hand beneath them so easily.

You were open. Soft. Begging without words. "

I squeezed my eyes shut, fury and confusion and heat knotting in my belly.

"You want to be angry? Be angry. But don’t lie to yourself. Don’t pretend your hips didn’t buck for me. That your mouth didn’t part when I made you come. That you didn’t soak the sheets after I left."

My thighs pressed together instinctively. The pressure only made the ache sharper.

"Get off me," I said, breathless, voice rasping with something dangerously close to want.

He didn’t move. He leaned in closer, lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Say it again. Say it like you mean it this time. Say it like you didn’t whimper my name while you came around my fingers."

My fists trembled at my sides. I hated him. I hated how much he knew. Hated how little my mind remembered.

And how badly my body wanted more.

He pulled back to look at me, those eyes dark and knowing, his mouth a breath from mine. "You’re not running again, Grace. Not tonight."

And I wasn’t. Because I couldn’t. Because my body had already betrayed me—was still betraying me, slick with memory, thrumming with need. My breath came in shallow gasps, my skin prickled with the ghost of his touch.

He noticed, of course. The way my thighs pressed together. The slight hitch in my breath. The heat climbing my neck.

"That’s it," he said, his voice low, coaxing. "Don’t fight it.”

His hand skimmed along my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. I jerked away from the touch, but not fast enough to stop the shiver it left behind.

He stepped in closer, crowding my space until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Still pretending you don’t want me? After what your body gave me?"

"You touched me without my consent," I said, my voice shaking with fury…and something else I couldn’t name. "That’s not the same as wanting."

"No," he agreed softly. "But this—" His fingers slid down, skimming the front of my tank top, just enough to graze the peak of my nipple through the thin fabric, making it tighten instantly, traitorously. "This is."

I sucked in a breath, fists clenched at my sides, unable to will my body into stillness. The sensation flooded me…sharp, humiliating, and dizzyingly hot.

"Stop," I whispered, but the word sounded weak even to my own ears.

He didn’t. He dragged his knuckles down my stomach, featherlight, letting the anticipation wind tighter and tighter. His touch wasn’t rough, wasn’t possessive. It was worse. It was reverent. Like he was mapping something that belonged to him.

"Your body wants me," he murmured. "It’s begging. You can feel it, can’t you? The ache, the heat. The way you tremble when I get close."

His hand slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing over bare skin, teasing just above the waistband of my leggings. Not touching where I burned—but close enough that I felt every millimeter of distance.

I closed my eyes, willing the sensation away. But all I could feel was him.

"You hate me," he said, his breath warm against my throat. "Say it."

"I hate you," I whispered.

"But your pussy’s soaked for me. Isn’t it?"

My breath hitched violently. My whole body went tight.

He laughed softly, a sound full of dark satisfaction. "You’re so fucking wet. I can smell it. Want to pretend it’s fear? Fine. Lie to me all you want. But don’t lie to yourself."

His hand moved again, lower now, sliding over the front of my leggings—slow, steady pressure that made me gasp. My hips arched before I could stop them.

He exhaled like that was the answer he’d been waiting for.

"You’re going to break before I even fuck you," he said, voice dark and certain. "And I’m going to enjoy every second of it."

His hand stroked once more between my thighs, firm and slow, and my knees buckled. He caught me before I hit the floor, holding me up with maddening ease, mouth at my ear.

"You don’t have to admit it yet. Just feel it."

And I did.

God help me—I did.