Page 20 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

I didn’t sleep. Not because I couldn’t, but because everything he’d done kept looping behind my eyes like a sickness I couldn’t sweat out.

The weight of him. The gravel of his voice when he made me say I wanted it.

The things he’d whispered into my skin. Worse—so much worse—the way my body had answered him. Without hesitation. Without shame.

I felt sore. Stretched. Marked. My thighs were sticky.

My lips were swollen. Every small shift reminded me how deep he’d gone, how hard he’d taken me, how completely I’d let him.

My body pulsed with memory, tender and traitorous.

I couldn’t move without reliving it. Without wanting it again in some hideous, spiraling way.

I should’ve felt rage. And it was there, sharp in my chest, curled tight behind my ribs. But under it—deeper and more disturbing—was heat. Shameful, relentless heat that throbbed inside me like a second heartbeat. Every time I breathed, it pressed low. Insistent. Hungry.

Eventually I peeled myself out of bed. My ankle ached in a slow, dull rhythm, but I didn’t care. I needed the water. I needed it to strip him off me. His scent, his sweat, the ghosts of his hands. I needed silence. And distance. And anything that didn’t feel like the press of him against my skin.

I didn’t bother with the lights. I undressed as I walked to the bathroom, each article of clothing peeled off with a kind of mechanical detachment, like I could drop the memory with the fabric.

The faint glow from the bedroom lamp cast everything in shadow and gold.

I stepped in front of the mirror and froze.

Bruises bloomed across my collarbone like ink stains.

Bite marks flared red against the pale column of my neck.

Fingerprints on my hips, dark and perfect, proof that he’d held me like something he owned.

My hand rose, trembling, and I touched one, not even meaning to.

And then I felt it—low and deep. That sharp pulse between my legs. A reflex I couldn’t silence.

I hated it. Hated the way just looking at the damage made my body throb with memory.

He’d broken into my house. Violated my space. Fingered me while I slept. Touched me like I already belonged to him. And my body had soaked the sheets for him.

He kidnapped me.

And then he'd taken it further. He’d taken me.

Not with tenderness, not with permission.

With force. With control. With a slow, brutal rhythm that demanded surrender.

He’d made me beg—not with threats, but with the unbearable truth of what my body craved.

He’d pulled it out of me with every stroke.

And I gave it. I gave him everything while telling myself I hated him.

That I would never forgive this. That I would never want more.

But now? Now I stood naked and trembling, guilt tangled with anticipation.

The door creaked open. I didn’t need to look. I felt it in the shift of the air. The pause before the approach.

I met his reflection in the mirror just as he entered the bathroom. He didn’t say a word. Just leaned against the doorframe, eyes dragging over every inch of me—every bruise, every mark, every place he’d claimed.

He stepped towards the shower, turning the water on without taking his eyes off me.

Then he peeled off his shirt, slow and unhurried.

Muscle stretched beneath inked skin, each motion intentional—confident in a way that made my breath catch despite myself.

He didn’t rush. He never did. He unhooked his belt with the same lazy arrogance, eyes locked to mine through the mirror.

The sound of leather sliding free was sharp, deliberate.

He let his pants fall, stepped out of them, and stood there—bare, unapologetic.

My eyes dropped before I could stop them. His cock was thick, already hard, resting heavy and proud between his hips. The kind of hard that wasn’t just arousal—it was promise. Possession. Memory. My breath hitched, traitorous and sharp.

He saw it. Of course he did. A knowing smirk tugged at his mouth as he stepped closer, not stopping until his body brushed mine. I felt the heat of him before he even touched me.

"You’ve been thinking about it," he murmured, voice rough. "Thinking about how it felt. How deep I got. How hard I made you come."

I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. My silence screamed louder than any denial.

He reached between my thighs without warning. Two fingers, slow and certain, slid through my folds, parting me, slicking through my arousal like he had every right. I gasped, my knees weakening.

He withdrew his hand and held his fingers up in the dim light, watching the way they glistened. Then he pressed them to one of the bruises on my hip, smearing the shine of my own need across the dark mark he’d left on me.

"I did this," he murmured, lips close to my ear, "so now I’m going to take care of it."

I turned toward him, jaw tight. "Take care of me? That what you’re calling it now?"

He smiled, maddening and arrogant. "You’re still standing here. Still wet."

"Still regretting not punching you."

He leaned in, brushing his lips near my jaw without touching. "But not walking away."

I grit my teeth. "Because I don’t trust you behind me."

His hand returned to my waist. "Good. Keep your eyes on me then."

"Go to hell."

"Ladies first."

He guided me back a step, and I let him. The glass fogged behind me as the shower sprayed in full steam. He nudged me toward it.

"You need the heat," he said. "Your muscles are tight."

"Gee, wonder why."

His fingers flexed on my hip. "Because I fucked you until your legs stopped working. Want me to fix that?"

I gave him a look that should’ve turned him to stone. "You’re fucked."

"And yet you’re here. Dripping. Bruised. Letting me in."

I stepped back, just to feel the water hit my skin—and so I didn’t have to admit how badly I wanted to hear what he’d say next.

The steam wrapped around us like a second skin as I stepped back, letting the heat sluice down my body and pretending I didn’t hear the way he moved behind me.

But I did. I always heard him. The quiet certainty of his steps.

The weight of his presence. The tension that followed him into every room and took up all the air.

He stepped into the shower like he belonged there.

Like he belonged behind me. And I hated how my skin prickled in response—how my breath caught even before he touched me.

I hated that he didn’t speak, didn’t ask, didn’t offer excuses or apologies.

He just stood there, close enough that I could feel the ghost of his heat along my spine.

When his hand finally landed on my hip, I flinched—not from fear, but from fury, from want, from the unbearable collision of both. His touch wasn’t rough. That was the worst part. It was careful. Measured. Like he was allowed to be gentle with me. Like he hadn’t already crossed every line.

"Don’t," I snapped, voice sharp, teeth clenched. "Don’t pretend this is care."

He moved anyway, hand gliding across my waist with maddening calm, the other trailing up my back until it settled between my shoulder blades. He pressed—not enough to hurt, just enough to guide. I stumbled forward a step, caught under the scalding spray, his body caging mine without force.

His cock brushed the swell of my ass. Hard. Heavy. Hot. And my traitorous body responded, tightening low, throbbing with unwanted recognition. I hated him. I wanted to scream it into the tiles. But I couldn’t ignore the ache.

"Still pretending this is all performance?" His voice was too close. Too amused. "Your mouth says no, but your body’s dripping for me again."

I shoved at his hand, but it only made him bolder—fingers sliding between my thighs like a knife through silk. I gasped, half outrage, half need, as he stroked through the wetness he’d already felt building.

"Fuck you," I hissed, trying to twist away. "You don’t get to act like this means something."

His hand stilled, then moved again—slower, crueler. "It does. Your body doesn’t lie, Grace. I’ve already stripped you down to the truth."

I reached back blindly, grabbing his wrist and digging my nails in. "That truth? You want it? Fine. I want to rip you apart. I want to bury you in every bruise you gave me. I want you to choke on every lie."

His laugh was low, infuriating. "And still, you’re grinding on my hand."

I hated him. I hated how calm he stayed. I hated that my legs were shaking and that I hadn’t pulled away.

He pressed his chest to my back, the full line of his body locking against mine, every inch of restraint coiled tight like a leash he hadn’t decided to yank—yet.

"Say stop," he said again, voice a growl in my ear. "Tell me to walk out of here. I will."

My lips parted. The word was there. It should’ve been easy.

But instead, I whispered, "I hate you."

His hand slid higher, splayed over my stomach like a brand. "I know."

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with his hand on my stomach, breath steady, skin burning against mine.

The water beat down around us, a low hiss that filled the space between heartbeats, between the things I couldn’t say and the ones he wouldn’t ask for.

Then slowly—deliberately—he pulled his hand away from my skin.

I should’ve felt relief. But instead, I felt cold where his touch had been. Empty.

He reached past me, grabbed the soap, and lathered his hands.

His touch returned, not between my thighs this time, but at my shoulder—working slowly, methodically, as if washing me was something sacred.

He moved like he was afraid of himself, like he could feel the razor-edge of what we were straddling and didn’t trust what would happen if he pushed.

His hands smoothed over my arm, down my back, careful when he reached the bruises.

He didn’t speak, didn’t gloat. He just cleaned me, one inch at a time.