Page 21 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. “You think this changes anything?”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but there was no softness in it. “I know it doesn’t.”

“Then why are you doing it?” I hissed, fury and confusion and want crashing like surf in my chest. “Why touch me like I’m something to be handled? You’ve already broken me open.”

His hands stilled for a breath. Then resumed—calmer than they had any right to be. “Because I did break you open,” he said, voice low. “And I’m not leaving you in pieces.”

The words hit harder than I wanted them to.

I hated him for saying them like they meant something.

Hated how my skin leaned into every stroke, how my pulse betrayed every inch of his careful touch.

He moved around me, hands sliding over my ribs, my hips, my thighs.

He didn’t touch my breasts. Didn’t touch between my legs.

He didn’t have to. Every place he didn’t touch burned worse than the places he did.

When he knelt, I nearly jumped. He didn’t grab. Didn’t yank. He lifted my foot—one, then the other—rinsed the soap from my calves, then rose, slow and steady, until we were eye to eye. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to grab his face and drag him back into me. I did nothing.

“You still hate me,” he said, brushing a droplet of water from my chin with his thumb.

I met his gaze, teeth bared. “More than ever.”

His mouth curled into something close to a smile. "Good. That means I’m doing it right. Hate, Grace... it’s just want, twisted. Just the other side of the coin. Hate evolves. Into lust. Into need. Into something that’ll ruin us both."

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t. The heat between us felt like it had weight, like it had claws, and it was dragging itself beneath my skin, inch by inch.

His thumb lingered just beneath my chin, holding me there—not forceful, not gentle either.

His eyes locked onto mine with the kind of intensity that burned. That branded.

He stepped in closer, and I didn’t back away. I should have. Every instinct told me I should. But my feet stayed planted. My breath hitched. My fists clenched at my sides like I could hold myself together through will alone.

His other hand rose slowly, brushing the back of his fingers down the slope of my breast, just shy of the peak. Not groping. Not greedy. Just a pass, just a tease, just enough to make me flinch.

"You think this is going to end with me on my knees for you?" I asked, my voice low and shaking with fury I didn’t know what to do with.

His grin widened. "No. I think it ends with you screaming my name again. And hating yourself for how much you mean it."

I moved to shove him away, but his hand caught mine mid-motion. Held it. Not tightly, but enough. His palm was warm. Wet. Solid. I could feel the strength humming just beneath the surface, leashed but ever-present.

He guided my hand down instead, curling my fingers around the thick, heavy length of his cock.

"Feel that?" he murmured. "I’m not pretending. I never have. You can claw and kick and curse, Grace, but your body already knows what mine does to you, and mine knows what you do to me."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap him. But what I did was tighten my grip, hating how good it felt in my hand—hot, hard, throbbing with the same tension twisting inside me.

His lips were at my temple now, breath hot against my skin. "You want rough again, you’ll get it. Not because you ask. Because I’ll know when you’re ready to take it. All of it."

He turned me slowly, backing me into the stream of the water again, his touch softer than it had any right to be.

He reached for the shampoo without breaking eye contact.

Lathered. Then smoothed it into my hair like he had every right to touch me there, like we weren’t enemies caught in something feral and impossible.

My eyes slipped closed—not because I trusted him, but because I couldn’t bear the way he looked at me while he did it.

"I still hate you," I said quietly, almost breathless.

He chuckled, massaging his fingers along my scalp. "You keep saying that. But you’re still letting me touch you."

"Doesn’t mean I forgive you."

His voice dipped lower. "I don’t need your forgiveness. Just your honesty. And your body’s already given me that."

I opened my eyes, glaring up at him through dripping lashes. "Don’t get comfortable. This doesn’t mean anything."

He smiled, slow and dangerous. "You’re right. It doesn’t mean anything. It means everything."

And I hated that the way he said it made my knees threaten to give out again.

"Rinse," he said, and guided me back under the water, his hands in my hair, steady and unshaking.

And I let him. Because hating him was easier than admitting how badly I wanted more.

His fingers tightened slightly in my hair as he rinsed the shampoo away, and the pressure sent a gasp tearing from my throat before I could stop it. It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t fear. It was something hotter, sharper—an involuntary sound that betrayed the pulse already stirring between my thighs.

He froze, just for a beat. Then his fingers fisted deeper into my hair, holding me there, letting the water cascade over us both. My gasp had done something to him—I could feel it in the sudden tension of his body behind mine, in the hard length of him pressed against the curve of my ass.

When I moaned, soft and breathless, it wasn’t a surrender. It was a crack. And he reached through it.

His free hand came around my side, cupping one breast and rolling my nipple between his fingers, hard and deliberate. My back arched for him without permission, and I cursed myself for how easily my body answered his call.

Then his mouth was on me—hot, wet, claiming. He bent his head and closed his lips around my nipple, sucking slow and deep, his tongue flicking in lazy, devastating passes. The contact was electric. Raw. My knees nearly buckled under the pleasure.

Remnants of shampoo stung the corners of my eyes, mixing with the steam, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t care. Not with his mouth dragging groans from me, not with his teeth grazing the swollen tip and making me cry out—louder this time, shameless.

He growled low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against my skin. "Fuck, the sounds you make, Grace…" His teeth nipped again, just enough to make me jolt. "You moan like you want to be ruined. Like you need it."

I should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve clawed at him, should’ve said no.

But my hands were in his hair, anchoring him there. Pulling him closer.

His mouth moved lower, trailing down the curve of my ribs, his tongue leaving heat in its wake.

He bit the soft flesh just above my hip, enough to make me suck in a breath, then kissed it like an apology.

He traced the line of my stomach, hands gripping my thighs, exploring me like he had all the time in the world to relearn every inch of skin he'd already marked. I felt him pause when his fingertips brushed over a fresh bruise—one he’d left.

His touch softened there, almost reverent, lips pressing lightly against the discolored skin like he knew exactly what he’d done and didn’t regret a second of it.

Then he moved again. Rougher. Hungrier.

His hand slid between my legs and I gasped, clinging to his shoulders as he dragged his mouth back up my torso.

Every time he found a mark, his mouth softened to a kiss.

Every place untouched was claimed with teeth and tongue and fingers until I was trembling, dripping, desperate.

I arched into every pass of his hand, hips stuttering into his palm, shame dissolving in the heat pulsing low in my belly.

He growled again, the sound thick and guttural. "You let me touch you like this. You hate me, and still you open for me. Every gasp, every moan—it drives me fucking insane."

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when his fingers teased me with slow circles, not when his mouth grazed the underside of my jaw like he was about to devour me whole.

And God help me—I wanted him to.

He didn’t waste the invitation. His fingers sank deeper between my thighs, parting me with a firm, unhurried confidence that made my breath catch.

He stroked through the slick heat he found there, his knuckles brushing that aching spot again and again, teasing me until my hips were tilting into every motion, until I was panting with frustration.

"If this is hate," he breathed against my neck, voice rough, hungry, "then hate me, Grace. Hate me just like this."

I bit my lip to keep from making another sound, but he knew—he always knew. His mouth was at my ear now, hot and low. "Let me hear it. Let me hear what I do to you."

I shook my head, half in denial, half in surrender.

He grinned against my skin, and then his mouth was on my breast again, his hand never pausing between my legs.

He sucked harder this time, teeth scraping until I cried out, one hand flying to the wall for balance, the other clawing at his shoulder.

He pressed closer, guiding me back against the tile, caging me with his body.

His hand worked faster now, rougher, his fingers dipping inside and curling in a rhythm that made my whole body jerk.

I could feel the edge coming, the tension winding tighter and tighter, and I hated him for knowing exactly how to get me there.

But when he hit another bruise—his thumb grazing the curve of my hip where he’d gripped me too hard—he paused. Slowed. His lips brushed the spot, tender. Gentle.

Then he growled, like the restraint cost him, and took my nipple into his mouth again—hard this time. Desperate. And I shattered on a gasp that turned into a moan, my body pulsing around his fingers as I came, loud and unguarded, against his chest.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. He dragged it out until I was shaking, until I sagged into him, the heat of the water barely cutting through the heat still throbbing in my veins.