Page 23 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

F reedom was exactly twenty-seven steps away.

I’d counted them over and over, the same way my mind kept circling what had happened in the days since the shower.

Since he’d taken me again—slow at first, then harder.

Rougher. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like I didn’t want him to.

I told myself I did it to survive. That I was biding time. But my body told a different story.

Some nights, he came to me. Silent. Unapologetic.

Every time, I told myself I would resist. Sometimes I did.

Fought. Snarled. Scratched. Other times, my body betrayed me before the first word left his mouth.

And still, always, the ending was the same.

Rough. Filthy. Devastating. He knew every inch of me now.

Every weakness. Every spot that made me gasp, made me scream, made me beg.

I hated him. I hated what he’d done. Hated what he’d taken.

But worse—I hated how much I wanted it. How much I kept giving.

My body still ached. My thighs were sticky. My lips swollen. Every small shift reminded me how deep he’d gone, how thoroughly he’d claimed me. My skin still smelled like him. Every breath I took tasted like him.

Twenty-seven steps to the staircase. Forty-two down. Thirty to the front door. Ninety-nine steps to freedom.

I clung to the numbers like a mantra, anything to keep from thinking about the sounds I’d made under him. The way my legs had wrapped around him like I needed him to stay. The way he touched me like he owned me. The way I let him.

I shouldn’t have let him touch me.

Worse—I shouldn’t have wanted it.

But I did.

And no matter how many times I told myself otherwise, every night I let him in, I let him win.

No. Not let.

Broke.

My first escape attempt had failed, but it hadn’t been for nothing. I’d mapped the layout, noted the guards, learned the rhythm of the house. Tonight I’d use it.

Rafe had fallen into a predictable pattern.

Every night at exactly 10:00 PM, he would come to say goodnight.

He never stayed longer than five minutes, and after he left, no one checked on me until morning.

The night guard—not Marco, but a younger man named Anthony—patrolled the hallway every thirty minutes, which meant I had a consistent window of opportunity.

Tonight was the night. I'd been compliant for three days, eating my meals, engaging in conversation, giving Rafe the impression that I was beginning to accept my situation.

I'd even changed into the clothes he'd provided—soft cotton pants and a loose sweater that were admittedly more comfortable than the leggings and sweatshirt I'd been wearing since my abduction.

Let him think he was winning. Let him lower his guard.

I’d been compliant for days. Played my part. Let Rafe believe he’d tamed me.

But I wasn’t tame.

At 9:58 PM, I positioned myself on the bed, book in hand, hair tucked back, skin still raw from being touched like I was his. He didn’t own me. No matter what my body said.

He entered on schedule. Calm. Polished. Dangerous.

"Still reading Tennyson?" he asked.

I nodded, lying with every inch of my body. He thought he’d won. That I was softening. That tonight had changed something.

Maybe it had.

But not in the way he thought.

He moved further into the room, his eyes doing their usual sweep—checking for changes, for potential weapons, for signs of another escape plan. Finding nothing, his posture relaxed slightly.

"You seem better today," he observed. "More settled."

"Resigned might be a better word," I replied, injecting just the right amount of defeat into my voice.

Something like concern flickered across his face. "It won't always feel like this, Grace. In time?—"

"Please," I interrupted, holding up a hand. "Not tonight. I'm tired."

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Of course. Get some rest. We can talk more tomorrow."

He turned to leave, and I felt a strange twist in my chest—something that wasn't quite relief, wasn't quite regret. I pushed it away, focusing on the plan.

"Rafe," I called softly as he reached the door.

He paused, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Thank you," I said, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "For the books. They do help."

A small smile curved his lips, softening his severe features. "You're welcome. Goodnight, Grace."

"Goodnight."

The door closed behind him, the locks engaging with their familiar sound. I waited, counting in my head. One minute. Two minutes. Three. Giving him time to move down the hallway, to return to whatever part of the house he occupied when he wasn't tormenting me with his presence.

At exactly 10:15 PM, I heard Anthony's footsteps pass my door—right on schedule. I'd have twenty-five minutes until his next patrol.

I moved silently to the bathroom, retrieving the small metal nail file I'd pried from a manicure set Rafe had provided. It wasn't much of a lock pick, but it was all I had. I'd been practicing on the bathroom door lock, which was similar enough to the main door to give me some confidence.

Back at the main door, I knelt and inserted the file into the lock, feeling for the tumblers the way I'd seen in countless movies. It was harder than it looked, the metal slipping against metal, refusing to catch.

Come on, come on...

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, I felt something give. A small click, barely audible. I turned the handle slowly, holding my breath.

The door opened.

For a moment, I just stared at the darkened hallway beyond, hardly believing it had worked. Then adrenaline kicked in, and I was moving—slipping through the door, closing it silently behind me, padding down the hallway on bare feet.

Twenty-seven steps to the staircase. I counted each one in my head, staying close to the wall where the floorboards were less likely to creak. The house was quiet, the only sound the distant ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere below.

I reached the top of the grand staircase and paused, listening for any sign of movement.

Nothing. The foyer below was dimly lit by a single lamp, the marble floor gleaming faintly in the low light.

No guards visible. The front door—my target—stood at the far end, dark wood and brass fixtures promising freedom beyond.

Forty-two steps down. I began my descent, keeping close to the wall, one hand on the banister for balance. The stairs were marble, cold beneath my bare feet but blessedly silent.

Halfway down, I heard it—the soft murmur of voices from a room off the foyer. Male voices, one of them unmistakably Rafe's. My heart stuttered in my chest, but I forced myself to keep moving. Slower now, more cautious.

Thirty-five steps. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.

The voices grew louder, and I realized with horror that they were coming closer. They were going to enter the foyer. They were going to see me.

Panic surged through me, and I made a fatal mistake—I tried to hurry. My foot slipped on the smooth marble, and suddenly I was falling, tumbling down the remaining stairs in a painful, undignified heap.

I landed hard at the bottom, pain shooting up my left ankle as it twisted beneath me. A cry escaped my lips before I could stop it, echoing in the cavernous space.

The voices stopped. Footsteps approached rapidly.

I tried to stand, to run, to salvage something from this disaster, but my ankle gave way beneath me, sending me crashing back to the floor with another cry of pain.

"Grace?"

Rafe's voice, sharp with surprise and something that sounded almost like concern.

I looked up to see him standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a study, Marco just behind him.

Their expressions would have been comical under different circumstances—shock giving way to understanding as they took in the scene.

"Dammit," I muttered, more to myself than to them. So close. I'd been so close.

Rafe crossed the foyer in long strides, kneeling beside me with a grace that seemed unfair given the circumstances. "Are you hurt?"

I tried to scoot away from him, but another stab of pain from my ankle made me wince. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." His voice was calm but firm as he assessed me, his eyes lingering on the ankle I was now cradling. "You're injured."

"I said I'm fine," I snapped, attempting to stand again only to fall back with a hiss of pain.

Without warning, Rafe slid one arm under my knees and the other around my back, lifting me effortlessly against his chest. I struggled instinctively, pushing against his shoulders.

"Put me down!"

"Stop fighting me," he said, his voice low and controlled. "You're hurt, and I'm taking you back to your room. The more you struggle, the worse it will be for your ankle."

He was right, which only made me angrier. I went limp in his arms, a passive resistance that was all I could manage at the moment.

"Marco," Rafe called over his shoulder, "bring ice and a first aid kit to Ms. O'Sullivan's room. And have Dr. Russo on standby in case we need him."

Marco nodded and disappeared down a hallway, leaving me alone with Rafe as he carried me up the stairs I'd just tumbled down. The humiliation was almost worse than the pain.

"This is becoming a habit," Rafe observed as we reached the top of the stairs. "You running, me bringing you back."

"Maybe if you stopped kidnapping me, I'd stop running," I retorted.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest against my side. "Fair point."

We reached my room—the door still unlocked from my escape—and he carried me inside, setting me gently on the bed. I immediately scooted back against the headboard, putting as much distance between us as possible.

"Let me see your ankle," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Don't touch me."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—a rare gesture of frustration. "Grace, you're injured. Let me help you."

"Help me?" I laughed bitterly. "You're the reason I'm in this situation in the first place!"