Page 24 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"I'm not the one who decided to attempt a midnight escape down marble stairs in bare feet," he pointed out, his tone maddeningly reasonable.

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. Marco entered with a small first aid kit and a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

"Thank you, Marco," Rafe said, taking the items. "That will be all for now."

Marco nodded, his eyes flickering briefly to me before he left, closing the door behind him. I noticed he didn't lock it—a pointed reminder that locks were a formality in this place, not a necessity.

Rafe set the first aid kit on the nightstand and turned his attention back to me. "Now, are you going to let me look at that ankle, or would you prefer to sit there in pain to prove a point?"

Put that way, my resistance seemed childish. With a sigh of defeat, I extended my left leg toward him, wincing as the movement sent another jolt of pain through my ankle.

He moved to the foot of the bed and gently took my foot in his hands. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined the injury, his fingers warm against my skin.

"It's swelling," he observed, carefully rotating my foot. "But I don't think it's broken. Probably just a bad sprain."

I hissed as he hit a particularly tender spot. "Medical degree I don't know about?"

His lips quirked in a half-smile. "No. But I've had my share of injuries. This looks like a sprain, not a break. Still, we should ice it and keep it elevated."

He placed the ice pack carefully around my ankle, the sudden cold making me flinch. Then, to my surprise, he began to massage my foot, his thumbs working in small, soothing circles around the uninjured areas.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.

"Helping with the circulation," he replied, his eyes never leaving mine as his fingers continued their gentle work. "It will reduce the swelling and help with the pain."

I should have pulled away. Should have told him to stop. Should have maintained the wall of hostility I'd built between us.

Instead, I found myself relaxing into his touch, the tension draining from my body as his skilled fingers worked their magic. It felt... good. Comforting in a way I hadn't experienced in a long time.

"Why me?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, hanging in the air between us.

His hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their gentle massage. "What do you mean?"

"Why me?" I repeated, suddenly needing to know. "Out of all the women in the world, why did you fixate on me? What do you want from me?"

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes dark and thoughtful as they held mine. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, intimate, as if sharing a confession.

"Because I never had to want before. I just took. But you— you made me want. And that’s worse."

The words sent a shiver down my spine—not entirely from fear. There was something raw and honest in his admission, something that resonated in a place I didn't want to acknowledge.

"You think wanting something that badly makes it real," I asked, the words barely above a whisper.

He smiled then, a smile that transformed his severe features into something almost beautiful. Almost human.

"Love is too small a word for what this is."

The honesty of it—the complete lack of pretense or manipulation—hit me harder than any lie could have.

He wasn't pretending this was about love or romance or any of the things that might have made it easier to understand.

This was about possession, obsession, a need so fundamental it transcended conventional emotions.

Anger flared in me—at him, at myself, at the situation we were trapped in. Without thinking, I raised my hand to slap him, to wipe that knowing smile off his face.

He caught my wrist mid-air, his grip firm but not painful. Our eyes locked, the tension between us suddenly electric, charged with something that wasn't quite hatred and wasn't quite desire but existed in the dangerous space between.

For a heartbeat, we stayed frozen like that—my wrist in his grasp, our eyes locked in silent battle. Then, with a deliberate slowness that gave me every opportunity to pull away, he tugged me toward him.

I should have resisted. Should have fought. Should have done anything except what I did, which was to let him pull me closer until our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my lips.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, his eyes never leaving mine. "Tell me you don't feel this too."

I opened my mouth to do exactly that—to deny the current running between us, to reject the connection he was so certain existed. But the words wouldn't come.

And then his lips were on mine, and thought became impossible.

The kiss wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. Wasn't anything like the kisses I'd experienced before. It was possession, pure and simple—his mouth claiming mine with a hunger that should have frightened me but instead ignited something wild and reckless in my blood.

I struggled against him for a moment, my free hand pushing against his chest, my mind screaming that this was wrong, dangerous, insane. But then his tongue swept across my lower lip, and something inside me surrendered.

I melted into him, my resistance crumbling like sand against a tide. My hand fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. A small, desperate sound escaped my throat—half protest, half plea.

He released my wrist to cup my face, his fingers threading through my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. His other arm wrapped around my waist, drawing me against him until I was practically in his lap, my injured ankle forgotten in the heat of the moment.

It was messy, raw, furious—a storm breaking loose after days of building pressure.

His teeth grazed my lower lip, and I gasped, the small pain sending a shock of pleasure through my system.

He took advantage of my parted lips to deepen the kiss, his tongue meeting mine in a dance that was more battle than seduction.

I should have been disgusted. Should have been terrified. Should have been anything except what I was—desperate for more, my body arching into his, my hands now clutching at his shoulders as if he were a lifeline rather than the cause of my drowning.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine, his eyes dark with a hunger that made my stomach clench with answering heat.

"Grace," he breathed, like a dying man confessing his sins.

Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water. What was I doing? This was Rafe Conti—my kidnapper, my captor, the man who had taken everything from me. And I was kissing him like my life depended on it.

I pushed away from him abruptly, scrambling back against the headboard, ignoring the twinge from my forgotten ankle. My lips felt bruised, my body humming with an energy I didn't want to acknowledge.

"Don't," I said, the word coming out hoarse and unconvincing. "Don't touch me again."

He didn't try to follow me, didn't try to recapture the moment. He simply sat there, watching me with those dark, knowing eyes, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

"You felt it too," he said quietly. Not a question. A statement of fact.

I couldn't deny it. Couldn't lie—not to him, not to myself. So I said nothing, turning my face away, unable to meet his gaze.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words and unacknowledged truths. Finally, Rafe stood, his movements careful and controlled, as if afraid of spooking a wild animal.

"Your ankle should be elevated," he said, his voice neutral, as if we hadn't just been devouring each other moments before. "And you should keep ice on it for twenty minutes at a time. I'll have someone bring you pain medication if you need it."

I nodded mutely, still not looking at him.

He moved to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "We'll talk tomorrow, Grace. About what just happened. About what it means."

"Nothing happened," I said, the lie bitter on my still-tingling lips. "And it means nothing."

He was quiet for a moment, and I could feel his eyes on me even though I refused to meet his gaze.

"Lie to yourself if you need to," he said finally, his voice soft. "But don't lie to me. Not about this."

The door closed behind him with a quiet click, the locks engaging a moment later. I sat frozen on the bed, my mind and body at war, the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.

What had I done?

More terrifying still: what would I do when he returned tomorrow, when we were face to face again, when the memory of that kiss was still fresh between us?

I touched my lips, still sensitive from his kiss, and felt a treacherous heat curl in my stomach. This was dangerous—more dangerous than any escape attempt, any act of defiance. This was a surrender I couldn't afford, a weakness that could destroy me.

Because in that moment, with his lips on mine and his arms around me, I had forgotten to fight. Had forgotten to resist. Had forgotten everything except the feel of him, the taste of him, the overwhelming rightness of being in his arms.

And that terrified me more than any threat he could make.

I turned onto my side, facing away from the door, curling into myself as if I could physically hide from the truth of what had happened. From the truth of what I'd felt.

Tomorrow, I would be stronger. Tomorrow, I would remember who I was and who he was and why this—whatever this was—could never happen again.

But tonight, in the darkness of my room, with the ghost of his kiss still haunting my lips, I allowed myself to acknowledge the terrible truth:

Part of me wanted it to happen again.

And that part was growing stronger by the day.