Page 26 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"I can assure you she's being treated well," Dante replied. "Better than well. My brother is... devoted to her comfort."

"And her safety?"

"Guaranteed. Rafe is many things, but he's not cruel. Not to those he... values."

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of liquid being poured into glasses. A drink to seal the deal. To finalize the transaction.

"Graven Hill," my father said finally. "Full control. No interference. And my daughter remains... comfortable."

"You have my word," Dante replied. "Do we have an agreement?"

"We do."

The sound of glasses clinking together was the final blow. My father had just negotiated away territory, grievances, and vendettas—but not me. Not his daughter. I wasn't even part of the equation. Just a footnote, a detail to be clarified but not resolved.

I stumbled back from the door, my legs suddenly unable to support me. I sank into a chair, my mind reeling, my chest so tight I could barely breathe.

Rafe had been telling the truth. No one was looking for me. No one was coming to save me. My own father had written me off as a loss, a complication better ignored than addressed.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring blindly at the floor, the voices from the next room continuing their business discussion as if they hadn't just shattered my entire world. Minutes or hours could have passed; time seemed to lose all meaning in the face of such betrayal.

The click of the main door opening barely registered. Footsteps approached—measured, deliberate, familiar.

"Now you know," Rafe said quietly, standing before me. "Now you understand."

I looked up at him, seeing him through a haze of unshed tears. He wasn't gloating. Wasn't smug or triumphant. If anything, he looked... sad. Almost regretful.

"You knew," I whispered, my voice raw. "You knew he wouldn't come for me."

He knelt before me, bringing his face level with mine. "I suspected. I didn't know for certain."

"But you didn't tell me."

"Would you have believed me?" he asked gently. "Or would you have clung to the hope that your father would move heaven and earth to get you back?"

I had no answer for that. Of course I wouldn't have believed him. I would have dismissed it as manipulation, as a tactic to break me down, to make me dependent on him.

"Why?" I asked, the single word encompassing a universe of questions. Why show me this? Why make me listen? Why break me this way?

"Because you needed to know the truth," he said simply. "Because as long as you believed someone was coming to save you, you couldn't begin to accept your new reality."

"And what reality is that?" I asked, a bitter laugh escaping me. "That I'm nothing but a possession? A thing to be taken, traded, ignored as convenient?"

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, but not directed at me. "Not to me," he said fiercely. "Never to me."

"Then what am I to you, Rafe?" I demanded, tears finally spilling over. "What am I if not a prisoner? A trophy? A toy you got tired of watching from afar?"

He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movement, giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, his hand cupped my cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear.

"You're everything," he said, the words so quiet they were almost a whisper. "From the moment I saw you, you've been everything."

The sincerity in his voice, in his eyes, was more devastating than any cruelty could have been. Because part of me—a small, broken part I didn't want to acknowledge—wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that someone, anyone, saw me as valuable for myself, not for my name or what I could provide.

I pulled away from his touch, wrapping my arms around myself. "Take me back to my room."

He stood, offering his hand. "Grace?—"

"Please," I said, the word catching on a sob. "Just... take me back."

He nodded, dropping his hand. "As you wish."

The walk back to my room passed in a blur of tears and silence. Rafe kept a respectful distance, not touching me, not speaking, just guiding me through the corridors of his family's estate.

When we reached my door, he opened it without a word, stepping aside to let me enter. I moved past him, heading straight for the bed, needing to be alone, to process, to grieve.

"Grace," he said softly from the doorway. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. Not for taking you—I'll never be sorry for that. But for the pain you're feeling now. For the betrayal."

I turned to look at him, seeing him clearly for the first time—not as a monster, not as a kidnapper, but as a man. A dangerous, obsessive, controlling man, but one who had shown me more honesty than my own father.

"Why did you really bring me here?" I asked, needing to understand. "Why me? Why now?"

He leaned against the doorframe, considering his answer.

"I saw your photo in a file," he said finally.

"Intelligence on the O'Sullivan family. Just a surveillance photo, nothing special.

But something about you... I couldn't look away.

Couldn't stop thinking about you. Couldn't stop wanting to know you. "

"So you stalked me. Kidnapped me. Imprisoned me."

"Yes." No excuses. No justifications. Just simple acknowledgment of what he'd done.

"And now what?" I asked, exhaustion seeping into my bones. "What happens now that I know my father doesn't want me back? That no one is coming to save me? Do I just... stay here forever? Your beautiful prisoner? Your sex doll to use as you please?"

He straightened, his expression serious. "That depends on you."

"On me? I don't have any choices here, Rafe. You've made that abundantly clear."

"You have more choices than you think," he said quietly. "Stay as my guest, not my prisoner. Get to know me as I want to know you. See if what I feel—what I believe exists between us—is real."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then nothing changes. You stay in this room. I continue to visit. We continue our dance of resistance and persistence. Until something breaks."

"Me," I said bitterly. "You mean until I break."

He shook his head. "Not necessarily. I'm not as unbreakable as you might think."

The admission surprised me—a crack in his perfect control, a glimpse of vulnerability I hadn't expected.

"I need time," I said finally. "To think. To process."

He nodded, accepting this. "Take all the time you need. I'll have dinner sent up later."

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "One more thing, Grace. Whatever you decide, whatever happens between us, know this: I will never trade you. Never use you as a bargaining chip. Never treat you as anything less than essential."

With that, he closed the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my grief, and the shattered remains of everything I'd believed about my place in the world.

I sank onto the bed, too numb even for tears now. My father had abandoned me. My family hadn't looked for me. The life I'd built, the identity I'd crafted so carefully—it had all been an illusion, a house of cards that had collapsed at the first real test.

And Rafe... Rafe had shown me the truth. Cruel, perhaps, but honest in a way no one in my life had ever been.

I lay back on the silk sheets, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of a world that had tilted on its axis. Everything I'd believed was wrong. Everyone I'd trusted had failed me.

Except, perversely, the man who had taken me against my will.

What did that say about me? About my life? About the choices—or lack thereof—that lay before me?

I had no answers. Only questions, doubts, and a growing sense that the line between captor and savior, between villain and hero, was far blurrier than I'd ever imagined.

As the light faded from the windows and darkness crept into the room, one thought crystallized with terrible clarity:

I had never truly belonged to anyone—not as a daughter, not as a sister, not as a person of value.

Only as a possession.

And in the twisted logic of my new reality, at least Rafe Conti was honest about wanting to possess me.