Page 28 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"No," he agreed. "It doesn't. But it explains it, at least to me. I saw you, and I wanted you, and taking what I want is... what I do. What I've always done."

"And now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "What do you want now?"

He stepped closer again, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now I want you to choose me. Not because you have no other options. Not because you're afraid. But because you want me too."

The audacity of it—the sheer, breathtaking arrogance—should have infuriated me. Instead, I found myself laughing, the sound startled and genuine. "You kidnap me, hold me prisoner for weeks, and then expect me to... what? Fall in love with you? Stockholm syndrome on demand?"

His lips curved in a smile that was both self-deprecating and dangerous. "When you put it that way, it does sound rather presumptuous."

"Presumptuous?" I repeated incredulously. "It's insane. Delusional. Completely?—"

"And yet," he interrupted softly, "you're still here. Standing in this hallway, talking to me, asking me questions. Not running, not fighting, not screaming for help. Why is that, Grace?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. Why was I still here? The door to the grounds was just down the hall. There were staff around who might help me if I screamed. I had more freedom now than at any point since my abduction. And yet...

"I don't know," I admitted, the words torn from somewhere deep and honest. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I don't hate you more. I don't know why part of me..."

I stopped, horrified by what I'd almost confessed.

"Part of you what?" he pressed, stepping closer, his eyes intent on mine.

"Nothing," I said quickly, backing away. "I need to go. I need to think."

He caught my wrist as I turned to leave, his grip firm but not painful. "Part of you what, Grace? Finish the sentence."

I looked down at his hand on my wrist, then back up at his face. In his eyes, I saw something that mirrored the confusion, the hunger, the impossible contradiction I felt within myself.

"Part of me understands you," I whispered, the truth terrifying in its simplicity. "Part of me sees you too."

His expression softened, vulnerability replacing intensity. Slowly, telegraphing his movements to give me time to pull away, he raised his free hand to cup my cheek. "Grace..."

I should have stepped back. Should have broken his hold. Should have run.

Instead, I did the unthinkable. I kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. Wasn't anything like the kisses I'd shared with college boyfriends or law school flings. It was angry, desperate, confused—all the emotions I couldn't express finding outlet in the press of my lips against his.

For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, clearly shocked by my initiative. Then he responded with a hunger that matched my own, his hand sliding from my cheek to tangle in my hair, holding me to him like he was starving for it.

The kiss deepened, turned carnal. His tongue swept into my mouth without hesitation, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he backed me into the wall. His thigh slotted between mine. I gasped as he pressed in, grinding deliberately. Dominant. Demanding. Possessive.

"You're playing with fire," he said against my lips. "You think you can kiss me like that and stay in control?"

I bit his lower lip in response. He hissed and shoved his thigh harder against my center.

"Fuck," he muttered. "You're soaked."

My hands slid under his shirt, nails raking down his chest. He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand, the other gripping my jaw.

"Say you want it," he said, voice rough.

"Why? So you can say it wasn’t your fault?"

"No," he growled. "Because I’m not giving you what you want until you give me what I want."

I didn’t. I wouldn’t. But my hips moved on their own, grinding against his thigh.

"That’s what I thought," he said darkly, releasing my wrists just to lift me. I wrapped my legs around him on instinct, breath catching as he carried me through the hall and kicked open the door to his room.

We hit the bed in a tangle of limbs and breathless curses. His mouth was everywhere—my throat, my collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

He ripped my shirt over my head. No slow unbuttoning, no hesitation. Just raw urgency.

"You want this? Then show me. Use me. Fucking take what you came for."

I pushed him back, straddling him, grinding down against the hard line of his cock. His hands flew to my hips, guiding, squeezing.

"Goddamn, Grace," he breathed. "You ride like you want to ruin me."

I leaned down, teeth grazing his jaw. "Maybe I do."

He flipped us, rough and sudden, pinning me to the bed. His cock was hot and heavy between us, dragging against my slick folds. I arched, chasing it.

"Tell me to stop," he said again. "One word and I stop."

I stared up at him, defiant. "Don’t you dare."

His eyes darkened. "Good girl."

He slid into me with one hard thrust. I cried out, nails digging into his back.

He fucked me like he wanted to break me open—deep, relentless, all-consuming. My body responded to every rough snap of his hips like it had been waiting for this, like it had been starved for him.

Then he slowed.

He pulled almost all the way out, just the tip remaining, watching every twitch and arch of my body. I whimpered, tried to lift my hips. He held me down with a hand on my stomach.

"You going to beg yet?"

I gritted my teeth. "No."

He slammed back in, deep and punishing, then slowed again to the edge of withdrawal.

"You're not getting anything until I hear it from your lips. You want to come? Beg for my cock."

Another shallow thrust. Then another. Just enough to tease. Just enough to make me squirm.

My nails raked down his back. I was panting now, every nerve stretched tight, my core throbbing with unsatisfied need.

He leaned down, lips grazing my ear. "Tell me what you want. Tell me you need me to fuck you."

I writhed beneath him, desperate. Hating him. Hating myself.

"Please," I whispered.

"Louder. I want to hear you say it."

"Please. I want it. I need you to fuck me."

His mouth curved with dark satisfaction. "Not until I have all of it. Say it like you mean it. Say it like you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasped. "Just fucking give it to me."

Then he drove into me, brutal and perfect, and I broke. My orgasm tore through me, white-hot and devastating, my body shuddering around him, mouth open in a silent cry.

He held me through it, thrusts relentless, and only when I was boneless beneath him did he let himself go. His release came with a groan that sounded like triumph.

Afterward, we lay tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin, the reality of what we'd done slowly seeping back into consciousness. I should have felt regret. Should have felt shame. Should have felt anything except the strange, peaceful emptiness that had replaced the chaos in my mind.

Rafe's arm was around me, holding me against his chest, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my ear. He didn't speak, didn't try to define or explain what had happened between us. Just held me, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.

Eventually, the silence became too heavy, too laden with unspoken questions and implications. I pulled away slightly, not meeting his eyes.

"I should go," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

His arm tightened around me momentarily, then relaxed. "If that's what you want."

I sat up, reaching for my scattered clothes, suddenly aware of my nakedness in a way I hadn't been minutes before. "I need to think. To process... whatever this was."

He watched me dress, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the bedroom. When I was finished, he rose and pulled on his pants, leaving his chest bare—a concession to modesty that seemed almost comical given what we'd just shared.

"Grace," he said as I moved toward the door. "This doesn't change anything you don't want it to change. You're not... obligated. This wasn't a transaction."

I paused, my hand on the doorknob, not looking back at him. "Then what was it?"

He was quiet for a moment, considering. "A choice," he said finally. "Your choice. Perhaps the first real one you've had since coming here."

The words hit me with unexpected force. He was right. This had been my choice—not coerced, not manipulated, not born of fear or desperation. I had kissed him. I had wanted him. I had chosen this.

And maybe... maybe that was why the late-night visits had started to slow. He hadn’t stopped coming entirely—but they weren’t every night now. Some nights passed in silence, his absence echoing louder than his presence ever had. I pretended not to notice. I told myself I didn’t care.

But I noticed.

And maybe, just maybe, he meant what he said. That this—whatever this was—had to be mine to choose.

I wasn’t ready to admit I wanted that. But I couldn’t lie to myself and say I didn’t feel the difference.

What did that say about me? About who I was becoming in this strange, twisted captivity that no longer felt quite like captivity?

"Goodnight, Rafe," I said softly, still not turning.

"Goodnight, Grace."

I slipped out the door and made my way back to my room, my body still humming with the aftereffects of our encounter, my mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

I should have been disgusted with myself.

Should have been planning my escape with renewed determination.

Should have been anything except what I was—confused, sated, and terrifyingly close to understanding the man who had taken everything from me.

As I closed my bedroom door behind me, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity:

The most dangerous prison wasn't the one Rafe had built around me.

It was the one I was building within myself, brick by brick, choice by choice, surrender by surrender.