Page 29 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

M orning arrived with brutal clarity.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains I'd forgotten to close, illuminating the evidence of my surrender—a bruise blooming on my collarbone, my lips still tender from his kisses, my body aching in places that reminded me exactly what I'd done. Who I'd done it with.

I stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the woman I'd become. The Grace O'Sullivan I'd been three weeks ago would never have recognized this version of myself—sleeping with my captor, responding to his touch, wanting more even as I hated myself for wanting it.

Stockholm syndrome, my mind whispered. Trauma bonding. Psychological adaptation to captivity.

But those clinical terms felt hollow, inadequate to describe the storm raging inside me. This wasn't just about survival or adaptation. This was about choice—my choice, as Rafe had pointed out. I had initiated that kiss. I had pulled him closer. I had whispered his name as pleasure tore through me.

What kind of person did that make me?

A knock at the door interrupted my spiral of self-recrimination. I sat up, pulling the sheets around me despite being fully dressed in the clothes I'd hastily put back on after leaving Rafe's room.

"Come in," I called, my voice steadier than I felt.

The door opened to reveal not Rafe, as I'd expected, but a middle-aged woman in a crisp uniform—the housekeeper I'd glimpsed occasionally during my explorations of the estate.

"Good morning, Ms. O'Sullivan," she said, her accent faintly Italian. "Mr. Conti asked me to inform you that breakfast will be served on the terrace in thirty minutes. He also asked me to give you this." She held out a small envelope.

I took it, nodding my thanks. "I'll be there."

She hesitated, her eyes taking in my rumpled appearance. "Would you like me to draw you a bath? Or help you select something to wear?"

The offer was perfectly polite, perfectly normal for a household of this caliber.

Yet it felt strange—this veneer of normality over the reality of my situation.

As if I were a guest rather than a prisoner.

As if last night had transformed me from captive to.

.. what? Mistress? Companion? Something else entirely?

"No, thank you," I said finally. "I can manage."

She nodded and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.

I opened the envelope with fingers that weren't quite steady. Inside was a note written in a strong, angular hand:

Grace,

Join me for breakfast. We have matters to discuss.

- R

No mention of last night. No endearments. No pressure. Just a request—or perhaps a command—delivered with the same cool authority he'd shown from the beginning.

I showered quickly, washing away the physical evidence of our encounter if not the memory.

The bruise on my collarbone remained, a purple-blue mark that my fingers lingered over before I covered it with a high-necked blouse.

I paired it with tailored pants and low heels, armor of a sort against whatever awaited me on the terrace.

The estate was quiet as I made my way downstairs, the morning sun casting long shadows across marble floors and antique rugs.

I'd learned the layout well enough by now to find the terrace without assistance—a wide stone expanse overlooking the gardens, furnished with elegant outdoor furniture that probably cost more than a year's tuition at Harvard.

Rafe was already there, seated at a table laden with food, reading something on a tablet. He looked up as I approached, his dark eyes unreadable as they took in my appearance.

"Good morning," he said, setting the tablet aside and standing. Always the gentleman, even after everything.

"Morning," I replied, taking the seat across from him rather than the one he'd pulled out beside his own. A small act of defiance, a reminder that last night hadn't changed everything.

If he was offended, he didn't show it. He simply returned to his own chair, watching as I poured myself coffee from a silver pot.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, the banality of the question almost comical given the circumstances.

I met his eyes over the rim of my cup. "Not particularly."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Neither did I."

Silence fell between us, heavy with unspoken words and memories of skin against skin. I busied myself with selecting food from the array before us—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs prepared three different ways. Everything perfect, everything exquisite, everything a gilded cage.

"You wanted to discuss something," I said finally, unable to bear the tension any longer.

Rafe nodded, setting down his coffee cup with deliberate precision. "Your situation here has... evolved. I think it's time we established some new parameters."

"Parameters," I repeated, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. "For my captivity?"

"For your residence," he corrected smoothly. "You're no longer confined to your room. You have access to most of the estate. That's not captivity in any meaningful sense of the word."

"Except for the part where I can't leave."

"Yes," he acknowledged, unfazed by my sarcasm. "Except for that."

I set down my fork, appetite gone. "What parameters did you have in mind?"

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with that intense focus that always made me feel like I was being dissected. "Freedom in exchange for obedience."

"Obedience," I echoed, the word sending an unexpected shiver down my spine. "To what, exactly?"

"Simple rules. Don't attempt to leave the grounds. Don't enter restricted areas. Don't interfere with estate business." He paused, his eyes never leaving mine. "And when I give you a direct instruction, follow it without question."

I laughed, the sound sharp and disbelieving. "You want me to be your what—your pet? Your servant? Your obedient little prisoner grateful for the scraps of freedom you throw her way?"

His expression didn't change, but something darkened in his eyes. "I want you to be safe. I want you to have as much freedom as possible within the constraints of our situation. And I want to trust that you won't use that freedom to harm yourself or others."

"By 'others,' you mean you and your criminal enterprise," I said flatly.

"Yes."

At least he was honest. Always honest, even when the truth was ugly.

I took a sip of coffee, considering his proposal. It wasn't as if I had many options. I could refuse, be confined to my room again, lose what little autonomy I'd gained. Or I could agree, play along, use the expanded freedom to look for weaknesses, for opportunities.

For escape? The thought came automatically, but without the urgency it once held. Where would I go? To my father, who had abandoned me? To a world that hadn't noticed my absence? To a life that now seemed like it had belonged to someone else entirely?

"And if I refuse?" I asked, more to test his reaction than because I was seriously considering it.

"Then nothing changes," he said simply. "You return to your room. I continue to visit. We continue our... interaction... on more limited terms."

The way he said "interaction" made it clear he was referring to last night, to what had happened between us. The implication that it could happen again, would happen again, sent heat curling through my stomach.

"And if I agree?" I pressed. "What exactly does 'obedience' entail? What kinds of... instructions... are we talking about?"

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of heat, quickly controlled. "Nothing you would find objectionable. Nothing that would harm you or demean you."

"That's not an answer."

He smiled slightly, acknowledging the point.

"Instructions related to your safety, primarily.

Where you can go, when, with whom. Occasional requests related to estate functions or meetings you might attend.

And..." he paused, his eyes holding mine, "personal requests, if and when our relationship develops in that direction. "

The bluntness of it made my cheeks warm. "You're assuming a lot."

"Am I?" he asked softly. "After last night?"

I looked away, unable to hold his gaze, unable to deny the truth we both knew. Last night had changed things, whether I wanted to admit it or not.

"I'll agree to your rules," I said finally, looking back at him with what I hoped was a composed expression. "With one condition."

His eyebrow lifted slightly. "You're not really in a position to negotiate, Grace."

"And yet, here we are," I countered. "My condition is simple: I want honesty. Complete honesty. About why I'm here, about what you want from me, about your business with my family. No more half-truths, no more finding things out by eavesdropping or accident."

He considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Honesty can be dangerous in my world."

"So can ignorance," I replied. "I'd rather know what I'm dealing with than be blindsided again."

For a long moment, he was silent, weighing my request against whatever calculations ran through his mind. Finally, he nodded. "Agreed. Honesty for obedience. A fair exchange."

He extended his hand across the table, formal as a business deal. I hesitated, then placed my hand in his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the strength in his grip.

"To our new arrangement," he said, his thumb brushing across my knuckles in a gesture that was anything but businesslike.

I withdrew my hand, ignoring the lingering sensation of his touch. "So what now?"

"Now," he said, rising from his chair, "I have business to attend to. You're free to explore the estate, within the boundaries we've discussed. I'll see you for dinner at seven. Wear something formal."

Just like that—from negotiation to command in the space of a breath. I bristled automatically at the directive, at the assumption of compliance.

"And if I don't feel like dressing up?" I challenged, testing the boundaries of our new arrangement immediately.

His smile was slow and knowing. "Then you'll be demonstrating a lack of obedience, and our agreement will be reconsidered."