Page 31 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

"Semantics," he said, moving closer. "You knew what I meant."

I didn't back away, holding my ground as he invaded my space. "Perhaps I wanted to see what would happen if I didn't follow your rules to the letter. What the consequences would be."

His eyes darkened, understanding dawning. "You're testing me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

I set my glass down on a nearby table, suddenly needing my hands free. "Because I need to know what kind of man you really are. What happens when you don't get exactly what you want. Whether your control is as absolute as you pretend it is."

He set his own glass down, his movements deliberate, controlled. "And what have you concluded from your experiment?"

"That you're intrigued by defiance even as you demand obedience," I said, watching his reaction carefully. "That part of you enjoys the challenge I present. That complete submission would bore you as much as it would suffocate me."

His expression changed—surprise giving way to something darker, hungrier. "Perceptive," he murmured. "But incomplete."

"How so?"

In answer, he moved with a speed that took my breath away, backing me against the nearest bookshelf, his body caging mine without quite touching. His hands gripped the shelf on either side of my head, his face inches from mine.

"What I enjoy," he said, his voice a low rumble that I felt as much as heard, "is earning your submission. Not taking it, not demanding it, but watching you choose to give it. Freely. Willingly. Because you want to, not because you have to."

My heart raced, a mixture of fear and something else—something hotter, darker, more dangerous—coursing through my veins. "And if I never choose that?"

"Then we continue as we are," he said simply. "I ask. You refuse. I adapt. We both miss out on... possibilities."

The word hung between us, laden with promise and threat in equal measure. I was acutely aware of his body so close to mine, of the heat radiating from him, of the memory of what those hands had done to me just last night.

"What possibilities?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes held mine, dark and intense. "Let me show you."

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for my wrists, lifting them above my head and pinning them against the bookshelf with one large hand. The position arched my back slightly, bringing my body into contact with his—not forcefully, but unmistakably.

"I could restrain you," he murmured, his free hand tracing a line from my cheek down my neck, across my collarbone, to the edge of my sweater. "I could take what I want. You couldn't stop me."

I should have been terrified. Should have been fighting, screaming, doing anything except standing there, pulse racing, breath coming in short gasps as his fingers traced patterns on my skin.

"But I won't," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Because what I want isn't your body under duress. It's your surrender. Freely given. Eagerly offered."

His hand moved lower, skimming over my breast through the thin material of my sweater, down to my waist, to the waistband of my jeans. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound, from giving him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch affected me.

"Tell me to stop," he said, his fingers playing with the button of my jeans. "Tell me you don't want this. Tell me you don't want me to touch you, to taste you, to make you come apart in my hands."

I remained silent, caught between pride and desire, between resistance and surrender.

His smile was knowing, victorious. "Your silence is its own answer, Grace."

He released my wrists suddenly, stepping back, leaving me bereft and confused. "But I won't. Not tonight. Not until you ask for it. Not until you obey not because you have to, but because you want what comes after."

The abrupt withdrawal left me off-balance, my body humming with unfulfilled desire, my mind racing to catch up with the shift. This was the consequence, then—not punishment, but denial. Not force, but the absence of what we both knew I wanted.

"That's cruel," I said, my voice unsteady.

"No," he countered. "It's honest. As you requested."

He retrieved his whiskey glass, taking a sip as if nothing had happened, as if he wasn't affected by our exchange. But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight darkening of his eyes, the carefully controlled breathing.

He wanted me as much as I wanted him. The realization was both empowering and terrifying.

"So what now?" I asked, straightening my sweater, trying to regain some composure.

"Now," he said, setting down his glass again, "you make a choice. Continue testing boundaries, playing this game of partial compliance. Or..."

"Or?"

"Or obey," he said simply. "Fully. Completely. See what happens when you surrender that control you cling to so desperately."

The challenge hung between us, electric and dangerous. Part of me wanted to refuse on principle, to maintain the last shreds of my autonomy. But another part—a growing, insistent part—was curious. Wanted to know what would happen if I gave in. Just once. Just to see.

"What would you have me do?" I asked, the question itself a small surrender.

His expression remained neutral, but something flashed in his eyes—satisfaction, hunger, triumph. "Go upstairs. Change into the blue dress you were considering earlier. Return here in fifteen minutes."

He knew. Somehow, he knew which dress had caught my eye, which one I'd almost chosen. The realization sent a shiver down my spine—a reminder of how closely he'd been watching me, for how long.

I had a choice to make. Continue resisting, maintain the illusion of control, keep us locked in this stalemate. Or obey. Surrender this small thing. See what happened next.

Without a word, I moved toward the door. I felt his eyes on me as I left, tracking my movements, waiting to see what I would choose.

Fifteen minutes later, I returned.

The blue dress fit perfectly, the silk cool against my skin, the open back revealing more than it concealed. I'd let my hair down, applied a touch of makeup, even found matching heels in the closet. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to know what would happen next.

Rafe was standing by the fire when I entered, his back to the door. He turned slowly, his eyes widening slightly as they took in my appearance—the only break in his perfect control I'd seen all evening.

"You came back," he said, his voice low and rough.

"I did."

"And you obeyed."

I moved further into the room, the dress whispering around my legs. "I made a choice. There's a difference."

He smiled, the expression transforming his severe features into something almost beautiful. "Yes," he agreed. "There is."

He crossed to me, his movements deliberate, predatory. When he reached me, he circled slowly, taking in the dress, the exposed skin of my back, the way the silk clung to my curves.

"Beautiful," he murmured, coming to stand before me again. "But then, you always are."

He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw, tilting my face up to his. "Do you know why I wanted you in this dress?"

I shook my head slightly, not trusting my voice.

"Because I wanted to see if you would choose to please me," he said softly. "Not because you had to. Not because you were afraid. But because you wanted to."

"And if I had chosen not to?" I asked, finding my voice.

"Then we would have continued our game. You testing boundaries, me enforcing them. Both of us denying what we really want."

"And what do we really want?" I whispered.

In answer, he leaned down and kissed me—not the desperate, hungry kiss of last night, but something softer, more controlled, yet no less intense. His hands remained at his sides, not touching me except where our lips met, giving me every opportunity to pull away.

I didn't.

Instead, I stepped closer, my hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath expensive fabric. The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing the seam of my lips until I opened for him, a small sound of need escaping my throat.

Only then did his hands move—one to the small of my back, the other tangling in my hair, holding me to him as the kiss turned from gentle to demanding, from questioning to claiming.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his eyes were dark with desire, his control visibly fraying at the edges.

"This is what happens when you obey," he said, his voice rough. "This is what becomes possible when you surrender that small piece of control."

"And if I surrender more?" I asked, the words escaping before I could stop them.

His smile was slow, predatory, promising. "Then the possibilities become... endless."

He stepped back, creating space between us, his control reasserting itself with visible effort. "But that's a choice for another night. I've asked for one act of obedience, and you've given it. Beautifully."

I blinked, confused by the withdrawal. "That's it?"

"For tonight," he confirmed. "I told you, Grace—I want your surrender freely given, not coerced, not manipulated. One step at a time. One choice at a time."

The restraint he was showing surprised me, challenged my assumptions about what he wanted, about what this was.

This wasn't just about power or control or even desire.

This was something more complex, more nuanced—a dance of wills, a negotiation of boundaries, a slow building of. .. something I wasn't ready to name.

"Thank you," I said, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "For showing me your sanctuary. For being honest."

He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the thanks. "It's late. I'll escort you back to your room."

We walked in silence through the darkened corridors of the estate, the only sound our footsteps on marble and the soft rustle of my dress. When we reached my door, he paused, his eyes meeting mine in the dim light.

"Goodnight, Grace," he said softly.

"Goodnight, Rafe."

He turned to leave, then stopped, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Tomorrow night. Dinner in the main dining room. Eight o'clock. Wear whatever you like."

The absence of a command, the offering of choice—it was a small thing, but significant. An acknowledgment of the step I'd taken tonight, of the ground that had shifted between us.

"I'll be there," I said.

His smile was brief but genuine. "I know."

As I closed the door behind me, I leaned against it, my heart racing, my mind struggling to make sense of what had happened.

I had obeyed him—had chosen to obey him—and in doing so, had gained something I hadn't expected.

Not just his approval or desire, but a different kind of power.

The power that comes from making a choice rather than having it made for you.

The line between dominance and submission, between control and surrender, was blurring in ways I hadn't anticipated. In ways that both frightened and exhilarated me.

As I slipped out of the blue dress, I caught sight of myself in the mirror—flushed, bright-eyed, looking more alive than I had in weeks. More myself, paradoxically, in this place where I'd been brought against my will.

The woman in the mirror wasn't a victim. Wasn't broken. Wasn't defeated.

She was evolving, adapting, finding strength in unexpected places. Finding power in surrender, freedom in obedience—contradictions that somehow made perfect sense in the twisted reality I now inhabited.

The most dangerous thing about Rafe Conti wasn't his control or his power or even his obsession.

It was the fact that, step by step, choice by choice, he was showing me a version of myself I'd never known existed.