Page 32 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

I spent the day planning my next move.

After last night’s calculated surrender—choosing the blue dress, obeying his unspoken request—I needed to remind both of us who I was.

That I wasn’t some broken thing lying down beneath the weight of him.

That I still had teeth. And if Rafe wanted to play power games, he wasn’t the only one who knew the rules.

Dinner at eight. Wear whatever you like.

It read like permission, but I knew better. It was a test. A gesture meant to feel generous, when it was really a leash disguised as liberty.

Fine. Two could play.

I stood in front of the closet like a general reviewing her arsenal. The blue dress was out—his choice, his victory. Something casual? Already used. I needed something that walked the line between seduction and defiance. Controlled heat.

Then I saw it: a deep burgundy slip of a dress, darker than wine, almost black in shadow. The neckline plunged just enough to provoke. The fabric was liquid on my skin—soft, expensive, and lethal.

Perfect.

I paired it with heels sharp enough to be considered weapons, left my hair loose, lips painted the color of bitten fruit, and added only one piece of jewelry: a gold chain that skimmed the dip of my collarbone like a whisper that dared to be heard.

Armor disguised as elegance. Invitation wrapped in challenge.

At precisely eight, I entered the dining room like I owned the air I walked through. Every step deliberate. This wasn’t just dinner. This was the battlefield.

Rafe stood at the fireplace, whiskey in hand, back turned like a scene staged for maximum effect. He turned when he heard me—eyes sweeping over me once, twice, as if the first pass wasn’t enough.

For a breath, his control cracked. Just a flicker—jaw tight, nostrils flared—but I saw it.

First blood.

"Grace," he said, voice smooth as smoke. "You look lovely."

I smiled, slow and sure. "So do you."

And he did. The black suit was a precision cut, every inch of it designed to remind me just how dangerous a man could look when he knew what power felt like. He was elegance and violence stitched into human form. Stillness that dared you to provoke it.

"Drink?" he asked, gesturing to the bar cart.

"Whatever you're having," I replied, closing the distance.

He poured two fingers of amber into crystal, handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, the heat of his skin against mine igniting something low and familiar. I took a sip, letting the burn anchor me.

"Good," I said.

"Macallan 25," he offered, watching me like I was another glass of something rare. "My father's favorite."

"Is that a comfort or a curse?"

A ghost of a smile. "Both. Like most things he touched."

"Family usually is," I said, thinking of betrayal and silence and the sharp ache of being abandoned by blood.

Rafe held my gaze. Studying. Calculating.

Then, he gestured to the table. "Shall we?"

I let him pull out my chair, pour the wine, set the stage like we weren’t adversaries circling each other. Like this was just a meal between two people exploring something normal.

It wasn’t.

And we both knew it.

The first course arrived—scallops seared to perfection, perched delicately atop a tangle of microgreens, each plate arranged like art. For several minutes, we ate in silence. Comfortable, but electric. The kind of silence that had weight. Intention.

Only the quiet clink of silverware and the low crackle of the fire filled the space between us.

Then: “I have a proposition for you,” Rafe said, setting down his fork with precision.

I looked up, wineglass halfway to my lips. “That sounds ominous.”

“A simple one,” he replied, his voice calm, almost casual. “An exchange. One question each. You ask me anything. I’ll answer honestly. Then I ask you something—and you’ll do the same.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly, assessing. “That’s a lot of trust you’re asking for.”

“Trust makes everything more interesting,” he said, sipping his wine. His gaze never left mine.

There was something in the way he watched me—still, composed, but intensely focused.

Like he was cataloging the tension in my shoulders, the rise and fall of my chest, the heat that threatened behind my cool facade.

The way his thumb slid slowly along the rim of his glass didn’t help.

It shouldn’t have been suggestive. But it was.

I turned the stem of my glass between my fingers, needing something to ground me. “Just one each?”

“For tonight.” His smile was subtle, a promise and a dare. “We have time for more… generous trades later.”

That hung in the air like smoke and silk. Not a threat. Not quite.

My pulse kicked, but I kept my face neutral. I wasn’t about to let him see what that low, unhurried voice did to me.

I set my glass down. “Fine. One question. Who goes first?”

“Ladies first.” He gestured with a small, elegant tilt of his hand.

I took my time. Not for drama—though I knew he’d notice—but because the choice mattered. I didn’t want facts. I wanted leverage. Intimacy. Cracks in the armor. Something I could use to remind myself I wasn’t just reacting to him. That I still had power.

Finally: “What are you most afraid of?”

The shift in him was almost imperceptible, but I caught it. The slow blink. The slight exhale through his nose. The flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes.

"Becoming my father," he said finally, his voice low and even. "Losing control. Hurting someone I... care about."

The words landed with more weight than I was prepared for. I’d expected something calculated, maybe even evasive—a charming half-answer. But not this. Not a glimpse into the fault line beneath his polished armor, the deep fear that shaped the unrelenting discipline in his every move.

I watched him closely, feeling the impact settle like heat low in my stomach. Not arousal, exactly. But the rawness of his admission stirred something—an ache, a question, a curiosity sharpened by the fact that I wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all.

"Has that happened before?" I asked, before I could stop myself. "Have you lost control?"

His gaze locked on mine, unreadable and dark. “That’s a second question, Grace. We agreed to one each.”

“So we did,” I murmured, not breaking eye contact. His refusal was a quiet power play, one I let him win—for now. "Your turn, then."

He studied me for a long moment, and I felt the burn of it—his eyes tracing me like fingertips, like he could unspool my defenses just by looking. I resisted the urge to shift in my seat.

Then: “Why did you kiss me that night? Not the logical reason you’ve told yourself. The real one.”

The question struck hard and precise, slicing straight through the armor I’d been reinforcing all evening. I opened my mouth, ready to give him the easy answer, the practiced one: strategy, distraction, leverage.

But that wasn’t our agreement. And it wasn’t the truth.

“Because I wanted to,” I said, the words sharp and unflinching.

“Not because of you, or what you made me feel, but because I needed it to be mine. I needed to claim the moment before it claimed me. I wanted to know what it felt like to choose, not…submit. If it was real or just some Stockholm syndrome response to captivity.”

A flicker crossed his face—approval, maybe, or something darker, more satisfied. “And what did you discover?”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s a second question, Rafe.”

His smirk was the only answer I needed. “Touché.”

The second course arrived—something decadent and warm, pasta in a truffle cream sauce that smelled almost sinful. We ate in silence, but not comfortably this time. The weight of what we’d confessed—and what we hadn’t—settled between us like a third presence. Watching. Waiting.

"This is delicious," I said eventually, more to break the tension than anything else.

"I'll pass your compliments to the chef," he replied, gaze steady. “He’s particularly proud of this one.”

"You have a full-time chef?" I asked, though it didn’t surprise me. Nothing here surprised me anymore. Not the extravagance. Not the precision. Not even the way I found myself drawn to the man across the table.

“Several. The estate requires a significant staff to maintain.” He sipped his wine. “Does that surprise you?”

I shrugged. “I grew up with household staff. Not on this scale, but enough to understand how quickly people disappear into the machinery of privilege.”

He tilted his head. “The O’Sullivan estate is impressive in its own right. Though I imagine your Cambridge apartment was considerably more modest.”

The unexpected mention of my real life—the life before him—was like pressure against a healing bruise. Not grief. Not homesickness. Something else. Something more fractured.

“I liked my apartment,” I said carefully. “It was small. But it was mine. Paid for with my mother’s money, not my father’s.”

“An important distinction for you,” Rafe observed.

“Yes.” I met his eyes head-on. “Independence matters to me. Being my own person. Making my own choices. Which makes this situation... uniquely challenging.”

He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “And yet here we are. Sharing dinner. Conversing like civilized people. Coexisting.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” I asked, allowing just a trace of bitterness to seep through. “Coexisting?”

“For now,” he said. “The future remains to be determined. By both of us.”

The implication—that I had any real say in what happened next—was both a balm and an insult. Like offering a wolf a leash and calling it a choice.

The main course arrived: beef, vegetables, wine reduced to velvet. I focused on cutting each bite, but I could feel his gaze on me again. Heavy. Curious. Wanting.

"You're staring," he said, not bothering to pretend otherwise.

"I'm thinking," I replied, setting down my fork. “About you.”

A flicker of interest. “Dangerous territory.”

“Maybe.” I tilted my head. “I’m wondering what makes a man like you tick. About the gap between what you do and who you are.”