Page 33 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

That got his attention. He looked up fully then, eyes meeting mine with that still, unsettling calm. “And what conclusions have you reached?”

I leaned forward slightly, deliberately drawing his attention to the neckline of my dress, to the skin exposed there.

"That you're a man of contradictions. Ruthless in business, but careful with me.

Capable of violence, but controlled in your interactions.

Demanding obedience, but respecting choice. "

His gaze dropped briefly to my décolletage before returning to my face, his expression giving nothing away. "Perceptive."

"I'm a good observer," I said, taking a sip of wine, letting the glass linger against my lower lip a moment longer than necessary. "And you're an interesting subject."

Something flickered in his eyes—awareness, perhaps, of the shift in my approach, of the deliberate provocation in my words, my posture, my gaze.

"Am I?" he asked, his voice neutral despite the heat I could see building behind his careful mask.

"Very." I set down my wine glass, trailing my fingers along the stem in a gesture that was deliberately sensual. "I find myself wondering what it would take to make you lose that famous control of yours. To make you act on impulse rather than calculation."

His expression didn't change, but I saw his hand tighten slightly on his own glass—a tiny tell, a hairline crack in his perfect composure.

"A dangerous line of inquiry," he said softly.

"I like danger," I replied, holding his gaze. "I must, or I wouldn't be sitting here with you, playing whatever game this is."

"Is that what we're doing? Playing a game?"

I smiled, slow and deliberate. "Aren't we? You set the rules. I test the boundaries. You enforce them. I adapt. Back and forth, give and take, a constant negotiation of power and control."

He set down his glass, his movements precise, controlled. "And what's the objective of this game, in your view?"

"For you?" I shrugged, the movement causing the neckline of my dress to shift slightly. "To possess me, I suppose. Body, mind, will. To make me surrender not just physically, but completely."

"And for you?"

I leaned forward again, deliberately invading the space between us. "To maintain some part of myself that remains... mine. To find the limits of your control. To see what happens when they break."

The tension between us was palpable now, a living thing that hummed in the air, that made my skin prickle with awareness, that turned each breath into a conscious act.

"And how do you plan to find these limits?" he asked, his voice dropping to a register that sent heat pooling low in my belly.

I reached across the table, my fingers brushing his hand where it rested beside his wine glass. "I have a few ideas."

His hand remained perfectly still beneath my touch, neither withdrawing nor responding. His eyes, however, darkened perceptibly, pupils dilating with what I recognized as desire.

"I'm sure you do," he said, his voice betraying nothing of what his eyes revealed. "But I think you'll find my limits more resilient than you anticipate."

"Is that a challenge?" I asked, trailing my fingers up his wrist, feeling his pulse jump beneath my touch.

"An observation," he corrected, still not moving, still maintaining that maddening control despite the heat I could feel building between us.

I withdrew my hand slowly, deliberately. "Well, I've always enjoyed proving observations wrong."

His lips curved in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "And I’ve always enjoyed watching you try."

The dessert arrived—something rich and sinful, all dark chocolate and fresh cream. I took a bite, closing my eyes for a moment as the flavor melted on my tongue. The sound I made was soft, pleased, just this side of indulgent.

"This is incredible," I murmured, letting the spoon linger between my lips before sliding it out slowly, the tip of my tongue catching the last of the chocolate.

Rafe’s eyes were locked on my mouth now, tracking every movement with sharp, focused intent. His shoulders remained squared, but there was a new tension coiled through him, tight and humming beneath the surface. His jaw flexed once, then again.

"I'm glad you're enjoying it," he said, voice low.

"I am," I said, dipping a finger into the dollop of cream on the side of the plate. I brought it to my lips, dragging my tongue along the tip with deliberate, lazy ease before slipping it into my mouth and sucking it clean. “Very much.”

His composure didn’t crack—but it wavered. His eyes followed my hand like a hawk tracks prey. The faintest hitch in his breath betrayed him, and the muscle ticking in his jaw told me I was getting under his skin.

"Careful. You're going to make me forget we're pretending to be civilized."

"Who, me?" I blinked, all faux-innocence as I licked the edge of the spoon again. "I’m just enjoying what's in front of me."

"Mm," he murmured, dark eyes on my mouth. "So am I."

I laughed, the sound genuine despite the tension thrumming between us. "At least we're both maintaining our polite fictions."

He smiled then, a real smile that transformed his severe features, that made him look younger, more human. "Indeed."

We finished dessert in a silence charged with unspoken words, with desire neither of us was willing to acknowledge directly. When the plates were cleared, Rafe stood, offering his hand to help me from my chair.

"Would you like a nightcap?" he asked, his voice perfectly steady despite the heat I could feel radiating from him as I stood close—deliberately close—beside him.

"I would," I said, not moving away, testing how long he would allow me to remain in his personal space without reacting.

He led me to a small sitting area near the fireplace, where two armchairs faced each other across a low table. Not the seating arrangement I would have chosen for my purposes—I'd been hoping for a sofa, for the opportunity to sit beside him, to continue my campaign of subtle provocation.

Clever man. Always one step ahead.

He poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter, handing one to me before taking the seat across from mine.

The distance between us was both a relief and a frustration—giving me space to breathe, to think, but also denying me the proximity I needed to continue my assault on his control.

"To honesty," he said, raising his glass in a toast that echoed our exchange from the previous night.

"To honesty," I echoed, taking a sip of what turned out to be excellent brandy.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room, creating an atmosphere of intimacy despite the formal setting. I crossed my legs, allowing my dress to ride up slightly, revealing a few more inches of thigh than strictly necessary.

Rafe's eyes flickered to the movement, then back to my face, his expression unchanged—but his gaze lingered just a second too long.

"You seem restless tonight."

"Do I?" I took another sip of brandy, letting it warm me from the inside. "I suppose I am, in a way. Curious. Experimental. Seeing what happens when I push certain buttons."

"And what have you learned from your experiments so far?" he asked, his tone conversational despite the underlying tension.

I considered the question, tilting my head slightly. "That you have remarkable self-control. That you're aware of my attempts to provoke you but choose not to respond overtly. That you're... enjoying the game as much as I am."

His lips curved in a slight smile. "Perceptive, as always."

"But incomplete?" I guessed, echoing his words from our previous encounter.

"Yes," he acknowledged. "You're missing a key piece of the puzzle."

"Which is?"

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "That control isn't about denial. It's about timing. About knowing when to hold back and when to... indulge."

The way he said "indulge"—low, rough, laden with promise—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with fear.

"And what determines that timing?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Many factors," he replied, sitting back in his chair, the movement casual yet somehow predatory. "The situation. The stakes. The... readiness of all involved."

The implication hung in the air between us, charged with possibilities I wasn't sure I was ready to face.

"And am I ready?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

His smile was slow, knowing. "No. Not yet."

The certainty in his voice was both infuriating and thrilling—a challenge and a promise wrapped in three simple words.

"That's presumptuous," I said, fighting to maintain my composure despite the heat building inside me. "You can't know what I'm ready for."

"Can't I?" he asked softly. "You're playing a game, Grace. Testing boundaries, pushing buttons, seeing what reactions you can provoke. It's strategic, calculated—a way to gain some sense of control in a situation where you feel you have none."

His assessment was uncomfortably accurate, stripping away my pretenses with surgical precision.

"And what's wrong with that?" I challenged, unwilling to concede the point entirely.

"Nothing," he said simply. "It's natural. Understandable. Even admirable, in its way. But it's not readiness. It's not surrender. It's just another form of resistance."

I stared at him, caught off guard by his insight, by the way he seemed to see through my carefully constructed performance to the uncertainty beneath.

"And that's what you want, isn't it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Surrender. Not just my body, but my will. My choice to give up choice."

"No," he said, surprising me. "What I want is your choice to give yourself to me completely. Not giving up choice, but exercising it in the most profound way possible. There's a difference."

The distinction seemed semantic at first, but as I turned it over in my mind, I began to see what he meant. The difference between submission under duress and submission freely chosen. Between surrender as defeat and surrender as gift.

"And you think I'm not ready for that," I said, not quite a question.

"I know you're not," he replied, his certainty both irritating and oddly comforting. "But you will be. In time."

He stood then, setting his empty glass on the table between us. "It's getting late. I'll walk you to your room."

The abrupt shift, the denial of the tension we'd been building all evening, left me momentarily speechless.

I had been so certain I was the one in control of this game, the one pushing his buttons, testing his limits.

Only to discover that he had been several steps ahead the entire time, seeing through my strategy, waiting patiently for me to exhaust myself against the immovable wall of his self-control.

I stood, somewhat unsteady on my feet—from the alcohol or the emotional whiplash, I wasn't sure. "That's it? Dinner, conversation, goodnight?"

His smile was gentle but unyielding. "For tonight, yes."

"And if I don't want it to be?" I challenged, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to inhale the faint, expensive cologne that clung to his skin like a secret.

"Then you're proving my point about readiness," he said, voice low and smooth, not backing away—but not giving me the satisfaction of closing the gap either. "When you want me for me—not to win, not to test yourself—but because you can't not want me, then we'll talk."

The precision of the strike left me winded. Not cruel. Just... accurate. Tonight had been a performance, a test I thought I was administering. Turns out, I was the subject all along.

"You're very sure of yourself," I said, aiming for indifference and landing somewhere closer to breathless.

"I'm sure of what I see when I look at you." His gaze flicked down, lingering—too briefly to be improper, but long enough to make my pulse jump. "The fight. The fire. The need. You wear it all like armor, but I know exactly what’s underneath."

And that—his clarity, his control—was the most dangerous part. Not that he wanted me. But that he understood me. Saw me. Saw through me.

"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the door with that same practiced composure, as if we hadn’t just dragged the room to the edge of something electric.

I nodded, tongue-tied by the aftermath of a war I hadn’t realized I was losing.

We walked in silence through the darkened corridors, footsteps echoing off marble and the distant tick of some ancient clock. When we reached my door, he paused. The air between us pulsed with unspoken tension.

"Thank you for joining me tonight," he said, all calm civility. A mask. A dare. "I enjoyed our conversation."

"So did I," I said truthfully, though my voice felt like it came from someone else. I had enjoyed it. Too much.

He reached out, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed my cheek—barely there. A touch that felt less like a goodbye and more like a promise.

"Goodnight, Grace," he said, just above a whisper.

"Goodnight, Rafe."

He turned and walked away without looking back, each step maddeningly controlled. Each step another thread of anticipation left dangling, unresolved.

That, I realized, was his real weapon. Not power. Not threat.

Restraint.

I closed the door behind me, breath catching in my throat as I leaned against it. My body felt like a live wire, buzzing, aching, hungry for something I couldn’t name and wasn’t sure I should want.

I had gone in trying to unnerve him. Seduce him, maybe. Disarm him.

But he’d turned it back on me with surgical precision, and now I was the one left shaken.

Not because he touched me.

Because he didn’t.

And that was the sharpest cut of all.