Page 34 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

T hree days passed without a word from Rafe.

I had free run of the estate, guards maintaining a respectful distance as I wandered through gardens, swam in the indoor pool, and spent hours in the library.

Meals appeared at regular intervals, served by staff who treated me with polite deference.

My every need was anticipated and met before I could express it.

Everything except the one thing I found myself increasingly unable to ignore: answers.

And, if I was being honest with myself—which I tried to be these days, having little else to occupy my thoughts—something else. Someone else. Him.

After our last dinner, with its charged atmosphere and frustrating conclusion, Rafe had simply.

.. disappeared. Not physically—I caught glimpses of him occasionally, moving between meetings, speaking with staff, always at a distance.

But he made no attempt to approach me, to continue our strange dance of power and submission, to build on whatever was growing between us.

It was maddening. And illuminating.

Because his absence affected me more than I wanted to admit. I found myself looking for him in rooms I entered, listening for his footsteps in hallways, feeling a strange disappointment when another day passed without direct contact.

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

But those clinical terms felt increasingly hollow, inadequate to describe the complexity of what I was feeling. This wasn't just about survival or adaptation. This was about... connection. Understanding. A recognition of something in him that resonated with something in me.

And curiosity. Always curiosity.

By the third evening, I'd made a decision. If Rafe wouldn't come to me, I would go to him. Not out of desperation or loneliness, but with purpose. With a plan.

I knew where his private library was—the sanctuary he'd shown me, the room that was "the most honest part" of him. It seemed the logical place to find him in the evening hours, away from the business of the day.

I dressed with care—not in anything overtly seductive, but in a simple silk blouse and tailored pants that suggested sophistication rather than surrender.

I left my hair loose around my shoulders, applied minimal makeup, and added a touch of the perfume I'd found in my bathroom—something subtle with notes of jasmine and sandalwood.

Armor of a different sort. Weapons of a different kind.

The corridors of the estate were quiet as I made my way to the east wing, where Rafe's private spaces were located.

No one stopped me, though I passed several guards who nodded politely as I walked by.

My expanded freedom was still a strange thing—a cage with the door left tantalizingly ajar, but nowhere safe to fly.

I paused outside the carved wooden door of his library, suddenly uncertain. What if he wasn't there? What if he was, but rejected my approach? What if this plan, like my attempt to provoke him at dinner, backfired spectacularly?

Before I could lose my nerve, I knocked—three sharp raps that seemed to echo in the quiet hallway.

Silence. Then, "Come in."

His voice, low and controlled as always, sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and opened the door.

The library was much as I remembered it—warm, intimate, with shelves of books lining the walls and a fire burning in the stone hearth.

Rafe sat in one of the leather chairs, a book open in his lap, a glass of amber liquid on the table beside him.

He looked up as I entered, surprise flickering briefly across his features before his expression settled into its usual unreadable mask.

"Grace," he said, closing his book and setting it aside. "This is unexpected."

"Is it?" I asked, closing the door behind me. "You've been avoiding me."

He raised an eyebrow, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. "I've been giving you space. There's a difference."

"Space for what?" I moved further into the room, drawn by the warmth of the fire, by his presence, by the strange comfort this room provided despite everything.

"Reflection," he said simply. "Consideration of our last conversation and what it revealed."

I stopped before him, close enough to see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. "And what did it reveal, in your expert opinion?"

His lips curved in a slight smile. "That you're still approaching this—approaching me—as a strategic exercise. A game to be won rather than an experience to be embraced."

The assessment was uncomfortably accurate, as his insights often were. But not entirely true. Not anymore.

"Maybe initially," I conceded, surprising both of us with my honesty. "But things change. People change."

"Do they?" he asked, his voice neutral but his eyes intent on mine.

"Yes," I said simply. "I have."

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze searching, assessing. "What do you want, Grace?"

The question hung between us, deceptively simple yet laden with complexity. What did I want? Freedom? Safety? Understanding? Something else entirely?

"Answers," I said finally, deciding on the most immediate truth. "And something else."

"Which is?"

I met his gaze directly, refusing to shy away from what I'd come here to propose. "You."

The single word seemed to change the air in the room, making it thicker, charged with possibilities. Rafe's expression didn't change, but I saw the slight darkening of his eyes, the almost imperceptible shift in his posture.

"Explain," he said, his voice lower than before.

I took a deep breath, committing to my course. "I want to make a bargain. An exchange. My body for your honesty."

He was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he set his glass down on the table beside him. "A deal? Grace, why would I bargain for something I’ve already proven I can take with very little effort?"

My cheeks flushed despite myself.

"What exactly would this bargain entail?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the heat I could see building behind his eyes.

"Simple," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "For every truth you give me—real truth, not evasions or half-answers—I give you something you want. A touch. A kiss. More, depending on the value of the truth."

His lips curved in a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're commodifying yourself. Turning intimacy into currency. That's not what I want from you."

"Isn't it?" I challenged. "You want surrender. Submission. Control. This is me offering a path to those things, on terms I can accept."

"Terms that keep you safe," he observed. "That maintain the illusion of control even in surrender."

I nodded, not bothering to deny it. "Yes."

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. "And what happens when you run out of questions? When there are no more truths to extract? Does the intimacy end then?"

The question caught me off guard, revealing an assumption I hadn't examined—that this was a temporary arrangement, a means to an end rather than a beginning.

"I don't know," I admitted, the honesty costing me more than I expected. "I haven't thought that far ahead."

"Haven't you?" he asked softly. "Or are you afraid to?"

I looked away, unable to hold his gaze under such direct scrutiny. "Maybe both."

He was silent for a long moment, considering. I could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes, weighing options, assessing risks and rewards.

"Alright," he said finally. "I accept your bargain, with one condition."

I looked back at him, wary. "Which is?"

"That you acknowledge what this really is," he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. "Not a transaction. Not a strategy. But a choice. Your choice to explore what exists between us while maintaining the illusion of control."

The insight was so accurate, so precisely targeted, that it left me momentarily speechless. He was right. This wasn't just about getting answers. It was about finding a way to give myself permission to want him, to act on the desire that had been building since that first kiss.

"Fine," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's a choice. My choice."

He nodded, satisfaction flickering across his features. "Then ask your first question."

I took a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. I had so many questions for Rafe Conti—about his business, his family, his plans for me. But I needed to start somewhere meaningful, somewhere that would establish the value of his honesty.

"Why did you really take me?" I asked, echoing the question I'd asked before but never received a fully satisfactory answer to. "The complete truth, not the edited version."

He considered this, his expression thoughtful.

"It began as business," he said finally.

"Intelligence suggested your father was planning to ally with the Giordanos, using you as a bargaining chip.

Taking you was meant to disrupt that alliance, to send a message about the consequences of crossing the Contis. "

I nodded, having suspected as much. "And then?"

"And then I saw you," he continued, his voice softening slightly. "Not just in photographs or surveillance reports, but you. The real you. Playing piano in your apartment. Studying in the library. Running in the early morning. And something... shifted."

"Shifted how?" I pressed, needing more than these now-familiar words.

He was quiet for a moment, searching for the right explanation.

"I recognized something in you," he said finally.

"A loneliness. A strength. A determination to carve out your own space in a world that wanted to define you by your name.

It... resonated. Made me want to know you, to understand you, to.

.. possess you in a way that went beyond the original plan. "