Page 35 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

The admission hung in the air between us, raw and honest in a way I hadn't expected. This wasn't just about obsession or control. This was about recognition. Connection. A seeing of something in me that matched something in him.

"Your turn," he said softly, reminding me of our bargain.

I nodded, moving closer to where he sat. Slowly, deliberately, I reached out and brushed my fingers across his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble against my skin. A small touch, but intimate in its gentleness.

His eyes darkened, but he remained still, allowing me to control the contact, the pace, the boundaries of our exchange.

"Next question," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

"Ask," he replied, his own voice rougher than before.

"Did you know my father wouldn't come for me? Before you showed me the meeting?"

Pain flickered across his features—not physical, but emotional. A reaction I hadn't anticipated.

"I suspected," he admitted. "Your father's reputation... his history of prioritizing business over family... it made it likely. But I wasn't certain until the meeting you overheard."

"And you showed me that meeting because...?"

"Because you needed to know the truth," he said simply. "Because as long as you believed someone was coming to save you, you couldn't begin to accept your new reality."

"My reality as your prisoner," I said, unable to keep a hint of bitterness from my voice.

"Your reality as someone who belongs here," he corrected gently. "With me."

The certainty in his voice was both frightening and oddly comforting—a fixed point in a world that had become increasingly uncertain.

I took a deep breath, then leaned down and pressed my lips to his in a brief, controlled kiss. His lips were warm and soft against mine, but he made no move to deepen the contact or take control. When I pulled back, his eyes were darker than before, his breathing slightly uneven.

"Next question," I said, my own voice not quite steady.

"Ask," he repeated, the single word laden with restraint.

I moved to sit on the arm of his chair, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body but not quite touching him. "What do you ultimately want from me, Rafe? Not just physically, not just now, but... eventually. What's the endgame here?"

He looked up at me, his expression more vulnerable than I'd ever seen it.

"I want you to choose me," he said simply.

"Not because you have no other options. Not because you're afraid.

But because you want me as much as I want you.

Because you recognize what I recognized from the beginning—that we belong together.

That we're... the same, in ways that matter. "

The raw honesty in his voice, in his eyes, made my breath catch. This wasn't the answer I'd expected—some declaration of ownership, some vision of me as his permanent captive. This was something both simpler and more complex. More human.

"And if I never make that choice?" I asked softly.

Pain flickered across his features again, quickly masked but unmistakable. "Then we continue as we are. For as long as necessary."

"Forever?" I pressed.

"If that's what it takes," he confirmed, his voice quiet but certain.

The implications of that were staggering—a lifetime in this gilded cage, a permanent limbo of neither freedom nor complete captivity. The fact that he could contemplate such a scenario, could commit to it without hesitation, spoke to a depth of obsession I hadn't fully grasped until now.

I slid from the arm of the chair into his lap, my body making the decision before my mind could fully process it. His hands came to rest lightly on my hips, steadying me but not restraining, allowing me to maintain control of the contact.

Slowly, deliberately, I leaned in and kissed him—not the brief touch of before, but something deeper, more searching.

His lips parted beneath mine, his tongue meeting mine in a dance that was more exploration than battle.

I tangled my fingers in his hair, holding him to me as the kiss deepened, as heat built between us, as the bargain we'd struck began to blur into something else entirely.

When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, his eyes dark with desire, his hands still resting lightly on my hips as if afraid to hold me too tightly.

"Next question," I whispered, my voice unsteady.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

I took a deep breath, gathering my courage for the question that mattered most. "Did you ever plan to let me go? Was there ever a scenario where I would be free to leave?"

The question hung between us, heavy with implication. His expression didn't change, but I felt the slight tensing of his body beneath mine, the momentary hesitation before he answered.

"No," he said finally, the single word both devastating and oddly freeing in its honesty. "From the moment I decided I wanted you—truly wanted you, not just as leverage or a message—there was no scenario where I would willingly let you go."

The admission should have terrified me. Should have filled me with rage, with despair, with renewed determination to escape.

Instead, it settled over me like a weight being lifted—the burden of uncertainty, of false hope, of wondering if there was some magic word or action that would earn my freedom.

There wasn't. There never had been. And knowing that, strangely, felt like its own kind of freedom.

"Thank you," I said softly. "For the truth."

He studied my face, clearly surprised by my reaction. "You're not angry?"

"I'm many things," I replied, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions his admission had evoked. "Angry, yes. Resigned, perhaps. But also... relieved, in a way. To know where I stand. To understand the parameters of my situation without illusion."

His hands tightened slightly on my hips, the first assertive touch he'd initiated since our bargain began. "And now?" he asked, his voice rough with restrained desire. "What happens now, Grace?"

I looked at him—really looked at him—seeing not just the captor, the criminal, the man who had taken everything from me, but also the human beneath.

Complex, contradictory, capable of both cruelty and unexpected kindness.

Obsessed with me, yes, but in a way that went beyond mere possession to something like recognition.

Understanding. A seeing of something in me that matched something in him.

"Now," I said, my voice low, steady, like I was in control—like I wasn’t already burning for him. "I fulfill my end of the bargain."

I kissed him. My body pressed into his with intent, dragging him under with me. His mouth responded immediately—hungry, rough, and just restrained enough to remind me that I was only leading because he was letting me.

Still, I pushed.

My fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt—not carefully, not sweetly. I yanked them open, exposing warm skin, muscle, old scars. My hands were firm, possessive, staking a claim like I had a right to him, like I wasn’t just the prisoner granted a brief illusion of power.

"Grace," he warned, voice tight.

"Quiet," I said, biting at his lower lip. "You're not in charge right now."

He let out a rough laugh, low and sharp. “Aren’t I?”

I stood and pulled him up, walking him back to the couch like I was calling the shots. He sat, spreading his legs slightly, arms resting on the couch back—casual, but the way he watched me said otherwise. Predatory. Waiting.

I stepped between his knees and undid my blouse one button at a time, watching him watch me. His gaze was locked, jaw tight, hands twitching like it took effort not to grab me.

“You can touch,” I said. “If you behave.”

“Grace,” he said, voice gone rougher now. “You think you’re in control. But all I’m doing is waiting for you to give up pretending.”

I ignored him. Took his hands and placed them on my body, dragging them over the curves I wanted him to feel, to crave. His grip tightened, but he held still. Barely.

“Tell me the truth,” I said, letting his fingers skate over the lace covering my breasts. “Tell me what you think about when I’m not there.”

His jaw clenched. “I think about how easily I could break you.” His eyes lifted to mine, burning. “And how much you’d like it.”

His hands traced the curves of my thighs, my hips, my waist—each pass a blend of reverence and possession. When his fingers brushed the lace between my legs, finding me soaked and aching, we both groaned.

"Grace," he murmured, his voice rough with the effort of holding back. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how to please you."

I guided his hand beneath the lace, guiding his fingers exactly where I needed them. "Like this."

He followed my rhythm, picking it up fast. His touch was sure, practiced, devastating. Every stroke was designed to unmake me.

But I wasn’t done leading.

I took his free hand and brought it gently to the column of my throat, resting it there—light pressure, a silent instruction.

His gaze snapped to mine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His fingers flexed at my throat, firm but careful, control crackling through the restraint.

"Keep going," I whispered. “I want it rough.”

He did. His thumb circled just right, his other hand anchoring me by the throat as my body began to shake.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and hard. “I want to see every second of you coming apart.”

I met his gaze and held it, even as my body started to tremble around his fingers. His hand at my throat grounded me, held me right on the knife's edge of surrender.

"Rafe—" I gasped, breath caught, pleasure coiling tight and hot.

"Let go," he growled. "Show me."

I shattered, a broken sound ripping from my throat as I came against his hand, trembling, gasping, clinging to his shoulders as everything inside me unraveled.

He held me through it, murmuring quiet praise against my ear, one hand still steady at my throat—gentle now, grounding, almost tender.