Page 36 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

When I came back to myself, I found him watching me with something raw in his eyes. Hunger, yes. But reverence too. Like he’d just witnessed a sacred thing and hadn’t yet decided what it meant.

"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I should have felt exposed, vulnerable, ashamed of my surrender. Instead, I felt... powerful. Seen. Valued in a way that had nothing to do with my name or my family or what I could provide.

"Your turn," I whispered, reaching for the fastening of his pants.

He caught my hand, surprising me. "You don't have to. This wasn't about?—"

"I want to," I interrupted, meeting his gaze steadily. "Not because of our bargain. Not because I owe you. Because I want to."

The distinction seemed to matter to him. He searched my face for a moment, then nodded, releasing my hand. I undid his pants, helping him slide them off along with his underwear, revealing him fully to my gaze.

He was beautiful in the firelight—all lean muscle and warm skin, his arousal evident in the hardness that jutted proudly from the nest of dark hair at his groin.

I explored him with curious hands, learning the texture of him, the weight, the heat, the places that made his breath catch and his muscles tense.

"Tell me how," I said, echoing his earlier words. "Tell me how to please you."

His hand wrapped around mine, guiding it to the base of his cock—thick, hot, already straining.

“Start slow,” he said, voice already wrecked with need. “Grip it like you mean it. Like you need it.”

I curled my fingers tighter, stroking from base to tip. His jaw flexed. His breath hitched.

“Good girl,” he muttered. “Now get on your knees for me.”

I slid down without hesitation, firelight at my back, the heat of him in front of me like gravity. I looked up.

His eyes were molten.

“You looked so fucking pretty with my hand around your throat,” he said, brushing his thumb across my lip. “Now I want to see how you look with my cock down your throat instead.”

The filth in his voice made my thighs clench. I parted my lips.

He didn’t push—he guided. Controlled. Owned.

“Open wide,” he said. “Relax your jaw. Let me see how much you can take.”

I wrapped my lips around him and took him in, the stretch and weight of it dizzying. His groan was immediate—low, brutal, full of satisfaction.

“Eyes on me,” he said, voice sharper now. “Don’t you dare look away. I want to watch you struggle for it.”

I did. I looked up as I sank lower, spit slicking my chin, my throat working to take more.

“Fuck yes,” he growled. “Just like that. Drooling all over me. So desperate. So fucking pretty when you’re messy.”

His grip tightened in my hair. His hips flexed, a slow, precise push deeper into my mouth. A whimper slipped out, muffled around him, and he hissed in response.

“You hear that?” he asked, voice jagged. “That sound you make when you choke on me? That’s my new favorite fucking sound.”

I worked him harder—tongue curling under the head, hand stroking what I couldn’t swallow. I was a mess. And I didn’t care.

“Christ, Grace,” he rasped. “You were made for this. Look at you—on your knees, mouth full, like you’ve been waiting your whole life to be ruined.”

His rhythm faltered. His breath turned ragged.

“I’m close,” he gritted out. “You gonna take it for me?”

I moaned around him—yes.

And that was it. His whole body went tight, his cock pulsing against my tongue as he came with a broken sound that made something deep in me snap.

When I finally pulled back, gasping, spit shining on my lips, his hands were still in my hair—gentle now, grounding me.

"That wasn't what I expected when you proposed your bargain," Rafe said, voice thick and low in the quiet between us.

I smiled against his skin, still tasting him, still riding the aftershocks. “No?”

“No,” he murmured, dragging his fingers in slow, lazy circles along my bare shoulder. “I thought you'd stay calculated. Distant. Keep the upper hand, like always.”

“So did I,” I admitted, the words slipping out easily now, everything loose and sated. “But sometimes we don’t know what we want until it’s shoved down our throat.”

His breath caught—then he laughed. Low. Rough. A sound that felt like sin.

“Careful, Grace,” he said, mouth curving against my temple. “You keep talking like that and I’ll forget this was supposed to be your moment in control.”

“You never really forgot,” I whispered, tracing a finger down the line of his abs. “You just let me pretend.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t need to.

His hand slid down my spine, stopping just above the curve of my ass. “And now that it’s not pretend? Now that the dust has settled... What do you want?”

I lifted my head. Met his gaze. No hiding in it now—no mask, no ploy, no veil of manipulation. Just me. Just him.

“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “Not all of it. But I know I want this. Whatever this is. For now.”

It wasn’t submission. Wasn’t forgiveness. Wasn’t freedom. But it was real.

And somehow, that was enough for him.

“For now,” he echoed, brushing hair back from my face, voice still rough from where I'd left him. “I can work with that.”

We stayed tangled in the afterglow, our bodies humming with the residue of friction and fire.

We talked in half-thoughts, let the silence do the heavy lifting.

When the flames in the hearth gave way to embers, he helped me dress, every movement patient and deliberate—fingertips grazing skin like a reverent afterthought.

Not possessive. Not gentle.

Earned.

At the door, I hesitated.

Beyond it waited the version of him I was supposed to fear. The version of me that was still a prisoner. That knew better.

"What happens now?" I asked, echoing the words I’d spoken the night this all began.

Rafe didn’t flinch. “That depends on you. On what you want next. What you’re ready for.”

“And if I’m not sure?”

He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it was instinct. His thumb brushed the edge of my jaw. “Then we figure it out together. No pressure. No lies. Just the truth. Day by day.”

It shouldn’t have felt like freedom. But somehow it did.

“Alright,” I said. “Day by day.”

He walked me back in silence, his hand a steady weight at the small of my back—not a grip. A tether.

When we reached my room, he hesitated.

His gaze skimmed over my face like he was memorizing it. Like he hadn’t already.

“Goodnight, Grace,” he said, voice hushed.

“Goodnight, Rafe.”

I rose onto my toes and kissed him, unthinking, uncalculated. Not a transaction. Just a choice.

Then I slipped inside and shut the door.

I stood there, breathless, fingers still pressed to the wood. My lips still tingled from the taste of him. My thighs still ached.

And yet, something colder crept in behind the heat.

Because what happened between us—what I let happen, what I wanted —wasn’t freedom.

It was a shift.

Not resistance. Not surrender.

Something in between.

Something with claws.

Something that was already sinking its teeth into me.