Page 37 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

I knew something was different the moment I opened the door.

The air was heavier—not just scented, but curated, like he'd filled the room with the intention of making me breathe him in. Sandalwood, spice, something darker beneath. A masculine mix that clung to the back of my throat and made my pulse spike.

The lights were off, but the room glowed—not a soft glow, but shadowed, the light from a dozen flickering candles stretching long and low across the walls. They weren’t haphazard. Each flame felt deliberate, strategic. Like a trap that burned slowly, seductively.

And the bed…

The usual sheets were gone. In their place: deep burgundy silk, lush and decadent, the kind of fabric meant to bare skin. A single dark rose lay in the center, petals full and heavy, just this side of wilting. Like it had been plucked at the peak of beauty and left to wait.

This wasn’t decoration.

This was a setup.

My heart kicked hard against my ribs as I stepped inside, the quiet hum of anticipation thick in the air. This wasn’t just seduction.

This was control.

And it had Rafe written all over it.

The knock came—three short, deliberate raps—and I already knew it was him.

“Come in,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

The door opened, and Rafe stepped through like he owned the space.

No hesitation, no pretense. Just quiet confidence wrapped in dark clothing—black slacks, a charcoal shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was damp, like he’d just stepped out of a shower, and that scent I’d noticed earlier—sandalwood, smoke, something darker—wrapped around him like another layer of command.

He closed the door without a word and looked at me. Really looked at me. His gaze was heavy, assessing, like he was taking inventory of every breath I drew, every flicker of uncertainty.

“Grace,” he said, my name low and deliberate. Not soft. Not tender. Controlled.

My throat tightened. “What is all this?”

He didn’t answer right away—just stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that made something tighten low in my belly. His eyes swept the room, then found mine again. Controlled. Measured. But burning.

“This isn’t decoration,” he said finally, his voice low, rough. “It’s atmosphere. I wanted your full attention tonight.”

He had it. Even if I didn’t show it.

“So you can play some new game?”

His mouth curled, amused. “Not a new game. Just... a new level.”

He moved closer, unhurried, and the scent of him hit me again—clean skin, candle smoke, and whatever cologne clung to him like heat.

“I’ve taken before,” he said, eyes pinned to mine. “Pushed. Teased. Made you ask for things you didn’t want to admit you needed.”

I didn’t deny it. He wasn’t wrong.

“But tonight,” he continued, his voice softening into something more dangerous, “I want to see what happens when you give without being pushed. When you follow without the threat.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered there. “I want surrender, Grace. Not resistance. Not bargaining. Just… you. Open. Willing. Bare.”

My throat tightened. “You think I’m just going to hand that over?”

He smiled—slow, knowing. “No. I think you’ll make me earn it. But I also think you want to see what I’ll do when you do.”

He stepped back slightly. Not retreating. Just… waiting.

“You don’t trust easy,” he said. “But I don’t need easy. I just need real.”

And somehow, that was more dangerous than anything he’d done before.

I didn’t answer him right away.

Because this wasn’t how Rafe operated. He didn’t linger in the doorway offering invitations.

He didn’t ask for trust. He didn’t play at softness or make room for hesitation.

He took—ruthlessly, expertly—until I was left gasping, unsure whether I wanted to claw at him or cling to him.

But now, he was standing still, giving me time. Letting me choose.

And somehow, that made him even more dangerous.

“This is different,” I said, finally, the words thinner than I meant them to be.

He nodded once. “It is.”

“Why?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’ve already bent you with pressure. Now I want to see what happens when you bend on your own.”

I felt something pull tight in my chest. “What are you trying to prove?”

“That I can make you give me everything,” he said, quiet but certain. “Not because you’re scared. Not because you’re out of options. Because you want to. Because part of you already does.”

There was no heat in his tone, no arrogance. Just that same lethal patience. Like he already knew the outcome and was simply letting me catch up.

“And if I say no?” I asked, lifting my chin like it could make a difference.

His mouth curved, slow and razor-sharp. “Then I pour us a drink. I sit across the room and let you pretend you’re not already wet for me. I let you pretend you don’t wonder what it would feel like to give in without a fight.”

My breath hitched.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, could smell the clean spice of his skin beneath the candlelight. He didn’t reach for me. Didn’t touch. Just looked.

“But if you say yes,” he said, voice low and lethal, “then I show you what it feels like to be unraveled slowly. Worshipped like a secret. Fucked like a prayer.”

My pulse kicked hard.

“You want me to surrender,” I said. “Completely.”

He nodded. “For one night. One choice. No bargains. No pushing. You give yourself to me—and I make you forget you ever needed control to feel safe.”

It shouldn’t have turned me on. But it did. That calm, calculated authority. The certainty. The way he didn’t ask for trust—he simply built a room around me that made it impossible to give it to anyone else.

The silence thickened between us, stretching like tension across a wire. He didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just waited.

And when I finally spoke, my voice didn’t shake.

“All right.”

Something changed behind his eyes. Satisfaction, yes—but something darker too. Possession. Hunger held tight on a leash.

“Good girl,” he said, the words silk-wrapped steel. “Then undress. Slowly. And look at yourself while you do it. I want you to see what I see when you come undone for me.”

I held his gaze for a breath too long. Not resisting. Not agreeing. Just… calculating. Testing.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just waited, still as a predator before the pounce.

The dress clung to me in the heat—black, fitted, minimal. It had felt casual when I put it on. Now it felt strategic. Like I’d walked into his trap on my own two feet.

I turned to the mirror.

Candlelight bled across my skin, making every inch of me look more deliberate than I felt. My breathing was too shallow. My mouth too open. My pulse—a hard, visible beat at my throat.

I dragged the hem of the dress up slowly, watching the fabric stretch, wrinkle, inch higher. I didn’t unzip it. I peeled it away, let it catch on my hips, cling to my thighs, then drop.

No bra. Just a scrap of black lace between my legs, damp enough to betray me.

I didn’t turn around. I looked myself dead in the eye, bare and lit and trembling.

And I didn’t hide from it.

“Touch the mirror,” Rafe said.

I did. Pressed both palms flat to the glass, the coolness sharp against my heat. He came up behind me—close, but not touching. I could feel him there, the tension of his body like a held breath.

“No cuffs. No rope,” he said, voice like cut velvet. “But don’t think that makes this soft.”

I swallowed hard.

“You’ve never needed to be tied down, Grace,” he said, leaning in so his breath grazed my ear. “You just needed the right reason to hold still.”

His hand ghosted down my spine, slow, measured, not quite contact—just command . I shivered.

“If you move without permission, I stop,” he murmured. “You break position, I walk out that door. You want this? Prove it. With control. With stillness. With fucking discipline.”

It wasn’t a dare.

It was a test .

And it was worse than any bind. Because now I had no excuse. No rope to blame. No pressure to push back against.

Just my own body. My own choice.

“Yes,” I said. Quiet. Certain.

“Say it again.”

“Yes, Rafe.”

Something in his expression shifted. A flicker of satisfaction, dark and controlled. He stepped back, letting the space between us stretch again.

“Get on the bed,” he said. “Back to the headboard. Legs spread. Hands flat on the sheets, palms down. If they move, we’re done.”

I obeyed.

Not because I had to.

Because I wanted to see how far he could take me if I gave him nothing to fight.

And that was the most dangerous part.

The silk was cool beneath my back, slick under my palms where they pressed flat against the sheets.

I lay exactly where he told me to—body bare, legs parted, arms stretched above my head, hands open and still.

Every inch of me was exposed, but not just physically.

This wasn’t about nudity. It was about compliance.

Willing submission. And the terrifying power of restraint when it came from me, not him.

I could feel him moving before I saw him.

His steps were slow, unhurried, deliberate.

He circled the bed like a man considering the most efficient way to dismantle something valuable without breaking it.

I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling, the flicker of candlelight catching the corners of my vision, throwing everything into gold-edged shadow.

I could feel my pulse in my wrists, in my throat, between my legs.

Not from fear. From pressure. From the weight of stillness, of being watched and not touched, of being given nothing but silence and the command to stay exactly as I was.

“You’re already shaking,” he said quietly, voice low and even, like he was reading off a list of facts. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could. “It’s not weakness,” he added after a beat. “It’s anticipation. Your body knows what’s coming before your mind will admit it.”

He stepped closer, and the mattress dipped slightly as he climbed up.

He didn’t reach for me. He just knelt there, looking down, his presence a gravitational force that made every second heavier.

I could feel the heat coming off his skin, the scent of him—clean, spiced, still tinged with smoke and sweat—and it took everything in me not to arch toward it.

To keep still . He was giving me nothing to fight against. No pressure, no command beyond this: stay still, stay open, stay willing.

The discipline had to come from me. And that made it worse. That made it real .

“You’ve let me take before,” he said, his tone soft but edged. “But tonight isn’t about what I pull from you. It’s about what you offer . Because offering? That’s the kind of power you don’t give unless you trust I’ll know what to do with it.”

He lifted one hand and brushed the back of his knuckles along the inside of my thigh. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to make every nerve ending scream for more. My muscles flinched, instinctive, and he pulled his hand back like it burned.

“That’s one.”

I blinked, breath catching hard in my throat. “What?”

“You moved,” he said simply, settling back on his heels. “You don’t get to move unless I say so.”

I felt heat rush up my chest, shame and arousal twisted so tightly I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. I clenched my fingers against the sheets, palms still flat, the edges of control fraying faster than I wanted to admit.

“You think I need to tie you to keep you here?” he continued, almost contemplative now. “You think cuffs would hold you better than the sound of my voice? You’ve never needed rope, Grace. You’ve only needed someone who knew how to get under your skin deep enough that you would keep yourself still.”

The way he said my name—low, deliberate—struck a nerve. His hand returned, trailing higher this time, slow as smoke. Still not touching where I needed him, but close. Too close. I let out a breath I hadn’t meant to, hips twitching involuntarily toward his hand.

He froze. “That’s two.”

Fuck. I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, trying to lock my body back down.

It wasn’t even the contact that was undoing me—it was the denial of it.

The fact that he was so close, so restrained, so measured .

Like this wasn’t about need at all. It was about control.

And control, in his hands, was the most brutal seduction I’d ever known.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned in, lips grazing the edge of my hipbone like a warning. “You won’t last long. But that’s the point, isn’t it?”

His mouth hovered over me, breath warm against my skin. He didn’t press closer. Didn’t kiss. Didn’t taste. He waited. Not for my permission—but for my discipline to snap.

“You want to move so badly it hurts,” he murmured, the words more intimate than any touch. “But you won’t. Because I told you not to. And because you know that holding yourself still for me is the filthiest thing you’ve ever done.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I was too close to unraveling, and he hadn’t even touched me properly yet.

And still—I stayed still.

Because this was what he asked for.

Not surrender by force.

Surrender by choice.