Page 39 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

" I have something for you."

Rafe stood in the doorway of the music room, watching me as my fingers stilled on the piano keys. I'd been playing for hours—Chopin, mostly, the melancholy nocturnes that matched my mood. The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

It was the first time all day I’d heard his voice without it being a command.

Without it being pressed into my ear as he held me down, or whispered low as he dragged me to the edge with nothing but his hands.

In the weeks I’d been here, our days had blurred into something visceral, rhythmic, unspeakable.

We’d fucked everywhere. Against walls, across silk sheets, in the shower, in the dark quiet moments just before dawn.

I had no idea how he still wanted me like that.

How I still wanted him. But it hadn’t burned out—it had only deepened.

Until it wasn’t just sex. It was ritual.

Hunger. Need. Until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.

And maybe that was why I hadn’t looked at the outside world yet. Why I hadn’t asked for answers, even when I knew they were within reach. Because every time he touched me, every time he called me good girl while I came for him, I forgot there had ever been another life at all.

"What is it?" I asked, curious despite myself. In the time I'd been here, Rafe had given me many things besides orgasms—clothes, books, freedom to roam the estate—but his expression now was different. Hesitant, almost.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. In his hand was a small black rectangle I recognized immediately.

My phone.

My breath caught in my throat. "Is that?—"

"Yes," he said, crossing to where I sat at the piano. "I thought it was time."

I stared at the device as he placed it on the piano's glossy surface. Such a small thing, yet it represented everything I'd lost—my connection to the outside world, my independence, my former life. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for it.

"Why now?" I asked, not touching it yet, afraid of what I might find. Or not find.

Rafe's expression was unreadable. "Because you're ready for the truth. All of it."

The implication hung in the air between us. I'd known, intellectually, that my father hadn't come for me. I'd heard it with my own ears during that meeting. But part of me had clung to the hope that someone else—my brothers, my friends, anyone—had noticed my absence. Had cared enough to look.

"It's been charged," Rafe said quietly. “You can check your messages, your emails. Whatever you need to see."

I nodded, still not touching the phone. "And after?"

"After, I'll take it back," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "This isn't freedom, Grace. Just clarity."

Of course. He wouldn't risk me contacting anyone, using the GPS, attempting to summon help. This was a controlled exposure to the truth, nothing more.

Yet it was still more than I'd expected.

"Thank you," I said, the words feeling strange on my tongue. Thanking my captor for returning, however briefly, something that had been mine to begin with.

He nodded, moving toward the door. "I'll give you privacy. Take as long as you need."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the small black device that had once been an extension of my hand, my lifeline to the world.

I took a deep breath and picked it up.

The screen lit up at my touch, displaying the familiar lock pattern.

My fingers traced it automatically, muscle memory intact despite the weeks that had passed.

The home screen appeared, showing the same background I'd chosen months ago—a sunset over the Charles River, taken from my apartment window.

A wave of homesickness hit me with unexpected force. That apartment, that view, that life—it all seemed like it had belonged to someone else. A different Grace, from a different time.

I checked the date. Six weeks. I'd been at the Conti estate for six weeks.

With trembling fingers, I opened my voicemail. The notification showed one new message. Just one, in six weeks of absence.

I pressed play, holding the phone to my ear.

"Grace, it's Connor." My youngest brother's voice filled my ear, tense and hurried.

"Look, I don't know where you are, but Dad's telling everyone you're at some study retreat in Vermont.

He got pissed when I asked questions. Something's not right.

Call me back if you get this. I'm... I'm worried about you. "

The message ended. I checked the timestamp. Three days after my abduction. Nothing since.

I played it again, listening for any clue, any hint of a search, of concern beyond my youngest brother's brief worry. There was nothing.

With a growing sense of dread, I checked my text messages. A few from friends wondering why I'd missed study group or coffee dates. Nothing indicating real concern, just mild annoyance or curiosity. As if I'd simply flaked on plans rather than disappeared from the face of the earth.

My email was the same—school announcements, promotional offers, a few messages from classmates about assignments. Nothing from my father. Nothing from my older brothers. Nothing that suggested anyone was looking for me, missing me, wondering where I'd gone.

I set the phone down, my hands now steady but my chest hollow. The truth I'd suspected, had even heard confirmed during that meeting, was now undeniable. No one had come for me. No one had searched. No one had cared enough to question my father's explanation.

I was alone. Had been alone all along, perhaps.

The realization settled over me like a physical weight, pressing against my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I'd built my life around distance from my family while still clinging to the belief that I mattered to them. That if it came down to it, blood would count for something.

I'd been wrong.

I picked up the phone again, my finger hovering over Connor's number. I could call him back. Tell him where I was. Ask for help.

But what would that accomplish? My father knew where I was.

Had known all along. Had chosen to leave me here, to use me as a bargaining chip in his negotiations with the Contis.

If I called Connor, I'd only be putting him in danger—caught between his father and the Conti family, forced to choose sides in a war he couldn't win.

And even if he wanted to help, what could he do? He was the youngest, with the least power, the least influence. My father would shut him down immediately.

I set the phone down again, the decision made. There was no point. No rescue coming. No cavalry on the horizon.

Just me and the choices I had left.

I was still sitting at the piano, the phone untouched beside me, when Rafe returned an hour later. He took in my expression, the untouched phone, the stillness of my posture.

"You saw," he said. Not a question.

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

He crossed to the piano, picking up the phone and slipping it into his pocket. He didn't ask what I'd found. Didn't press for details. Just stood there, a solid presence in the shattered landscape of my reality.

"Would you like to be alone?" he asked quietly.

I considered the question, weighing the instinct to curl inward against the sudden, desperate need not to be by myself with these thoughts, these realizations.

"No," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, taking a seat beside me on the piano bench. Not touching, not speaking, just there. Present in a way no one in my family had been for years, perhaps ever.

We sat in silence as the afternoon light faded to dusk, as shadows lengthened across the floor, as the reality of my situation settled into my bones with a finality I couldn't deny.

No one was coming for me. No one was looking. No one cared enough to question my absence.

The truth should have devastated me. Should have broken me completely. Instead, it settled over me with a strange sense of clarity, of certainty. The last illusion stripped away, leaving only what was real.

And what was real was this: I was alone in the world except for the man beside me. The man who had taken me against my will, who had declared he would never let me go, who had shown me more honesty and, strangely, more care than my own blood.

"I'd like to go back to my room," I said finally, as the last light faded from the windows.

Rafe nodded, standing and offering his hand. I took it, allowing him to help me up, to guide me through the darkening corridors of the estate. His hand was warm and solid in mine, an anchor in a world that had suddenly lost all familiar reference points.

When we reached my door, I hesitated, not wanting to be alone but not knowing how to ask for what I needed.

Rafe seemed to understand without words. "Would you like me to stay?" he asked, his voice gentle, free of any suggestion or expectation.

I nodded, relief washing through me at not having to voice the request.

He followed me into the room, closing the door behind us. I moved to the window, staring out at the night, at the distant lights of a world that had forgotten I existed.

The tears came then, silent at first, then building to sobs that shook my entire body.

I pressed my hand against the cool glass, trying to anchor myself as grief washed over me in waves—not just for my current situation, but for the illusion I'd lived with for years.

The belief that I mattered to my family, that blood meant something, that I wasn't ultimately expendable.

I felt Rafe's presence behind me, close but not touching, giving me space to feel this, to process it, to grieve.

"I knew," I said finally, my voice raw from crying. "I knew they wouldn't come. I heard it in that meeting. But part of me still hoped... still thought someone would notice. Would care."

"I know," he said simply, offering understanding without platitudes.

I turned to face him, wiping tears from my cheeks with trembling hands. "Why did you give me the phone? Why now?"

He was quiet for a moment, considering his answer. "Because you needed to see for yourself," he said finally. "To move forward, you needed to know the truth. All of it."

"Move forward to what?" I asked, the question that had been haunting me for weeks finally finding a voice.

He stepped closer, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "To whatever you choose, within the parameters of our reality."

Our reality. The phrase hung in the air between us, laden with meaning. The reality where I was here, with him, indefinitely. Where no rescue was coming. Where the only choices left to me were the ones I made within these walls, within this relationship, whatever it was becoming.

"I don't know what I want anymore," I admitted, the honesty costing me less than it once would have.

"You don't have to know tonight," he said gently. "Tonight is for grieving. For accepting. Tomorrow is for deciding."

The simplicity of it, the lack of pressure or expectation, loosened something in my chest. I nodded, suddenly exhausted, the emotional toll of the day catching up with me all at once.

"I want to sleep," I said, my voice small in the quiet room.

"Of course." He turned toward the door, clearly assuming I meant alone.

"Stay," I said, the word escaping before I could reconsider. "Just... stay with me. Please."

He paused, studying my face for a long moment, searching for something—uncertainty, perhaps, or reluctance. Finding none, he nodded. "If that's what you want."

"It is."

I changed in the bathroom, washing my face, trying to erase the evidence of tears.

When I emerged in a simple nightgown, Rafe had removed his shoes and jacket but remained otherwise dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, his posture conveying respect for my boundaries despite our growing intimacy.

I climbed into bed, pulling the covers up around me, suddenly shy despite everything we’d shared. Rafe remained where he was, not presuming, waiting for direction.

“Lie with me,” I said softly. “Just hold me. Nothing more.”

He nodded, moving to stretch out beside me on top of the covers, a small gesture that acknowledged the limits I’d set. I turned onto my side, and his arm came around me, pulling me gently against his chest, his body warm and solid against my back.

It was a strange kind of quiet—the kind that settled in the absence of restraint, after so much noise.

So much taking. We’d been reckless with each other these past weeks.

Demanding. Rough. His dominance had burned through me like a fever, but his aftercare had always been just as exacting.

Just as deliberate. Every bruise he left was followed by balm.

Every broken breath answered with steady silence, a palm to my spine, a hand in my hair, his voice at my ear until I felt like I existed again.

But this? This wasn’t aftermath.

This was something softer.

And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.

We lay in silence, his steady breathing a counterpoint to the occasional hitches in mine as residual tears found their way to the surface.

He didn’t speak, didn’t try to soothe me with empty words or false promises.

Just held me, a steady presence in the darkness, anchoring me as I drifted on a sea of grief and realization.

As sleep began to claim me, a thought surfaced with unexpected clarity: In all my life, I had never been held like this—with care but without demand, with strength but without force. Not by my father, not by my brothers, not by any man I’d dated or friend I’d trusted.

Only by him. The man who had taken everything from me, yet somehow given me something I hadn’t known I needed.

The irony wasn’t lost on me, even as consciousness began to fade. The man who had kidnapped me was the only one who had stayed. The only one who had seen me—really seen me—and decided I was worth keeping, worth fighting for, worth whatever consequences came with claiming me.

It wasn’t love. Wasn’t healthy. Wasn’t anything I could name or categorize or justify.

But as I drifted into sleep, Rafe’s arm a warm weight around me, his heartbeat steady against my back, I couldn’t deny the truth that had been growing inside me for weeks:

For the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere. To someone.

And the most terrifying part wasn’t that it was with him.

It was that it felt right.