Page 41 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

I ordered a latte and a croissant, taking them to a table by the window where I could watch the street outside. Marco and Anthony positioned themselves at a nearby table, close enough to intervene if necessary but giving me the illusion of privacy.

The coffee was good—rich and smooth, different from what was served at the estate but no better. The croissant was flaky and buttery, dissolving on my tongue in a way that should have been pleasurable but tasted like ash.

I found myself watching the people passing by, studying their faces, their clothes, their interactions. Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the woman sitting in their midst who had been erased from the world. Who had become a ghost while still breathing.

"Are you ready to move on, Ms. O'Sullivan?" Marco asked after I'd been sitting for nearly an hour, my coffee long cold, my croissant half-eaten.

I nodded, gathering my things, suddenly eager to leave the café with its normalcy that felt like a mockery of everything I'd lost.

We visited a few shops—a boutique where I bought a scarf I didn't need, a gourmet food store where I selected chocolates and tea, a jewelry store where I browsed without purchasing, the weight of the tracking bracelet on my wrist a constant reminder of my situation.

By three o'clock, I was exhausted—not physically, but emotionally.

The constant awareness of Marco and Anthony, the strain of interacting with shopkeepers and baristas as if I were a normal person, the weight of seeing a world that had continued without me—it all pressed down on me until I felt I could barely breathe.

"I'd like to go back now," I told Marco, who nodded without question, leading the way back to the car.

The drive to the estate was silent, my thoughts too chaotic to form into coherent conversation.

I stared out the window, watching the town give way to countryside, to the winding private road that led to the Conti property, to the massive gates that opened to admit us and closed behind us with the same finality as before.

Home, a treacherous voice whispered in my mind. You're home.

I pushed the thought away, disturbed by how natural it had felt, how right.

Rafe was waiting in the foyer when we arrived, his expression carefully neutral as he took in my appearance, the bags I carried, the bracelet still on my wrist.

"How was your outing?" he asked, dismissing Marco and Anthony with a nod.

"Fine," I replied, moving past him toward the stairs, suddenly desperate to be alone, to process the conflicting emotions the day had stirred up.

He fell into step beside me, not touching me but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle cologne he wore. "Just 'fine'?"

"What do you want me to say, Rafe?" I stopped, turning to face him.

"That it was wonderful to get a taste of freedom only to be reminded that I'm still your prisoner?

That it was enlightening to see that the world has moved on without me?

That it was comforting to confirm that no one is looking for me, that no one cares that I'm gone? "

Pain flickered across his features—not physical, but emotional. A reaction to the bitterness in my voice, to the truth we both acknowledged but rarely spoke aloud.

“I care,” he said, his voice a quiet blade. “Enough to keep you. Enough to ruin whatever I have to in order to make sure no one ever gets to forget you again.”

The simplicity of it, the raw honesty, made my throat tight with emotions I couldn't name. I turned away, continuing up the stairs, needing distance, needing space to think.

He followed, silent now, respecting my need for quiet if not for solitude. When we reached my room—my beautiful prison—I set my purchases on the bed and turned to face him.

"Thank you for today," I said formally, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "It was... informative."

"Informative," he repeated, studying my face with that intense focus that never failed to make my pulse quicken. "That's an interesting choice of word."

"It's the right one," I replied, removing the bracelet and holding it out to him. "I learned exactly where I stand in the world. Nowhere. I don't exist anymore, except here. With you."

He took the bracelet, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that sent electricity up my arm despite everything. "Is that such a terrible place to be?" he asked, his voice low and intent. "Here, with me?"

The question hung between us, loaded with implications, with history, with the strange, evolving thing that our relationship had become.

I looked at him—really looked at him—seeing not just my captor, but the man who had held me while I cried, who had shown me tenderness I'd never known, who had seen me more clearly than anyone ever had.

"I don't know," I admitted, the honesty costing me less than it once would have. "Sometimes I think it's the worst place I could be. And sometimes..."

"Sometimes?" he prompted when I didn't continue.

"Sometimes I think it might be the only place I belong," I finished, the words barely above a whisper.

Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a vulnerability quickly masked. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek in a touch so gentle it made my breath catch.

"You belong here," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "With me. I've known it since the moment I saw you."

The certainty in his voice, in his eyes, was both frightening and comforting—a fixed point in a world that had become increasingly uncertain. I leaned into his touch, allowing myself this small surrender.

"Your possessiveness is showing, Rafe," I said, attempting lightness, needing to break the intensity of the moment.

His lips curved in a slight smile. "It's never been hidden, Grace. Not from you."

"No," I agreed, stepping back from his touch, needing space to breathe. "You've always been very clear about what you want. About who you think I am to you."

"Not who I think you are," he corrected, his eyes never leaving mine. "Who I know you are."

"And who is that?" I challenged, a sudden recklessness taking hold of me. "Your prisoner? Your plaything? Your Stockholm syndrome case study?"

His expression hardened slightly, the vulnerability of moments ago disappearing behind a mask of control. "You know better than that."

"Do I?" I pushed, the emotions of the day finding outlet in this confrontation.

"Because from where I'm standing, I'm still here against my will.

Still wearing your tracking devices when I leave.

Still sleeping in a room you can enter at any time.

Still dependent on you for everything—food, clothing, the illusion of freedom you so generously provide. "

I was being unfair, and I knew it. Our relationship had evolved far beyond simple captor and captive. But the day had left me raw, exposed, needing to lash out at someone, and Rafe was the only target available.

"Is that really how you see it?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "After everything?"

"How should I see it?" I demanded, stepping closer to him, invading his space the way he so often invaded mine. "You've marked every aspect of my life. Controlled every moment. Decided what I can do, where I can go, who I can see. You've claimed me in every way possible except?—"

I stopped abruptly, realizing what I'd been about to say. Except physically. Except with a mark everyone can see. Except with something that can't be removed like a bracelet or a tracking device.

Something flashed in his eyes—understanding, hunger, a decision being made. Before I could react, he closed the distance between us, one hand tangling in my hair, tilting my head to expose the curve where my neck met my shoulder.

"Except this?" he murmured, his breath hot against my skin.

Then his teeth sank into me—not cruel, but deliberate.

Enough to make me gasp, to make my knees wobble, to leave no doubt that I’d carry the mark of his mouth long after he pulled away.

He held the bite for a heartbeat too long, then soothed it with his tongue like an apology he didn’t mean.

When he kissed it, it felt like a signature.

Then he looked up at me, gaze dark and steady. “Now you’re marked,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Visibly. Undeniably. Mine.”

The words didn’t hit me all at once. They spread—slow and searing—through the hollows of my chest, curling hot behind my ribs. He meant it. That wasn’t some throwaway line meant to provoke a blush. That was truth. Ownership. And it shouldn’t have thrilled me the way it did.

But it did. God help me, it did.

Still, something in me snapped.

It wasn’t shame or fear. It wasn’t even defiance. It was something purer. Wilder. An instinct older than words, sharp as instinct and just as dangerous. My hand rose before I thought. There was no plan, no hesitation.

The slap cracked loud in the silence between us. A clean, open-handed strike across his cheek that turned his face with the force of it.

And then everything stopped.

My breath caught. The sting radiated from my palm like heat, like punishment, like the moment everything changed.

He didn’t stumble. Didn’t flinch. He turned back to me slowly, deliberately, with the kind of composure that should have frightened me—but instead made my heart punch harder against my ribs.

His jaw clenched. A flush rose beneath the red imprint on his cheek. But his eyes—his eyes were locked on mine like I was the one who had crossed the line, and he was the one ready to burn for it.

“You feel better now?” he asked, voice low, almost calm.

But there was nothing calm about him.

Not the rigid set of his shoulders. Not the flare of his nostrils. Not the thick silence stretching between us, crackling with something raw and alive. My chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, every part of me thrumming with energy that had nowhere to go.

I should’ve stepped back.

I didn’t.

Neither did he.