Page 42 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

He took one step toward me, then another. His body heat wrapped around mine, searing through the space he refused to close. And when he stopped—close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath—he didn’t touch me.

He just looked.

And I saw it then—the shift. The crack in his restraint. The way my defiance didn’t repel him, didn’t frighten him, didn’t even challenge him.

It called to him.

Like it was what he’d been waiting for.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared at me with that slow, burning look like he was about to commit a sin he’d never apologize for.

Then he snapped.

His mouth was on mine before I could breathe, devouring instead of kissing, all tongue and teeth and rage.

He grabbed my face with both hands like he couldn’t believe I existed—like if he didn’t hold me down, I’d disappear.

He walked me backward until I hit the wall with a thud, breath knocked out of me, his body crashing into mine like a wave breaking the shore.

“Hit me again,” he growled, voice rough and wrecked, “and I’ll fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

My breath caught.

His hand slipped into my hair, yanking my head back just enough to bare my throat. His lips dragged along it, open and hot. “You think you hate me? Then hate me,” he whispered, teeth scraping skin. “Hate me with your whole body. I’ll take every ounce of it and fuck it back into you.”

I moaned—angry and needy—and clawed at his shirt. “I do hate you.”

“Good.” He tore the fabric open, buttons scattering like they knew they weren’t welcome. “Because I’ve never wanted anything gentle from you.”

My pants were around my thighs before I could blink. He spun me hard, one hand on the back of my neck, pressing me to the wall, the other dragging my panties to the side with a snarl that made my skin burn. I felt him at my entrance—hot, thick, already pulsing—and I whimpered.

“That’s right,” he muttered, lining up against me. “Dripping for the man you just slapped.”

Then he thrust.

Deep. Hard. No warning, no hesitation. Just his cock splitting me open in one brutal stroke, like he’d waited too long and couldn’t be bothered with patience.

“Fuck— you feel made for me, ” he gritted, grinding into me, his breath rough against my neck. “Tight little cunt just begging to be filled. You’ll never get this from anyone else, Grace. No one will fuck you like I do. No one will ruin you like I will.”

I was panting. Writhing. Moaning his name like it was a curse and a prayer.

“You slap me again, and I’ll bend you over every room in this fucking house,” he hissed, slamming into me. “Leave handprints on every inch of your skin. So you never forget who you belong to.”

“Yours,” I gasped, voice high and broken.

“Say it louder.”

“ Yours .”

He groaned, low and feral, and shoved deeper. One hand wrapped around my throat—not choking, just claiming —while the other reached down and rubbed me fast, rough, relentless. I cried out, legs trembling, body already unraveling.

“You’re going to come for me,” he said darkly. “Soak my cock like a good little bitch, and then beg me to fill you.”

I shattered with a scream, my orgasm ripping through me so hard my knees buckled. He held me up, still fucking me, deeper now, slower, filthier. A claiming. A branding. A promise.

“Feel that?” he growled, voice in my ear. “That’s mine now. This pussy. These screams. That slap. You belong to me in every fucking way.”

He came with a snarl, spilling inside me with a sharp jerk of his hips and a growl that sounded like he’d waited his whole life for this moment. For me .

And even in the aftermath—sweaty, shaking, dripping—we didn’t move.

Because the line between hate and need had vanished completely.

Neither of us moved.

Not at first.

His forehead dropped to my shoulder, sweat slick at the seam where our bodies met, and for a moment, the world stilled. His breathing was heavy—ragged, almost feral—but it matched mine. Perfectly. Like even our wreckage was in sync.

I couldn’t feel my legs. I couldn’t feel anything but the stretch of him still inside me and the way his hands hadn’t left my skin. One at my hip, possessive. The other curved around my throat—not squeezing, not now. Just there , like he wasn’t ready to let go of the place he’d claimed.

“Say it again,” he murmured against my neck.

I swallowed. My voice was raw when it came, wrecked from screaming. “Yours.”

His arm tightened around me. Just a beat. Just enough.

“You don’t get to take that back,” he said.

“I’m not trying to.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and full of unspoken things. I didn’t know what I expected—that he’d pull away, that he’d break the moment with another filthy promise. But he didn’t. He stayed inside me, his breath slowing, grounding us both.

Finally, he eased out, careful. Like I was something breakable now, even after the violence of what we’d just done. He turned me around and pressed his forehead to mine, one hand curling around my jaw, the other sliding into my hair. Holding me there. Seeing me.

His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “You’re shaking.”

“No shit,” I whispered.

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I said, and meant it. “You ruined me. That’s not the same thing.”

He didn’t speak. Just studied me like I was the first thing he’d ever learned to read. And I let him, standing bare in front of him, sweat cooling on my skin, legs unsteady, heart even more so.

“I meant it,” he said after a moment. “All of it. You slap me like that again, I will mark you in every room of this house. But I’ll still wrap you in a blanket after. I’ll still carry you to bed. I’ll still stay.”

My breath hitched. “Why?”

His gaze sharpened. “Because no one else ever has. Because you look at me like you don’t care what parts of me are broken, so long as they belong to you.”

I closed my eyes, chest tight. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

He pulled me against him again, bare skin on bare skin, his mouth at my ear. “Good. Because I’m not going to let you try.”

He didn’t kiss me again. Not yet. He just stood there, arms locked around me like he was holding everything we couldn’t say in place. I pressed my face into his shoulder and exhaled, tasting salt and something quieter.

I stared into the dark, pulse still skipping, mind still catching up to what my body had already accepted.

This wasn’t about falling in love.

It was about falling out of resistance.

I’d crossed a line, and not because he pushed me over it.

Because I walked.

Because I wanted to.

Because part of me liked the way his violence felt like reverence. The way he held me after—quiet, firm, certain—like I was something rare. Not fragile. Just chosen .

I didn’t whisper any declarations into the dark.

I didn’t pretend this was something beautiful.

I just breathed.

We were both too raw to speak. Too full of everything we’d done. What it meant. What it didn’t.

But one thing was clear, even now, even in the wreckage of it:

I wasn’t afraid of Rafe Conti.

I was afraid of what I’d become if I fully allow myself to be his.