Page 6 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

For a few minutes, I forgot about law school and the O'Sullivan name and the weight of expectations. I was just a body in motion, existing in the moment, free in a way I rarely allowed myself to be.

When I opened my eyes again, the sensation hit me immediately—a prickling awareness at the back of my neck, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

I scanned the crowd, looking for the source, but saw only other dancers lost in their own worlds. Then, slowly, I raised my gaze to the balcony.

In the shadows of an alcove, partially hidden by a column, stood a figure. I couldn't make out features, just a silhouette—tall, broad-shouldered, utterly still amid the movement around him.

Watching me.

I knew it with a certainty that defied logic. In a room full of people, his eyes were on me.

A shiver ran through me, not entirely unpleasant. I should have looked away, should have felt violated by the scrutiny. Instead, I found myself staring back, challenging the unseen observer.

The moment stretched, electric and dangerous, until Lila bumped into me, breaking the connection.

"You okay?" she shouted over the music, noticing my distraction.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Just needed a breather. I'm going to get another drink."

She gave me a thumbs up before turning back to the attractive stranger who'd been dancing nearby.

I made my way to the bar, ordering a water this time. I needed a clear head. As I waited, I couldn't resist glancing back at the balcony.

The figure was gone.

Relief and disappointment warred in my chest, an unsettling combination that made no sense. I took my water and found a quiet corner, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of being observed.

It was probably nothing. A trick of the light. A product of my overactive imagination and Lila's talk of watching and being watched.

But as the night wore on, as I rejoined Lila on the dance floor and later at a table with people she'd met, the feeling returned again and again—that prickling awareness, that certainty of being the focus of someone's undivided attention.

Each time I looked up, searching the balcony, the shadows, the edges of the crowd. Each time finding nothing concrete, just glimpses of a tall figure that vanished when I tried to focus on it.

By midnight, the sensation had become almost a presence itself—a shadow following me through the club, watching, waiting. It should have frightened me. Instead, it created a strange, heady tension that hummed beneath my skin like electricity.

"I need some air," I told Lila around 1 AM, the press of bodies and the weight of unseen eyes becoming too much.

She frowned, concern briefly cutting through her alcohol-induced cheer. "Want me to come with?"

"No, stay. I'll be right back."

I made my way through the crowd toward a side door marked with an exit sign. It opened onto a small courtyard, once part of the church grounds, now transformed into a smoking area with stone benches and potted plants.

The night air was cool against my flushed skin, the relative quiet a relief after the pounding music inside. A few other patrons lingered in the courtyard, smoking or talking in low voices, but it was peaceful compared to the chaos of the club.

I found an empty bench in a corner, partially hidden by the shadow of an ornamental tree, and sat down, closing my eyes and taking deep breaths.

What was wrong with me? I'd come out tonight to escape, to be free for a few hours. Instead, I'd spent the evening jumping at shadows, imagining eyes on me, feeling hunted in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling.

Maybe Lila was right. Maybe I did need to get out more, if one night at a club was enough to make me paranoid.

"You look lost in thought."

The voice came from beside me, low and smooth, with an accent I couldn't quite place—not quite Boston, not quite New York, with something older underneath, like whiskey aged in oak.

I opened my eyes, startled to find someone standing a few feet away. A man, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a black suit that fit him perfectly. His face was in shadow, features indistinct in the dim light of the courtyard.

My heart rate spiked, that same electric awareness rushing through me. It was him. I knew it with a certainty that defied explanation.

"I'm not lost," I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded. "Just taking a break."

He moved closer, into a patch of moonlight that illuminated his face for the first time.

Dark hair, cut short and neat. Strong features—a straight nose, high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass. But it was his eyes that caught and held me—dark, intense, focused on me with a concentration that was almost physical in its force.

He was handsome in a severe way, all sharp angles and controlled power. The kind of man who commanded attention without trying, who moved through the world expecting it to yield to him.

And he was watching me with an expression I couldn't read—something between hunger and recognition, as if he'd found something he'd been looking for without knowing he was searching.

"The club can be overwhelming for first-timers," he said, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear him.

I raised an eyebrow, fighting to maintain my composure. "What makes you think it's my first time?"

A smile curved his lips, not quite reaching his eyes. "You don't belong here."

The words should have been an insult, but the way he said them—like a simple statement of fact, an observation rather than a judgment—made them something else entirely.

"Neither do you," I replied, the certainty of it surprising me.

His smile widened slightly, a flash of genuine amusement in his dark eyes. "No, I don't. But for different reasons."

Before I could ask what he meant, the door to the club opened, spilling light and music and people into the courtyard. Lila emerged, scanning the area until she spotted me.

"Grace! There you are!" She weaved her way toward me, slightly unsteady on her heels. "I've been looking everywhere for you. We're moving to another club. Jason knows the owner of Elysium and can get us in without a wait."

I glanced back at the man, intending to make some excuse, only to find the space beside me empty. He had vanished as silently as he'd appeared, leaving nothing but the lingering sensation of his gaze on my skin.

"Who were you talking to?" Lila asked, following my gaze with a frown.

"No one," I said, standing up and smoothing my dress. "Just getting some air."

She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me but was too drunk to argue. "Well, are you coming or not?"

I hesitated, scanning the courtyard one last time. The man was nowhere to be seen, but I could still feel him—a presence in the shadows, watching, waiting.

"Actually, I think I'm going to head home," I said, suddenly exhausted. "I've got that paper to work on tomorrow."

Lila rolled her eyes but didn't push. "Your loss. Text me when you get home safe."

"I will. You have fun."

She rejoined her new friends, disappearing back into the club in a flash of red silk and laughter.

I called my own Uber, waiting at the curb with my arms wrapped around myself against the chill. The courtyard had emptied, most patrons returning to the warmth of the club, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being observed.

I turned slowly, scanning the shadows, the windows, the roofline of the old church.

Nothing.

And yet...

"Looking for someone?"

I whirled around, heart hammering, to find him standing a few feet away. How had he moved so silently? How had I not sensed him approach?

"My ride," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "It should be here soon."

He nodded, making no move to come closer. "It's not safe for a woman to wait alone at this hour."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'm sure you can." There was something in his voice—not condescension, but a kind of amused certainty, as if he knew something about me that I didn't know myself. "But the world is full of predators, Grace."

My blood froze. I hadn't given him my name. Hadn't given him my real name.

"How do you?—"

"Your Uber is here," he interrupted, nodding toward a car pulling up to the curb.

I glanced at the car, then back at him, torn between fleeing and demanding answers. Fear and curiosity warred within me, neither quite winning.

"Who are you?" I asked, the question barely audible over the distant thump of music from the club.

He smiled, the expression transforming his severe features into something almost beautiful. Almost human.

"Someone who sees you," he said simply. "Goodnight, Ms. O’Sullivan."

I backed away, keeping my eyes on him until I reached the car. The driver confirmed my name, and I slid into the backseat, locking the door immediately.

As we pulled away from the curb, I looked back through the window. The man stood exactly where I'd left him, watching the car disappear into the night, his expression hidden in shadow.

I should have been terrified. Should have been calling my father, my brothers, the police. A stranger had known my name, had watched me all night, had appeared and disappeared like a ghost.

Instead, I found myself replaying his words in my mind, a shiver that wasn't entirely fear running down my spine.

Someone who sees you.

In a life spent being seen as an O'Sullivan, as Patrick's daughter, as a future asset to the family business—the idea of being seen for myself was as intoxicating as it was terrifying.

I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur past, the stranger's face lingering in my mind like an afterimage.

I didn't know who he was.

But I had a feeling I would see him again.

And God help me, part of me was looking forward to it.