Page 7 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

RAFE

I 'd watched her for exactly forty-seven minutes.

From my private alcove on the mezzanine level of Tenebris, I had an unobstructed view of the dance floor below. The perfect vantage point to observe without being observed. To hunt without being hunted.

I’d been a regular here shortly after graduating Saint Gabriel, back when I still thought power came from being seen. I started in the Velvet Room. Most of us did. But eventually, you outgrow red lights and mirrored glass. Tenebris was colder. Quieter. Built for a different kind of appetite.

Grace O'Sullivan moved differently than she had in the surveillance photos. In those, she'd been guarded, controlled—shoulders straight, movements efficient, always aware of her surroundings. But here, in the pulsing darkness of the club, something had changed.

She danced with her eyes closed, her body swaying to the music with an abandon that surprised me.

Her blonde hair caught the blue and purple lights, creating a halo effect that made her look almost ethereal.

The navy dress she wore clung to curves that her usual conservative clothing concealed, revealing a body that was both delicate and strong.

I took a sip of my whiskey, never taking my eyes off her.

She'd felt me watching. I'd seen it in the way she'd suddenly stiffened, in how her eyes had searched the balcony until they'd found my silhouette. Instead of looking away, she'd stared back—a challenge in her posture that sent a surge of heat through my blood.

Interesting. Most people instinctively avoid the gaze of predators.

But Grace O'Sullivan wasn't most people.

When she left the dance floor and headed for the courtyard, I knew it was time. I'd studied her long enough from a distance. Now I wanted to see her up close. To hear her voice. To test her reactions.

I set down my glass and straightened my cuffs, a habit ingrained since childhood. Appearance matters. Control matters. Even in the pursuit of obsession, there are rules to be followed.

The path from my alcove to the main floor required navigating through the VIP section—a labyrinth of private booths where the city's elite indulged in vices they pretended to condemn in daylight.

I nodded to the security guard who stood at the entrance to the stairs, a man on my payroll who knew better than to question my movements.

The main floor was a different world—louder, more chaotic, bodies pressed together in a writhing mass of desire and desperation. I moved through it effortlessly, people instinctively stepping aside without realizing why. Power recognizes power, even in the dark.

I spotted her in the courtyard, sitting alone on a bench, her face tilted up toward the night sky. She looked younger in that moment, more vulnerable. More human.

Something twisted in my chest—an unfamiliar sensation that I quickly suppressed. This wasn't about emotion. This was about possession.

I approached silently, watching her for a moment before speaking.

"You look lost in thought."

Her eyes snapped open, that electric blue gaze finding mine immediately. Recognition flashed across her face, though we'd never formally met. She felt it too—this pull between us, this inevitability.

"I'm not lost," she replied, her voice steady despite the slight increase in her breathing. "Just taking a break."

I stepped closer, allowing the moonlight to illuminate my face. Let her see me. Let her remember me.

Her eyes widened slightly as she took me in, her gaze traveling from my face to my shoulders to my hands before returning to meet my eyes. Assessing. Cataloging. Looking for threats and exits.

Smart girl.

"The club can be overwhelming for first-timers," I said, keeping my voice low, intimate, as if we were sharing a secret.

She raised an eyebrow, a small act of defiance that pleased me. "What makes you think it's my first time?"

I allowed myself a small smile. "You don't belong here."

It wasn't an insult, but a recognition. She was different from the other patrons—sharper, more aware, a diamond among glass.

"Neither do you," she countered, surprising me with her perception.

My smile widened. "No, I don't. But for different reasons."

Before she could respond, the door to the club opened, spilling light and noise into our private moment. Her friend— Lila Winters, according to the file—stumbled out, calling Grace's name.

I melted back into the shadows, watching as Grace searched for me, the confusion on her face quickly masked as she spoke to her friend. When they went back inside, I followed at a distance, observing as Grace made her excuses and called for a car.

Perfect.

I circled around to the front entrance, timing my reappearance for maximum impact. She was standing alone at the curb, arms wrapped around herself against the chill, scanning the shadows as if she could sense my presence.

"Looking for someone?" I asked, enjoying the way she startled, the quick flash of fear and recognition in her eyes.

"My ride," she said, her voice admirably steady. "It should be here soon."

I nodded, maintaining a respectful distance. Not threatening. Not yet. "It's not safe for a woman to wait alone at this hour."

"I can take care of myself."

I had no doubt she could. The daughter of Patrick O'Sullivan would have been taught self-defense from an early age. But physical prowess meant nothing against the right kind of predator.

"I'm sure you can," I said, allowing a hint of amusement to color my tone. "But the world is full of predators, Grace."

There it was—the shock, the fear, the sudden tension in her body as she realized I knew who she was. Her real name. Her real identity.

"How do you?—"

"Your Uber is here," I interrupted, nodding toward the approaching car.

She glanced at the vehicle, then back at me, clearly torn between fleeing and demanding answers. The conflict played across her face, beautiful in its transparency.

"Who are you?" she finally asked, the question barely audible.

I smiled, allowing her to see a fraction of what I felt—the hunger, the fascination, the absolute certainty that she was already mine, whether she knew it or not.

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

She backed away, keeping her eyes on me until she reached the car. Smart. Never turn your back on a predator.

I watched as the car pulled away, standing motionless until the taillights disappeared around a corner. Only then did I allow myself to exhale, the tension I'd been controlling finally releasing.

The first contact had gone exactly as planned. I'd unsettled her, intrigued her, left her with questions that would keep her awake tonight, thinking of me.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

But it was a beginning.

I turned and walked back toward the club, already planning our next encounter. This time, it wouldn't be left to chance. This time, I would orchestrate every detail.

Grace O'Sullivan thought she knew what it meant to be hunted.

She had no idea.

Three days later, I was sitting at the bar of The Crimson Room, nursing a whiskey and watching the entrance.

The place was upscale but understated—dark wood, leather booths, jazz playing softly in the background.

The kind of establishment where business deals were made and secrets were traded over expensive liquor.

It was also directly across from the coffee shop where Grace stopped every Monday after her Constitutional Law class.

According to her file, she would be arriving in approximately seven minutes, assuming her professor didn't keep the class late.

She would order a black coffee, no sugar, and sometimes a scone if she hadn't eaten lunch.

She would sit at the small table by the window, review her notes, and leave after exactly thirty minutes.

Creatures of habit are so easy to track.

I checked my watch. Six minutes now.

The bartender approached, gesturing to my nearly empty glass. "Another, sir?"

I nodded, sliding the glass toward him. "Make it a double."

As he poured, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I looked calm, composed—nothing in my appearance to suggest the anticipation coursing through my veins like electricity.

Five minutes.

I adjusted my position slightly, angling myself toward the door while maintaining a casual posture. Appearance matters. Control matters.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Luca. I ignored it. Whatever business needed my attention could wait. This was more important.

Four minutes.

The door to The Crimson Room opened, and a group of businessmen entered, laughing too loudly, already half-drunk from a lunch meeting. I watched them with disinterest, noting the expensive watches, the tailored suits, the air of entitlement.

In another life, I might have been one of them—playing at power, believing themselves untouchable. But I had been born into real power, baptized in blood and fire, taught from childhood that the world belonged to those willing to take it.

Three minutes.

I took a sip of my whiskey, letting the burn ground me. Patience had never been my virtue, but for this—for her—I could wait. The anticipation was part of the pleasure.

Two minutes.

The door opened again. My heart rate increased slightly, but it wasn't her—just a couple, middle-aged and well-dressed, heading for a booth in the corner.

One minute.

I set down my glass and straightened my tie, a small, unnecessary adjustment. Everything was in place. Everything was perfect.

The door to the coffee shop across the street opened.

And there she was.

Grace O'Sullivan, dressed in a cream-colored blouse and charcoal pencil skirt, her blonde hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Professional. Polished. Perfect.

She paused on the sidewalk, checking her phone, completely unaware that she was being watched. That she was being hunted.

I stood, leaving cash on the bar—enough for my drinks and a generous tip. No credit card. No trace.