Page 37 of Made for Vengeance

I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at him with all the hatred I could muster.

He seemed unfazed, arranging the silverware beside the plate with meticulous precision. "It's salmon. I remember you ordered it at Marcello's last month. You seemed to enjoy it."

A chill ran through me. He'd been watching me for that long? Had known my habits, my preferences, my routines for weeks?

"I'm not hungry," I said, my voice flat.

"You should eat anyway." He gestured to the chair. "The sedative can deplete your system. You need to replenish."

"What I need is to go home."

He sighed, as if I were being unreasonable. As if I were the problem in this scenario. "This is your home now, Grace. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us."

Something snapped inside me. In three quick strides, I crossed to the table and swept the tray to the floor. The plate shattered, sending salmon and vegetables scattering across the hardwood. The water glass followed, exploding in a spray of liquid and glass.

"Fuck you," I spat. "And fuck your dinner."

Rafe didn't flinch. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't move a muscle except to lift his gaze from the mess on the floor to my face.

"Feel better?" he asked mildly.

"I'll feel better when I'm out of here and you're in prison."

His lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "That's not going to happen, Grace. But if destroying things makes you feel more in control, by all means." He gestured to the room. "Break whatever you like. I'll replace it."

His calm was infuriating. I wanted him to yell, to show anger, to reveal the monster I knew lurked beneath that controlled exterior. Instead, he watched me with the patient indulgence of someone dealing with a child's tantrum.

"I'll clean this up," he said, turning toward the door. "When I come back, we can try again."

"Don't bother," I called after him. "I'm not eating anything you bring me. I'd rather starve."

He paused at the doorway, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "That would be a shame. But it's your choice."

The door closed behind him, the locks engaging with a finality that made my stomach clench. I stood amid the wreckage of the meal, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

Round one to Conti.

But the war was just beginning.

Over the next three days, I turned resistance into an art form.

When he brought clean clothes, I refused to change out of my increasingly grimy leggings and sweatshirt. When he brought books, I left them untouched on the nightstand. When he tried to engage me in conversation, I responded with either silence or insults, depending on my mood.

I didn't eat. Didn't sleep more than an hour or two at a time. Didn't give him a single inch of cooperation.

By the fourth day, hunger was making me light-headed, and exhaustion had left dark circles under my eyes. But I was still standing. Still fighting.

Rafe entered that morning carrying his usual tray—this time with toast, fruit, and coffee. He looked as immaculate as ever, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his clothes. It made me hate him even more.

"Good morning, Grace," he said, setting the tray on the table. "I thought we'd try something lighter today."

I remained silent, watching him from my position by the window. I'd taken to standing there for hours, staring out at the manicured grounds of what appeared to be a large estate. Planning. Observing. Looking for weaknesses.

"You need to eat," he said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "This hunger strike isn't accomplishing anything except making yourself weak."

"Concerned about my health?" I asked, my voice raspy from disuse. "That's rich, coming from my kidnapper."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—the first sign of frustration I'd seen from him. "This isn't a conventional kidnapping, and you know it. I haven't harmed you. Haven't threatened you. Haven't denied you anything except the ability to leave."

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