Page 56 of Made for Vengeance

Thirty-five steps. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven.

The voices grew louder, and I realized with horror that they were coming closer. They were going to enter the foyer. They were going to see me.

Panic surged through me, and I made a fatal mistake—I tried to hurry. My foot slipped on the smooth marble, and suddenly I was falling, tumbling down the remaining stairs in a painful, undignified heap.

I landed hard at the bottom, pain shooting up my left ankle as it twisted beneath me. A cry escaped my lips before I could stop it, echoing in the cavernous space.

The voices stopped. Footsteps approached rapidly.

I tried to stand, to run, to salvage something from this disaster, but my ankle gave way beneath me, sending me crashing back to the floor with another cry of pain.

"Grace?"

Rafe's voice, sharp with surprise and something that sounded almost like concern. I looked up to see him standing in the doorway of what appeared to be a study, Marco just behind him. Their expressions would have been comical under differentcircumstances—shock giving way to understanding as they took in the scene.

"Dammit," I muttered, more to myself than to them. So close. I'd been so close.

Rafe crossed the foyer in long strides, kneeling beside me with a grace that seemed unfair given the circumstances. "Are you hurt?"

I tried to scoot away from him, but another stab of pain from my ankle made me wince. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine." His voice was calm but firm as he assessed me, his eyes lingering on the ankle I was now cradling. "You're injured."

"I said I'm fine," I snapped, attempting to stand again only to fall back with a hiss of pain.

Without warning, Rafe slid one arm under my knees and the other around my back, lifting me effortlessly against his chest. I struggled instinctively, pushing against his shoulders.

"Put me down!"

"Stop fighting me," he said, his voice low and controlled. "You're hurt, and I'm taking you back to your room. The more you struggle, the worse it will be for your ankle."

He was right, which only made me angrier. I went limp in his arms, a passive resistance that was all I could manage at the moment.

"Marco," Rafe called over his shoulder, "bring ice and a first aid kit to Ms. O'Sullivan's room. And have Dr. Russo on standby in case we need him."

Marco nodded and disappeared down a hallway, leaving me alone with Rafe as he carried me up the stairs I'd just tumbled down. The humiliation was almost worse than the pain.

"This is becoming a habit," Rafe observed as we reached the top of the stairs. "You running, me bringing you back."

"Maybe if you stopped kidnapping me, I'd stop running," I retorted.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest against my side. "Fair point."

We reached my room—the door still unlocked from my escape—and he carried me inside, setting me gently on the bed. I immediately scooted back against the headboard, putting as much distance between us as possible.

"Let me see your ankle," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Don't touch me."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair—a rare gesture of frustration. "Grace, you're injured. Let me help you."

"Help me?" I laughed bitterly. "You're the reason I'm in this situation in the first place!"

"I'm not the one who decided to attempt a midnight escape down marble stairs in bare feet," he pointed out, his tone maddeningly reasonable.

Before I could respond, there was a knock at the door. Marco entered with a small first aid kit and a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

"Thank you, Marco," Rafe said, taking the items. "That will be all for now."

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