Page 77 of Made for Vengeance

Then, he gestured to the table. "Shall we?"

I let him pull out my chair, pour the wine, set the stage like we weren’t adversaries circling each other. Like this was just a meal between two people exploring something normal.

It wasn’t.

And we both knew it.

The first course arrived—scallops seared to perfection, perched delicately atop a tangle of microgreens, each plate arranged like art. For several minutes, we ate in silence. Comfortable, but electric. The kind of silence that had weight. Intention.

Only the quiet clink of silverware and the low crackle of the fire filled the space between us.

Then: “I have a proposition for you,” Rafe said, setting down his fork with precision.

I looked up, wineglass halfway to my lips. “That sounds ominous.”

“A simple one,” he replied, his voice calm, almost casual. “An exchange. One question each. You ask me anything. I’ll answer honestly. Then I ask you something—and you’ll do the same.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly, assessing. “That’s a lot of trust you’re asking for.”

“Trust makes everything more interesting,” he said, sipping his wine. His gaze never left mine.

There was something in the way he watched me—still, composed, but intensely focused. Like he was cataloging thetension in my shoulders, the rise and fall of my chest, the heat that threatened behind my cool facade. The way his thumb slid slowly along the rim of his glass didn’t help. It shouldn’t have been suggestive. But it was.

I turned the stem of my glass between my fingers, needing something to ground me. “Just one each?”

“For tonight.” His smile was subtle, a promise and a dare. “We have time for more… generous trades later.”

That hung in the air like smoke and silk. Not a threat. Not quite.

My pulse kicked, but I kept my face neutral. I wasn’t about to let him see what that low, unhurried voice did to me.

I set my glass down. “Fine. One question. Who goes first?”

“Ladies first.” He gestured with a small, elegant tilt of his hand.

I took my time. Not for drama—though I knew he’d notice—but because the choice mattered. I didn’t want facts. I wanted leverage. Intimacy. Cracks in the armor. Something I could use to remind myself I wasn’t just reacting to him. That I still had power.

Finally: “What are you most afraid of?”

The shift in him was almost imperceptible, but I caught it. The slow blink. The slight exhale through his nose. The flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes.

"Becoming my father," he said finally, his voice low and even. "Losing control. Hurting someone I... care about."

The words landed with more weight than I was prepared for. I’d expected something calculated, maybe even evasive—a charming half-answer. But not this. Not a glimpse into the fault line beneath his polished armor, the deep fear that shaped the unrelenting discipline in his every move.

I watched him closely, feeling the impact settle like heat low in my stomach. Not arousal, exactly. But the rawness of hisadmission stirred something—an ache, a question, a curiosity sharpened by the fact that I wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all.

"Has that happened before?" I asked, before I could stop myself. "Have you lost control?"

His gaze locked on mine, unreadable and dark. “That’s a second question, Grace. We agreed to one each.”

“So we did,” I murmured, not breaking eye contact. His refusal was a quiet power play, one I let him win—for now. "Your turn, then."

He studied me for a long moment, and I felt the burn of it—his eyes tracing me like fingertips, like he could unspool my defenses just by looking. I resisted the urge to shift in my seat.

Then: “Why did you kiss me that night? Not the logical reason you’ve told yourself. The real one.”

The question struck hard and precise, slicing straight through the armor I’d been reinforcing all evening. I opened my mouth, ready to give him the easy answer, the practiced one: strategy, distraction, leverage.

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