Page 34 of Made for Vengeance

Memory returned in jagged pieces. The sting on my neck. The way my body had betrayed me, collapsing into his arms. The whispered words I couldn’t quite recall.

I pushed through the dizziness, forcing myself to take stock of my surroundings. I was in a bedroom—large, expensively furnished, with heavy curtains drawn across what I assumed were windows. The only light came from a lamp on a distant table, casting the room in a soft, golden glow.

The bed I lay on was enormous, a four-poster monstrosity with dark wood and what felt like silk sheets beneath my fingertips. I was still wearing my leggings and sweatshirt, my sneakers removed but nothing else changed or disturbed.

Small mercies.

There were no obvious doors from my vantage point, just walls of dark wood paneling and built-in bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. The air smelled faintly of sandalwoodand something else—something masculine and familiar that made my stomach clench with recognition.

His scent.

"You're awake."

The voice came from behind me, from a part of the room I couldn't see without turning. Low, calm, matter-of-fact—as if this were a normal situation, as if I'd fallen asleep on a couch during a party and he was simply noting my return to consciousness.

I froze, every muscle in my body tensing. Fight or flight instinct screaming at me to move, to run, to attack—but my limbs still felt heavy, uncooperative.

Slowly, fighting against the residual dizziness, I turned toward the voice.

He sat in a leather armchair in the corner of the room, partially hidden in shadow. One leg crossed over the other, hands resting on the arms of the chair, posture relaxed and confident. Watching me.

Rafe Conti looked exactly as he had in the elevator, except he'd removed the baseball cap and maintenance uniform, revealing dark jeans and a black sweater that fit him perfectly. His face was calm, almost serene, but his eyes—those dark, intense eyes—burned with something that made my blood run cold.

Satisfaction. Possession. Hunger.

"What did you do to me?" My voice came out raspy, my throat dry from whatever drug he'd used. "Where am I?"

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, studying me with the focused attention of a scientist observing a particularly interesting specimen.

"A mild sedative," he said, as if discussing the weather. "Nothing that will cause lasting harm. And you're somewhere safe."

"Safe?" I laughed, the sound harsh and brittle in the quiet room. "You drugged me. You kidnapped me. That's your definition of safe?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering. "Safe doesn't always mean comfortable, Grace. Sometimes it means protected from things you don't even know are threats."

I pushed myself up to a sitting position, ignoring the way the room tilted. Anger was burning through the fog of the sedative, clearing my head, sharpening my focus.

"Let me go," I said, each word precise and hard. "Now. Before this gets worse for you."

His lips curved in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Worse for me?"

"My father will kill you when he finds out." The threat came automatically, the O'Sullivan name invoked like a talisman against danger. "Do you have any idea who I am? Who my family is?"

"I know exactly who you are." He stood in one fluid motion, moving toward the bed with the silent grace of a predator. "Grace Elizabeth O'Sullivan. Twenty-five years old. Harvard Law, top of your class. Estranged from your family but not completely severed. Plays piano when she can't sleep. Takes her coffee black. Runs the same route every morning."

Each detail hit me like a physical blow. He'd been watching me. For how long? Days? Weeks?

"You've been stalking me." The accusation came out breathless, horrified.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, close enough that I could see the fine details of his face—the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar above his right eyebrow, the flecks of amber in his otherwise dark eyes.

"I've been learning you," he corrected, his voice soft. "There's a difference."

I edged backward on the bed, putting as much distance between us as possible. My mind was racing, cataloging options, looking for weapons, for exits, for anything that might help me escape.

"My father—" I began again.

"Your father," he interrupted, his tone hardening slightly, "is not going to save you, Grace. No one is."

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