"I'd like to go back now," I told Marco, who nodded without question, leading the way back to the car.
The drive to the estate was silent, my thoughts too chaotic to form into coherent conversation. I stared out the window, watching the town give way to countryside, to the winding private road that led to the Conti property, to the massive gates that opened to admit us and closed behind us with the same finality as before.
Home, a treacherous voice whispered in my mind. You're home.
I pushed the thought away, disturbed by how natural it had felt, how right.
Rafe was waiting in the foyer when we arrived, his expression carefully neutral as he took in my appearance, the bags I carried, the bracelet still on my wrist.
"How was your outing?" he asked, dismissing Marco and Anthony with a nod.
"Fine," I replied, moving past him toward the stairs, suddenly desperate to be alone, to process the conflicting emotions the day had stirred up.
He fell into step beside me, not touching me but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the subtle cologne he wore. "Just 'fine'?"
"What do you want me to say, Rafe?" I stopped, turning to face him. "That it was wonderful to get a taste of freedom only to be reminded that I'm still your prisoner? That it was enlightening to see that the world has moved on without me? That it was comforting to confirm that no one is looking for me, that no one cares that I'm gone?"
Pain flickered across his features—not physical, but emotional. A reaction to the bitterness in my voice, to the truth we both acknowledged but rarely spoke aloud.
“I care,” he said, his voice a quiet blade. “Enough to keep you. Enough to ruin whatever I have to in order to make sure no one ever gets to forget you again.”
The simplicity of it, the raw honesty, made my throat tight with emotions I couldn't name. I turned away, continuing up the stairs, needing distance, needing space to think.
He followed, silent now, respecting my need for quiet if not for solitude. When we reached my room—my beautiful prison—I set my purchases on the bed and turned to face him.
"Thank you for today," I said formally, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "It was... informative."
"Informative," he repeated, studying my face with that intense focus that never failed to make my pulse quicken. "That's an interesting choice of word."
"It's the right one," I replied, removing the bracelet and holding it out to him. "I learned exactly where I stand in the world. Nowhere. I don't exist anymore, except here. With you."
He took the bracelet, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that sent electricity up my arm despite everything. "Is that such a terrible place to be?" he asked, his voice low and intent. "Here, with me?"
The question hung between us, loaded with implications, with history, with the strange, evolving thing that our relationship had become. I looked at him—really looked at him—seeing not just my captor, but the man who had held me while I cried, who had shown me tenderness I'd never known, who had seen me more clearly than anyone ever had.
"I don't know," I admitted, the honesty costing me less than it once would have. "Sometimes I think it's the worst place I could be. And sometimes..."
"Sometimes?" he prompted when I didn't continue.
"Sometimes I think it might be the only place I belong," I finished, the words barely above a whisper.
Something shifted in his expression—a softening, a vulnerability quickly masked. He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek in a touch so gentle it made my breath catch.
"You belong here," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "With me. I've known it since the moment I saw you."
The certainty in his voice, in his eyes, was both frightening and comforting—a fixed point in a world that had become increasingly uncertain. I leaned into his touch, allowing myself this small surrender.
"Your possessiveness is showing, Rafe," I said, attempting lightness, needing to break the intensity of the moment.
His lips curved in a slight smile. "It's never been hidden, Grace. Not from you."
"No," I agreed, stepping back from his touch, needing space to breathe. "You've always been very clear about what you want. About who you think I am to you."
"Not who I think you are," he corrected, his eyes never leaving mine. "Who I know you are."
"And who is that?" I challenged, a sudden recklessness taking hold of me. "Your prisoner? Your plaything? Your Stockholm syndrome case study?"
His expression hardened slightly, the vulnerability of moments ago disappearing behind a mask of control. "You know better than that."
