"Stop." He moved toward me, closing the distance between us until I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You are not a pawn to me. Not a possession. Not a tool."
"Then what am I?" I demanded, refusing to back down despite his proximity. "What am I to you, Rafe, if not leverage against my family?"
He stared down at me, his dark eyes intense, searching. For a moment, I thought he might not answer. Then:
"You're the only thing I've ever wanted that I couldn't simply take," he said, his voice low and rough. "The only person who's ever made me question myself, my methods, my certainties. The only one who's ever looked at me—really looked at me—and not flinched away from what they saw."
The raw honesty in his voice, in his eyes, made my breath catch. This wasn't the smooth, controlled Rafe I'd come to know. This was something else—something stripped bare, vulnerable in a way I hadn't thought possible.
"You're lying," I whispered, but there was no conviction in it.
"I have never lied to you, Grace," he said, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. "Not once. Not even when the truth was ugly."
I jerked away from his touch, needing distance, needing clarity. "I heard you. You're planning to use me tomorrow. To show me off like a trophy."
Something shifted in his expression—a decision being made, a course being altered. "No," he said finally. "I'm not."
"What?"
"The meeting is canceled. I'll call Dante now and tell him to reschedule. Without you."
I stared at him, disbelief warring with a treacherous hope. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"Why?"
He smiled slightly, the expression softening his severe features. "Because you asked. Because it matters to you. Because I want you to trust me, and I know that won't happen if I use you the way your father would have."
I shook my head, trying to make sense of this man who defied every expectation, who shifted from ruthless kidnapper to attentive host to... whatever this was. "I don't understand you."
"I know." He stepped back, giving me space. "But I hope someday you will."
He turned to leave, presumably to make the call he'd promised. I should have let him go. Should have retreated to my room to process this latest development. Should have maintained the careful distance I'd established.
Instead, I found myself saying, "Wait."
He paused, looking back at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Why did you really take me?" I asked, the question that had been haunting me for weeks finally finding voice. "The truth. Not some line about seeing my photo and becoming obsessed. The real reason."
He was quiet for a long moment, considering his answer. When he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, measured. "It started as business. Intelligence on the O'Sullivans, a potential weakness to exploit. But then I saw you—really saw you. Not just your face in a photograph, but you. Playing piano in your apartment. Studying in the library. Running in the early morning. And something... shifted."
"Shifted how?"
"I recognized something in you," he said simply. "A loneliness. A strength. A determination to carve out your own space in a world that wanted to define you by your name. It... resonated."
I swallowed hard, unsettled by how accurately he'd read me, by how closely his words mirrored thoughts I'd never shared with anyone.
"That doesn't justify kidnapping," I said, but the words lacked their earlier heat.
"No," he agreed. "It doesn't. But it explains it, at least to me. I saw you, and I wanted you, and taking what I want is... what I do. What I've always done."
"And now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "What do you want now?"
He stepped closer again, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now I want you to choose me. Not because you have no other options. Not because you're afraid. But because you want me too."
The audacity of it—the sheer, breathtaking arrogance—should have infuriated me. Instead, I found myself laughing, the sound startled and genuine. "You kidnap me, hold me prisoner for weeks, and then expect me to... what? Fall in love with you? Stockholm syndrome on demand?"
