The most dangerous thing about Rafe Conti wasn't his control or his power or even his obsession.
It was the fact that, step by step, choice by choice, he was showing me a version of myself I'd never known existed.
16
GRACE
Ispent the day planning my next move.
After last night’s calculated surrender—choosing the blue dress, obeying his unspoken request—I needed to remind both of us who I was. That I wasn’t some broken thing lying down beneath the weight of him. That I still had teeth. And if Rafe wanted to play power games, he wasn’t the only one who knew the rules.
Dinner at eight. Wear whatever you like.
It read like permission, but I knew better. It was a test. A gesture meant to feel generous, when it was really a leash disguised as liberty.
Fine. Two could play.
I stood in front of the closet like a general reviewing her arsenal. The blue dress was out—his choice, his victory. Something casual? Already used. I needed something that walked the line between seduction and defiance. Controlled heat.
Then I saw it: a deep burgundy slip of a dress, darker than wine, almost black in shadow. The neckline plunged just enoughto provoke. The fabric was liquid on my skin—soft, expensive, and lethal.
Perfect.
I paired it with heels sharp enough to be considered weapons, left my hair loose, lips painted the color of bitten fruit, and added only one piece of jewelry: a gold chain that skimmed the dip of my collarbone like a whisper that dared to be heard.
Armor disguised as elegance. Invitation wrapped in challenge.
At precisely eight, I entered the dining room like I owned the air I walked through. Every step deliberate. This wasn’t just dinner. This was the battlefield.
Rafe stood at the fireplace, whiskey in hand, back turned like a scene staged for maximum effect. He turned when he heard me—eyes sweeping over me once, twice, as if the first pass wasn’t enough.
For a breath, his control cracked. Just a flicker—jaw tight, nostrils flared—but I saw it.
First blood.
"Grace," he said, voice smooth as smoke. "You look lovely."
I smiled, slow and sure. "So do you."
And he did. The black suit was a precision cut, every inch of it designed to remind me just how dangerous a man could look when he knew what power felt like. He was elegance and violence stitched into human form. Stillness that dared you to provoke it.
"Drink?" he asked, gesturing to the bar cart.
"Whatever you're having," I replied, closing the distance.
He poured two fingers of amber into crystal, handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, the heat of his skin against mine igniting something low and familiar. I took a sip, letting the burn anchor me.
"Good," I said.
"Macallan 25," he offered, watching me like I was another glass of something rare. "My father's favorite."
"Is that a comfort or a curse?"
A ghost of a smile. "Both. Like most things he touched."
"Family usually is," I said, thinking of betrayal and silence and the sharp ache of being abandoned by blood.
Rafe held my gaze. Studying. Calculating.
