"And what's wrong with that?" I challenged, unwilling to concede the point entirely.
"Nothing," he said simply. "It's natural. Understandable. Even admirable, in its way. But it's not readiness. It's not surrender. It's just another form of resistance."
I stared at him, caught off guard by his insight, by the way he seemed to see through my carefully constructed performance to the uncertainty beneath.
"And that's what you want, isn't it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Surrender. Not just my body, but my will. My choice to give up choice."
"No," he said, surprising me. "What I want is your choice to give yourself to me completely. Not giving up choice, but exercising it in the most profound way possible. There's a difference."
The distinction seemed semantic at first, but as I turned it over in my mind, I began to see what he meant. The difference between submission under duress and submission freely chosen. Between surrender as defeat and surrender as gift.
"And you think I'm not ready for that," I said, not quite a question.
"I know you're not," he replied, his certainty both irritating and oddly comforting. "But you will be. In time."
He stood then, setting his empty glass on the table between us. "It's getting late. I'll walk you to your room."
The abrupt shift, the denial of the tension we'd been building all evening, left me momentarily speechless. I had been so certain I was the one in control of this game, the one pushing his buttons, testing his limits. Only to discover that he had been several steps ahead the entire time, seeing through my strategy, waiting patiently for me to exhaust myself against the immovable wall of his self-control.
I stood, somewhat unsteady on my feet—from the alcohol or the emotional whiplash, I wasn't sure. "That's it? Dinner, conversation, goodnight?"
His smile was gentle but unyielding. "For tonight, yes."
"And if I don't want it to be?" I challenged, stepping closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, to inhale the faint, expensive cologne that clung to his skin like a secret.
"Then you're proving my point about readiness," he said, voice low and smooth, not backing away—but not giving me the satisfaction of closing the gap either. "When you want me for me—not to win, not to test yourself—but because you can't not want me, then we'll talk."
The precision of the strike left me winded. Not cruel. Just... accurate. Tonight had been a performance, a test I thought I was administering. Turns out, I was the subject all along.
"You're very sure of yourself," I said, aiming for indifference and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
"I'm sure of what I see when I look at you." His gaze flicked down, lingering—too briefly to be improper, but long enough to make my pulse jump. "The fight. The fire. The need. You wear it all like armor, but I know exactly what’s underneath."
And that—his clarity, his control—was the most dangerous part. Not that he wanted me. But that he understood me. Saw me. Saw through me.
"Shall we?" he asked, gesturing toward the door with that same practiced composure, as if we hadn’t just dragged the room to the edge of something electric.
I nodded, tongue-tied by the aftermath of a war I hadn’t realized I was losing.
We walked in silence through the darkened corridors, footsteps echoing off marble and the distant tick of some ancient clock. When we reached my door, he paused. The air between us pulsed with unspoken tension.
"Thank you for joining me tonight," he said, all calm civility. A mask. A dare. "I enjoyed our conversation."
"So did I," I said truthfully, though my voice felt like it came from someone else. I had enjoyed it. Too much.
He reached out, slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed my cheek—barely there. A touch that felt less like a goodbye and more like a promise.
"Goodnight, Grace," he said, just above a whisper.
"Goodnight, Rafe."
He turned and walked away without looking back, each step maddeningly controlled. Each step another thread of anticipation left dangling, unresolved.
That, I realized, was his real weapon. Not power. Not threat.
Restraint.
I closed the door behind me, breath catching in my throat as I leaned against it. My body felt like a live wire, buzzing, aching, hungry for something I couldn’t name and wasn’t sure I should want.
