Not resistance. Not surrender.
Something in between.
Something with claws.
Something that was already sinking its teeth into me.
18
GRACE
Iknew something was different the moment I opened the door.
The air was heavier—not just scented, but curated, like he'd filled the room with the intention of making me breathe him in. Sandalwood, spice, something darker beneath. A masculine mix that clung to the back of my throat and made my pulse spike.
The lights were off, but the room glowed—not a soft glow, but shadowed, the light from a dozen flickering candles stretching long and low across the walls. They weren’t haphazard. Each flame felt deliberate, strategic. Like a trap that burned slowly, seductively.
And the bed…
The usual sheets were gone. In their place: deep burgundy silk, lush and decadent, the kind of fabric meant to bare skin. A single dark rose lay in the center, petals full and heavy, just this side of wilting. Like it had been plucked at the peak of beauty and left to wait.
This wasn’t decoration.
This was a setup.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs as I stepped inside, the quiet hum of anticipation thick in the air. This wasn’t just seduction.
This was control.
And it had Rafe written all over it.
The knock came—three short, deliberate raps—and I already knew it was him.
“Come in,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
The door opened, and Rafe stepped through like he owned the space. No hesitation, no pretense. Just quiet confidence wrapped in dark clothing—black slacks, a charcoal shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was damp, like he’d just stepped out of a shower, and that scent I’d noticed earlier—sandalwood, smoke, something darker—wrapped around him like another layer of command.
He closed the door without a word and looked at me. Really looked at me. His gaze was heavy, assessing, like he was taking inventory of every breath I drew, every flicker of uncertainty.
“Grace,” he said, my name low and deliberate. Not soft. Not tender. Controlled.
My throat tightened. “What is all this?”
He didn’t answer right away—just stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a softclickthat made something tighten low in my belly. His eyes swept the room, then found mine again. Controlled. Measured. But burning.
“This isn’t decoration,” he said finally, his voice low, rough. “It’s atmosphere. I wanted your full attention tonight.”
He had it. Even if I didn’t show it.
“So you can play some new game?”
His mouth curled, amused. “Not a new game. Just... a new level.”
He moved closer, unhurried, and the scent of him hit me again—clean skin, candle smoke, and whatever cologne clung to him like heat.
“I’ve taken before,” he said, eyes pinned to mine. “Pushed. Teased. Made you ask for things you didn’t want to admit you needed.”
I didn’t deny it. He wasn’t wrong.
