Page 322 of From Rakes to Riches

Mercy covered his taut fist with her hand, and it unclenched beneath the pressure until he turned it to thread his fingers with hers.

“Your father, he...died?” she asked gently.

His jaw worked to the side in a show of gall. “My mother went first, suffered terribly from the syphilis he gave her, and he lingered—too long—disintegrating until parts of his body rotted away, to match the soul beneath.”

Mercy hadn’t been faced with such animosity before, not really. Her relationship with her father was either cold or contentious, but all they felt for each other was a rather mild form of duty and disappointment.

Raphael hated his father with a rage-induced loathing she’d not known him capable of.

It frightened her.

“Did he...was he...awful to you?” she queried.

His expression was carefully impassive. “He was horrible to everyone. I was no exception.”

“You should have been.” Mercy ventured closer to him, wanting to provide him comfort but feeling ill-equipped to do so. “You were his son.”

“His second son.”

“Did you resent that?”

“Never,” he answered darkly. “I was glad to be a small, rather undeveloped boy even after fourteen or so. I was lucky that he ignored me. That he thought me too pathetic to much notice.”

“Why would you be glad of that?” she asked, thinking she already knew she didn’t want the answer.

“Gabriel was always so extraordinarily big and strong and as savage as my father had crafted him to be. He was heir apparent to the Lord of Louts. And the prince to those who called themselves the Fauves. And still, when my father needed money, he threw Gabriel to the pits.”

“Is...that why he wears a mask?”

Raphael nodded, swallowing once. Twice.

“My brother always protected me from my father and now, you understand, it is my job to protect him.”

“I understand,” she murmured. And she did. It never mattered what kind of man he’d wanted to be. Because he was who his father made him. “So, like the monarchy, when the king of the Fauves dies, his sons inherit?”

“Only if they are worthy. If they can command the respect of the men.”

“What if you didn’t want to be a part of it anymore? What if you gave the mantle over to another?”

He dragged a finger over her cheek, his gaze gentle and resigned. “Would that I could,mon chaton, but men in our world can only escape by dying. There are too many secrets between us, too much at stake. These men are often criminals because they have no one to trust, nowhere to turn for protection from poverty and despair. That sort of desperation turns a man into a beast. Men like my father turn those beasts into soldiers. Gives them a code. A family to die for. To kill for. A way to advance. And, like in the wilds, the pack will turn upon you if you show weakness. If they can no longer rely upon you to provide.”

To be held captive by power, she could barely imagine it. “So...if you were not born into this life, you would not have chosen it?”

“Never.”

“What would you have done instead?”

“I would have been a ship’s captain,” he answered without thought.

“Oh?”

He glanced at her astonished expression with a wry twist of his lips. “It’s the only part of my position I truly enjoy. When we transport overseas, I’ve taken to the mechanics and running of the ship itself...not that it matters now.”

“Of course, it matters.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s significant to me.”

He snorted. “Why? Because you can now imagine a different reality in which I am a good man?”

“You laugh, but I’m not entirely convinced you’re a bad one.”

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