Page 1 of Endlessly Raphael

Prologue

Madrid, Spain 1772

Cold, damp concrete meets my cheek as I’m tossed unceremoniously into the cell. The guard chuckles at my humiliation and rage boils in the pit of my stomach.

I pull myself upright, the clanking of the shackles around my ankles loud in my ear. All I can do is glare at my captor, one of the king’s guards. The copper taste of my own blood lingers on my tongue, a result of the beating I took.

The only things I have to blame for my predicament are myself and my foolish libido. The king’s son, the darling prince of Spain, was too alluring to ignore, and I followed him to my demise.

“Get comfortable,” the king’s guard says to me. “You will be here for a long time.”

The metal door slams shut, leaving me in darkness. It smells of mold and body odor, the faint squeak of rats the only sound.

I lean against the wall, contemplating exactly how I plan to get out of here. It’s not the first time I’ve been imprisoned and likely won’t be the last. Making a living by taking from others was bound to catch up with me, but I’ve really made a mess of things this time. I enraged the king.

As day turns to night, my stomach rumbles with hunger, but I curl into myself on the stone floor and pray to nonexistent gods for sleep.

* * *

The loud sound of metal sliding on metal as the cell door opens jolts me awake. It takes me a moment to focus on the men in the doorway in the faint light. A man steps in, and even in the dimness, I can feel his gaze on me.

“This one will do nicely,” the man says, his voice deep and accented. Irish maybe? “He looks strong.”

“He’s only been here a few hours,” the guard says.

“Perfect. Name your price.”

Is he buying me?

The two men discuss my fate just out of earshot, but I strain to listen anyway. I have no idea what is happening, and I’m no one’s slave, but if I can get out of here, it will give me time to plan my escape to the New World.

A moment later, I’m lifted from the dingy floor and shoved towards the open doorway. Cool air and sunlight floods in from the window behind the guard, the tease of freedom so close I can taste it.

Then I focus on the man who may prove to be my savior. He is… breathtaking. Tall and dressed in extravagant clothing, his light eyes fixed on my face. His hair—wavy and somewhere between brown and blond, with a hint of redness to it—looks soft enough to invite touch, but his face… My god, his face. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, and his features are perfectly placed, as if sculpted by the finest artist in Europe. He offers a subtle smile and my body warms immediately in response.

“What is your name?” the man asks.

“Raphael.”

“And your father’s name?”

“I have no father. No family name.”

The man nods, glancing at the guard. “Leave us.”

“He is dangerous, sir,” the guard warns.

“He is chained. I can handle him.”

The guard leaves as the stunning man before me removes his gloves and looks me over. “My name is Yves Orpheus.”

“And what do you want with me, Yves Orpheus?”

Yves chuckles. “I see your bondage has not weakened your bravado.”

I lift my head in defiance. “Nothing weakens me.”

The smile lingers on his face as he studies me. Under his intense gaze, I have to wonder if he can see my faults, my desires, my needs.

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