An Inconvenient Arrangement (Inconvenient Matches Book #2)

Chapter 3: Rafe

"Who is your contact?"

The whip collided with his back making him cry out.

"Who gave you the information about our regiment?"

"I don't know. Please, I don't know what you are talking about."

"Ah, ah, ah, little pig," The Capitaine kicked Raphael's back with his booted foot, "how long will you make me wait for answers? You want to die, don't you? It will be just like going to sleep. You deserve to sleep, after all this hurt. Don't you want to sleep?"

"Please. Kill me. Please."

"Tell me what I want to know, little pig and I will."

"I don't know what you want from me. My name is Jean-Pierre, I am for Marseilles. Please. I have a wife and son, they will have no one without me."

The Capitaine let out a long, disappointed sigh.

"I just wish you would break already, I grow tired of you. You were a titillating plaything at first, but you've begun to bore me. Tell me what I want to know and I will set you free from this pain. Or, I can make it so that you die slowly, slowly, slowly over the course of a few months."

Raphael knew full well that the Capitaine would never let him rest. Knew that he would revel in taking away this promise, and would enjoy every day that Raphael lost his sanity, his humanity. Raphael would not break. He would not give him that satisfaction.

"Please. Kill me." But that was not for the Capitaine, that plea was for Death. The looming specter hovered close over them; after all, war was its domain. Mindless, senseless loss of life, thousands upon thousands of souls for the reaper to take to the afterlife. And yet, that specter refused Raphael his final release. He loomed and watched but never claimed.

Death was as merciless as God.

"And give you what you want without getting what I want? That's no bargain at all. Hit him again."

Raphael tensed in anticipation of the blow, the crack of the whip echoing in the room-

He sat up in bed, gasping for air, gulping it down as if he had been drowning. He scrambled for the chamber pot just in time to vomit into it.

He sat back, taking rapid breaths. He reached for his pillow and palmed the knife he kept there, letting the familiar weight of it anchor him to the present.

He was in England.

He was home.

It was the year 1823.

War had been over for eight years.

The war was over.

The war was over.

The war was over.

Just a nightmare. They always got worse this time of year, though it had been months since the last one. Probably had something to do with the fact that he had tried to see Thomas last evening, though it had been the same as last time; Thomas greeting him at the door, telling him he was close to finding proof but that he would not speak to Raphael unless Raphael believed him. As always, Raphael tried to get him to leave the investigation in his hands to which Thomas had pointed out that Rafe had not made any headway in a decade. They had argued, Thomas had become agitated and shut the door in his face.

God, what a mess. 

He needed to stop arguing with Thomas over this. There was no way to bring back the man whom Raphael had called a brother, in his place was a man kept alive only by his delusions. The real Thomas had broken in Belgium and now was lost forever. Raphael kept hoping to make him see reason, he should know now that Thomas was beyond his help.