His head hits the ground first.

Raphael looks up, eyes watering, blood pooling in his mouth, bruised throat shuddering as it dilates with each trembling inhale-exhale.

Sébastien. He has to get away, he thinks, tears refracting the light from the doorway into thousands of glittering orange shards, Sébastien’s voice carrying beneath the ringing in Rapha’s ears, low and flaming.

He places his hands into the cool, damp earth and pushes himself to his knees, beginning to crawl.

The first thing Sara notices is how little clothes Raphael is wearing. The second is the blood.

“Rapha?” She calls out, flinging open her window as the dog barks at his return. “What happened?”

Rapha says nothing, his figure grasping the doorframe to catch himself as he struggles to stand. Lupe growls, snapping and straining against his leash.

Sara meets him on the porch, barefoot, raising a hand to silence Lupe, who opens his mouth and finds himself barkless, ribbon trailing from her wrist like a reddened serpent. She places her arm around Raphael, and carries him inside, to where the stove is still warm, and places him on a chair in the corner.

“Sara…” he whispers.

“Drink first,” Sara says, placing a cup before him.

Rapha brings his head close to the table, not quite trusting his arms to not give out enough to bring it to his lips. “I’m sorry,” he croaks out as he takes a small sip.

She sighs from the kitchen, preparing a washbasin of cool water and antiseptic. “It’s not your fault, Rapha. Blanca should have come with you.”

Raphael closes his eyes, throat too wrecked to wince when Sara places the cloth to his bloodied body, head too heavy to turn away. Very rarely does he hate this body, save for times like these, where his chest blooms like a prison and bleeds like a prisoner.

“I knew Rosa was sick,” he says, “Blanca needed to stay. There can’t only be one girl in the house.”

“No,” Sara says. “She goes with you. No negotiation.”

Rapha exhales slowly. Señora Blanca is not a cruel madam, not in the slightest. She forbids the girls to be on their own in the house for their own safety. She shuts the rooms at 4am sharp, and keeps them all well-fed, well-rested, clean and healthy.

When Rapha had said his new name in the light, only three years after he had begun to work at The Three Soldiers, he was sure he was going to be turned out, and left workless, for where was a former Soldier girl to work beside from the street, where men could do to him as they liked, and pay only in the lack of injury?

He was taken off the floor, as he had expected, and solely did house calls. They may have been riskier, but Blanca never let him go alone, and they paid triple that which he had made working in the house, for there was a novelty to it, and to put it lightly, his clientele paid to cover their curiosity.

“She knows Sebastien is banned after what he did to Rosa,” Sara says, voice thick with frustration. Rosa’s arm had never really healed, and infections came back in waves that Sara’s magic could never fully bury. “And she let you do a house-call unaccompanied?”

Raphael looks at her then. “I owed him. Off the books. Blanca doesn’t know.”

Sébastien closed the door behind him. Rapha kept his back straight anyway.

“You came alone,” Sébastien said. His voice was lighter than Rapha remembered.

“You asked me to,” Rapha replied.

“Yes,” Sébastien agreed. “I did.”

Rapha let his eyes adjust to the dimness; shutters half-drawn, a single lamp burning low. There was a chair in the center of the room. He didn’t sit.

“You owe me,” Sébastien continued, stepping closer. “You know that.”

Rapha stayed quiet.

“You stepped into a situation that was not your business."

“You were going to kill her,” Rapha corrected quietly, but not quiet enough.

“You fucked me up good,” Sébastien said, “and yet, you walked out of the Three Soldiers untouched.”

Rapha didn’t answer. Rosa hadn’t, and that was what mattered.

Sébastien tilted his head. “That place is crawling with my men, Rapha. They were going to kill you for even touching me. I didn’t let them. You owe me.”

Rapha’s jaw tightened. “You hurt Rosa. She didn’t deserve that,” he said.

“No,” Sébastien agreed easily. “She didn’t. But you?” Sébastien’s gaze dragged slowly over him. “You made a choice.”

Rapha held his ground. “I did,” he says.

“And choices have prices.”

Sébastien gestured toward the chair.

“Sit.”

Rapha didn’t move.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Rapha crossed the room and sat. The wood was cold even through the muggy heat of the evening. His hands rested on his knees, steady by sheet force of will.

Sébastien circled him, slow, deliberate. “Do you remember,” he says, “how it used to be?”

Rapha stared straight ahead. “I don’t work the floor anymore.”

“No. You don’t.” A hand landed on his shoulder. “Stand up.”

Rapha did.

“Good. You still listen.” Sébastien stepped back toward the chair, seating himself. “Kneel.”

Rapha didn’t move this time. “I don’t do that.”

Sébastien exhaled through his nose. “Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m not,” Rapha said. “I’ll settle it. Just not like that.”

“Not like that,” Sébastien repeated, a humorless laugh escaping him. “You think you get to choose the terms?”

“No,” Rapha said, firmer now. “I’m not–”

Sébastien’s hand came fast, closing around his throat and slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle his teeth. Rapha gasped, the air knocked clean out of him.

“There it is,” Sébastien murmured, stepping in close. “That tone.” His grip tightened. “You think,” heaving now, “you’ve become something else.”

Rapha’s fingers came up instinctively, but fell short of clawing at it. He would not afford Sébastien that slippage. “I am something else,” he forced out.

“Say that again.”

Rapha met his eyes. “I am not one of your girls.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. And then all breath left him, shuddering and crushed and twisted.

“You were,” he said softly. “You are.” Sébastien’s thumb pressed into his throat, right where the bruises have begun to stain. “On your knees,” he said again.

Rapha shook his head. The first blow landed to his ribs. Rapha folded with it, the air driven out again as his back hit the floor. He tasted blood almost immediately.

“Don’t,” Sébastien said, crouching over him, “make this worse.”

Rapha coughed, turning his head, trying to drag in air through a throat that wouldn’t quite open.

“I came,” he managed. “That’s the debt.”

Rapha curled in on himself, arms instinctively trying to shield what he can.

“I won’t—”

The boot caught his side before he could finish.

“You will.”

Rapha didn’t answer that time, pushing himself up instead. That seemed to irritate Sébastien more than refusal.

“Stay down.”

Rapha didn’t. He got one knee under him, then the other. His vision swam, room tilting at the edges.

“I said,” Sébastien snapped, reaching again for Rapha’s throat.

This time, Rapha jerked back, not fast enough to avoid it entirely, but enough that his hand slipped, fingers digging into the side of his neck instead of closing clean. It was enough. The door was only a few steps away. A hand caught the back of Rapha’s shirt, yanking him off balance. His head cracked against the edge of the table on the way down. Sound dropped out. For a second, he didn’t feel anything at all. Then everything came back at once. Somewhere above him, Sébastien spoke again, but the words blurred, stretched, dissolved into tone and cadence.

Rapha did not wait to understand.

He rolled, fingers slipping against the floor before finding purchase. He did not remember opening the door; only the sudden rush of cold air, the ground rising up too fast…and then nothing but impact.

Sara pushes the door open with her shoulder, Raphael leaning heavily against her side. He walks under his own power, but only just. Each step is careful, measured, like he’s afraid his legs might give out.

Rosa is propped up on pillows, framed in pink silk and angled slightly so that her arm juts out from her side like a bird’s wing. Her eyes widen when she sees him. “Rapha…”

He tries to smile. It comes out crooked. “I’m fine.”

“You look like you lost a bullfight."

“Would’ve been kinder,” Raphael murmurs.

Sara clicks her tongue. “Sit. Both of you.”

Raphael obeys, lowering himself onto the edge of Rosa’s bed, shifting her blankets aside so he can lean back against the wall, exhaling shakily until the room stops tilting. Sara sets her basin on the nightstand. The water inside is cloudy with herbs; yarrow, comfrey, a pinch of salt. She dips her fingers in and stirs, whispering under her breath.

Rosa watches her. “You’re using the strong mix.”

“You’re both a mess,” Sara replies. “I need all the help I can get.” She wrings out a cloth and presses it gently to Rosa’s swollen arm.

Raphael watches, eyes softening. “Does it help?”

“A little,” Rosa says, wincing. “Takes the edge off.”

Sara glances at him. “Your turn.”

Raphael stiffens. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

He looks down. He is.

Rosa nudges him with her good hand. “Let her.”

Raphael sighs, defeated. Sara lifts the hem of his shirt carefully. The bruises are already blooming in deep purples, sickly greens, the kind that will stain for weeks. She presses the cloth to his ribs. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away.

Rosa watches him closely. “He did this?”

Raphael doesn’t answer.

Sara does. “Yes.”

Rosa’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

“I owed him,” Raphael says quietly.

“No,” Rosa says. “Rapha, no.”

Raphael closes his eyes. “He kept his men from killing me. That’s not nothing.”

“That’s leverage,” Sara says, brushing Rosa’s hair back, blonde strands catching on the pillows around her. “It’s not a favour you need to thank him for.”

Raphael swallows, throat still raw. “I thought if I went, it would end it.”

Sara snorts softly, dipping her rag back into the water. “Sébastien isn’t going to end something he can’t get more out of. Stop talking.” She presses the rag to his throat, where the bruising is darkest. Raphael’s breath catches, but he stays still.

“You scared us,” Rosa says. "You left without telling anyone."

Raphael opens his eyes, suddenly suspecting this was a coordinated ploy to shut him up long enough to lecture him. “I’m sorry.”

“No apologies,” Sara says, pushing his jaw shut. “You owe us surviving.”