2012 Raphael Romane & Geschichten

If he did not need the royal purple, he would not have minded selling it. Unfortunately, that was not the case! "That-, alright then." Raphael was very disappointed. He wanted to buy that royal purple to serve as a centerpiece in his shop. It would greatly bolster their reputation! Unfortunately, Leon was not willing to sell it. Since that was the case, he would not force anything. He would just forget about it.

The mere thought of it would make Raphael lose his control over his sanity. Raphael punched at the pillar beside him as he was standing at the balcony and took some deep breaths. "Why Winter is my mate? I cannot get her off my mind," he complained to himself. His eyes turned deep red, his growls increasing. "How can I turn into such a weakling because of Winter? I've been in rut for many times, but never once I felt this way," Raphael mumbled and rested his back against the pillar. His entire body was burning and the beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

Raphael As I walked into the luxurious café, I couldn't help but feel a sense of discomfort wash over me. "Hello, welcome to cafe Haven! Do you have a reservation?" The hostess asked me as I approached her. "Yes, Raphael Lahsen, Thank you." She looked over a list of names on a tablet. Once she found what she was looking for, she smiled politely. "Right this way, Mr. Lahsen." With a menu in hand, she guided me to a table off to the side. A large window sat beside it with a beautiful view of a garden with a tiny pond.

Raphael was a middle-aged man with short hair sprinkled with gray. He was thin and in shape, looking like an American businessman in his blue suit. He served the president of France and ran the Senate and the National Assembly—as well as the French Emperors—a secret society within the Senate that did all the dirty work so no one else had to. We weren’t a group of vigilantes who wanted to punish crime. We wanted to run it—by our rules. We maintained crime, kept it healthy, and protected the innocent. Without us, the French Republic wouldn’t have the most romantic city in the world.

|| TERESA LAWRENCEVILLE's POV || " What are you doing here, Raphael?" I could never mistake this face ever. Raphael worked under king Nicolas, loyal to him wholeheartedly. He had been his right handed person for years. Raphael coldly retorted, eyeing me suspiciously, " I am here to check on your work. Did you make them believe in you?" I replied a bit nervously. We were standing in the backyard, isolated from the castle staff.

> _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> RAPHAEL _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> He saw Lucifer rise. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> Fluid, graceful, that specific quality of movement that had always made Raphael's attention find him in any room they shared, that had been the organizing principle of his awareness for ten thousand years without his acknowledgment of it. The grace was the same as it had always been and also different, freer, unbound from the performance of celestial function, moving in the specific way of someone who had stopped arranging themselves for any audience and was simply existing in the full ease of their own nature.

I followed it like a compass I wasn’t supposed to have. Raphael stood in the middle of a living room that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated clutter and loved power. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like it was his personal snow globe. He wore a charcoal button-down with the sleeves rolled once, forearms bare, a thin scar running along the left one like a signature. His hair was still mostly black, but silver had started winning battles at the temples. He looked exactly like the man my mother had warned me about and nothing like the uncle who used to slip me twenty-dollar bills at family barbecues when I was twelve.