"You, madam, are a no-good, sneaky little imp," Rafe announced as he generously loaded his slice of toast with butter and jam, munching on it happily. He buttered another toast, loaded it with sugar, and passed it to Jane, whose appetite had much improved since yesterday.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Sylvie loaded her own plate with some mouthwatering eggs and poured them both some coffee. "Do you still take your coffee the same way? Two spoons of sugar and some milk?"

"Yes, please," he reached for the cup and took a grateful sip. "But do not think you can charm me to forget your thievery, woman."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Sylvie replied serenely, to show smugness would have been to give herself away. "Will you please pass the toast?"

"Thieves who steal things from sleeping, exhausted men do not get toast," he pulled the tray out of her reach, forcing her to get up to retrieve her breakfast.

"Perhaps sleeping, exhausted men should not take things that belong to other people," Sylvie replied between bites of her egg.

"Ah, so that book did belong to you, then?"

"What book?" She tilted her head, her brows creased in evident confusion.

"You know, the book of wonderful drawings I found in your bag yesterday," he wriggled his eyebrows at her suggestively, but she did not allow even a single bit of her embarrassment to show on her face.

"Indeed? I do not recall any such thing happening. If such a book existed, you must have some proof? Oh, what's that? You don't? Now, who would ever believe you that you found something of that nature in my belongings of all places? I'm a teacher at a well-respected boarding school, naturally, my behavior is above reproach."

"You may have won this battle, dearest, but do not think you have won the war," Rafe winked at her, letting her revel in her victory. Sylvie felt her cheeks go warm as he stood up and stretched then fetched himself a newspaper. She swallowed thickly as she remembered the feel of his ruined skin beneath her fingers, his beautiful form. He was not a large man, more slender and tall than broad, though there was nothing waif-like about his body. Sylvie averted her eyes, which seemed to have developed the uncouth habit of straying to his bottom again and again. And a very fine bottom it was indeed.

Was this normal? To want to touch it? To want to dig her fingers into the hard flesh and give it a squeeze?

What's more, she wanted him to do the same to her.

Surely it could not be something people wanted? Surely there was something wrong with her.

She desperately needed to relieve herself, but sharing a room with Jane meant that she could not. She pressed her legs together to try and escape the ache that seemed to be a permanent sensation since she had seen him in his nudity the night before. He had been so glorious, despite the injuries that had carved ridges into his skin. She so desperately wanted to ask him about everything, she desperately wanted him to tell her everything he had been through, but she did not wish to push him either. He would tell her when he was ready, it was always that way between them.

Jane reached out and patted his hand to get his attention; though she could make a sound to do so, she preferred not to. She was very self-conscious about sounding silly in spite of the fact that Sylvie had reassured her that her voice was not ugly or silly. Though, truth be told, Sylvie was biased. She had adored Jane's voice from the moment she had walked into Thomas's home following Catherine's death and Thomas' loss of sanity. Thomas had forced all the staff out of the house and she had walked in completely unaware that Catherine had passed, only finding out when she had walked into the room and seen her lifeless body, Thomas fainted next to the bed. Jane had been in the cradle, her breathing so weak that Sylvie had almost missed the rise and fall of her chest and assumed the worst. And then Jane let out a small, wheezing sound to let her know that she was still there. That she needed Sylvie. Sylvie had loved Jane's voice since then.

"What is it, poppet?" Rafe set down the paper as Jane pointed smugly to her plate. He patted her on the head as she beamed then raised his hands and signed, 'Well done.'

Then he reached into his jacket and extracted a deck of cards.

"I promised to teach Jane some games if she ate all her breakfast," he said by way of explanation as he deftly shuffled the cards.

"She's a little young to be learning how to play cards," Sylvie frowned and then even deeper when Jane looked at Rafe and scribbled on her notebook. 

That's her teacher voice.

"And where did you get them?" She continued, slightly hurt at the alliance these two had formed behind her back.

Rafe raised his hands and signed, killjoy.

"You learned how to say that but not how to say healthy?" Sylvie said, her voice filled with displeasure.

"Oh, no, Jane taught it to me this morning. She said you'd be a killjoy if we included you in our games. I wanted to learn how to sign killjoy, because it's certainly easier than saying your aunt.  Then I asked her to become my teacher, we spent a fair bit at my sign lessons before you joined us."

"I am not a killjoy!" She protested, feeling her cheeks heat. "I am just concerned whether it would be appropriate. Surely you know some other games?"

"Ah, yes but the problem with the other indoor games like blind man's bluff is that you need to be able to either talk or listen. With cards, neither of that is a requirement, you can just play."

Sylvie paused in contemplation, faced with the expectant eyes of both Rafe and Jane and felt her heart melt.

"Oh, very well."

With Jane solidly tuckered out after their hefty dinner and their long day of activities and games, Sylvie found herself anxious and sleepless.

Jane was already besotted with her guardian, doting on every word. She knew that Jane continually felt the lack of a father in her life and she had always wanted for Thomas to be more present in her life, and now she feared that Jane might develop hopes and expectations from Rafe. And who could blame her with the way he showed he cared for her? With the effort that he put into being able to speak her language; something that Thomas had never been able to do? By suggesting games that would be easier for her to play, never leaving her out of conversations, and asking the staff to bring her extra dessert if she promised to finish an entire bowl of soup, Rafe had firmly cemented his place in Jane's affections.

Jane needed a father, Sylvie knew that, but she also knew that this arrangement with Rafe was only temporary. They hadn't seen each other in years before this and whenever all of this ended, she was sure that they would part ways again. She had to put a stop to it before Jane came to care for Rafe, before she came to hope that he might give her the paternal attention she needed.

She slid out of the bed, threw on her robe, and knocked on the adjoining door. She heard a grunt of what she assumed was acknowledgement so she twisted the handle and wandered inside. In the dimness she could barely make out the shape of him, writing on his bed as he grunted again.

"Please," he rasped.

"Rafe?"

"Please, kill me."

Sylvie froze in horror at the agony and hopelessness in that plea. They were so palpable that her own heart broke because of the bleakness, the vulnerability, the fear in his voice.

Oh, Rafe, just what happened to you? 

She hastened her steps, her eyes adjusting the dark too slowly, making her stumble a little before she reached him. "Raphael!"

He writhed on the bed, moaning as if in agony; as if whatever he dreamed of was both terrible and frightening. In a moment of panic, Sylvie grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. "Wake up! Rafe! You need to wake-"

Before she knew what was happening, his fist collided with her chest, knocking the wind out of her, and then she was flipped over, trapped beneath him as he stared at her with maddened, wrathful eyes. Something sharp and cold was pressed against her throat. And with the tension thrumming through his hands, it felt as if he was just seconds away from drawing the weapon across her throat.