He tried to imagine what he would do when he got home. Have a bath drawn, naturally. He'd speak through the door, refusing his valet's entry into his bedroom. He'd burn everything—his shoes, his shirt, his pants, his coat. He'd burn it all. He'd soak in the tub, probably for hours, until his fingertips were shriveled and the water was as cold as the winter air around him... and then what? Dry off and go to sleep? Pretend this never had happened? Try to go one day—one week?—without reaching out to her?

Raphael gave a noncommittal noise and nodded his head, avoiding eye contact.

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