Although he didn’t usually go out of his way to put himself in dangerous situations, he was fully prepared to play the noble protector as the lecherous-looking man, disheveled and reeking of alcohol, moved out of the shadows and into the light. The woman was right—Raphael couldn’t imagine the object belonging to him, but Raphael would have preferred the “turn a cold shoulder and walk far enough away until he could apparate away” method.

It seemed the woman had other ideas.

Raphael leaned down so his lips were nearer her ear. “Don’t get near him,” he whispered, not taking his eyes off the man. He didn’t really want to have to play the hero. Not here, not when he was dressed so nicely. “I think he’s drunk.”

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