A/N: Thank you once again for the reviews, follows and favourites! Special thanks to Leona and Guest, who I haven't been able to respond to. Know that your reviews are read and appreciated!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album Sigh No More. The song featured in this fic is called Awake My Soul—another beautiful song. Just, Mumford and Sons, man. They're great and Ramin agrees with me.
How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes,
I struggle to find any truth in your lies.
And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know,
My weakness I feel I must finally show.
January 1, 1978
It was snowing outside. The roads were covered with a thick coat of white, snowflakes falling and adding its layer to the ground. The streets were empty, the shops closed and quiet. Everyone was huddled in their own homes, safe and warm, contently enjoying their new year in cosiness.
Two lovers lay asleep on the bed together, legs tangled underneath the blankets, skin pressed to skin. Clothes messily littered the floor, along with other objects—a pair of shoes here, an opened box there. The desk was clattered with books and newspapers, along with some simple earrings and bracelets. A golden pocket watch sat in a corner, carefully wrapped in its chain.
It was then that the man blinked sleepily, roused from his sleep. He let out a deep yawn, mind still slow and hazy from sleep, and shifted a numb arm—before realising that it was trapped under a head, its owner still sleeping soundly. He looked down, recognising the wild curls and heart-shaped face, tucked into the crook of his shoulder, snuggling against him.
The image brought a small smile to his lips. Erik pressed a kiss to her curls before lying back, staring at the ceiling. He let out a content sigh, thinking back upon the events of last night.
Christine had invited him to her place to celebrate the New Year. She and Meg had held a small party, one compromising of a few close friends—mostly those who worked in the theatre. Erik had initially been reluctant at the idea of being surrounded by others, but Christine had reminded him that he visited the theatre frequently enough to be well acquainted with—or to visually recognise, since he kept to himself most of the time—most of the guests. So he had rolled his eyes and grudgingly agreed, knowing that he was bound to come from the start. She had grinned triumphantly and planted a solid kiss on his cheek.
After all, he could deny her nothing.
He hadn't expected the night to run so smoothly—or that he would actually enjoy himself. At most, he thought he would have been sitting towards the side nursing a glass of vodka—for Christine had promised him vodka—and watch the festivities sullenly. They were exchanging gifts when he knocked, dressed in a simple dress shirt and trousers. Christine had pulled the door open, looking divine and cheery in a bright yellow dress, before ushering him in and introducing him to five other people who were laying around the coffee table, teasing and poking at each other as they tore open gifts.
They had welcomed him with friendly smiles and warm handshakes, inviting them to join their little circle. Meg smiled at him in greeting, leaning against a muscular arm of a black-haired man Erik assumed to be the leading ballet dancer. Christine had joined him and urged him to converse, and at the end of the night, they were all laughing at his witty jokes, entranced by his magnetic voice and dry sarcasm.
And when it was midnight they had cheered and hugged; Christine had grabbed him by his collar and laughingly pressed a kiss to his mouth. He had responded enthusiastically and deepened the kiss, pulling her waist to his until she was gasping for breath. They had been teased by the others for that, but Erik didn't care from the look of sheer adoration Christine had given him.
God, he loved her.
After they left she had urged him to stay, and, bidding Meg a good night, had pulled him into her room and shut the door before pulling him down for a deep, ravishing kiss. While they had been intimate before it had felt different then; electrifying, almost. Each touch she bestowed him, each press of lips and tug of hair was cherished, the sensation frozen in time by his careful mind, tucked safely in the depths of his consciousness so that he could remember the feel of her. And when they both lay on the bed, lying on their backs and breathless, she had whispered her love into his ear and pulled him close to her, stroking his hair until he drifted off to sleep.
As he gazed down at his sleeping angel, Erik thanked the lucky stars that had urged him to visit the theatre five months ago. She was truly a godsend, his Christine—his one and only, his very heart and soul. He loved her with his entire being.
Bringing up a hand, he softly threaded fingers through her lavish curls. The movement roused her; soon enough she was shifting against him, eyebrows scrunched up adorably as eyelids fluttered open to reveal deep blue eyes. They blinked sleepily, slowly adjusting to the dim shine of the room before she tilted her head upwards, meeting his own.
"Good morning," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair away from her eyes. She gazed up at him hazily, still in a dream-like state before her eyes cleared, a small smile gracing her lips as she remembered the events of last night.
"Happy New Year," she whispered. The small hand that had been resting upon his bare chest grazed upwards to stroke his strong jaw, thumb brushing delicately across his skin. Erik shivered at her touch.
"Indeed," he agreed wholeheartedly. He had never felt so content than he had last night with a casual arm draped over the woman he loved, surrounded by people he wasn't forced to interact with, greeting the new year with the feel of her lips against his, her laugh breathed into his mouth.
It had felt so normal. He had never been granted a taste of normalcy before.
Christine's own smile grew and she tangled fingers in his hair, dragging his mouth down to hers for a slow, lazy kiss. Her mouth was soft against his, tender and sweet. Even though she had touched and loved him with her body the entirety of last night, his heart still thudded fiercely within his chest.
He didn't pull back when they parted, letting their lips hover within inches of each other as he pressed their foreheads together. Her breath was warm upon her lips, light and wispy. Her eyes gazed into his with a certain spark—a spark he recognised whenever she wanted him.
A slow smile spread across his lips. "Do you have any plans today?" he asked quietly, a hint of suggestiveness in his tone as his thumb brushed her cheek.
In response she shifted closer, pressing her nude body against his. Her delicious curves met his hard chest, electrifying and intimate. It sent a hot flush of desire through him, demanding and begging to feel her upon him, surrounding him, sheltering him again.
SMUT
Grinning, Erik pressed his lips to hers once more. It was heaven to feel her thumb brushing his neck, the other trapped between his cheek and pillow. Her mouth was soft and yielding against his, parting and sighing contentedly. He brushed the roof of her mouth with his tongue, drawing out a low moan from her which only served to heighten his desire.
Fully awake now, Erik let his hands grow bold. He dragged fingers down her neck, collar, shoulder and arms before resting on her hips, stroking softly. Their mouths were still locked together, their kiss slow and wet. Slowly trailing a hand upwards, Erik let his fingers graze her breast, and she moaned insistently into his mouth, arching and pushing her chest into his hand. She broke the kiss to gasp for air and his lips latched onto her jaw, kissing down her neck as she threaded fingers into his hair and tugged.
"Erik," Christine gasped, eyes closed in bliss. In return he moaned against her skin, relishing at how she curved against him. At that moment, he knew with certainty that she wanted him like he wanted her—like he always wanted her.
He pushed at her until she lay on her back and hovered over her, letting his fingers drift downwards, trailing over smooth skin. He slowed at her navel, stroking her hipbones softly. Her skin was so smooth, so soft under his hands; her mouth moving hot and insistent against his. He wanted to touch her all over, to make her sigh and gasp and moan out his name, to make himself hers over and over again.
When his hands disappeared between their bodies he groaned, the sound catching deep in his throat as he felt the evidence of her desire. God, he would never get enough of this, of her. To know that she was willing and gasping under him, writhing as lithe fingers disappeared within her, inside her—it sent a shot of heat through his body, travelling down his spine and gathering in his lower stomach.
Erik trailed his lips downwards, loving lips moving and caressing her curves, drawing forth the very moans he had dreamed of. A glance upwards showed Christine with her head thrown back, eyes shut tightly and pink lips parted. His mouth watered at the sight of her, feeling a surge of intense longing for this woman. And when he disappeared underneath the blanket, the fingers that had tangled through his hair now tightened against his scalp, tugging at tufts of hair until he gasped against her most intimate parts.
The room was filled with her soft cries and whimpers. Head tossed to the side, blankets gathered at her hips, Christine writhed and arched beneath Erik's talented mouth, hidden underneath the thick cover. It was a terribly erotic image when he thought about it; a picture which only made him harder with want, drowning in desire. He wanted to do this all day to her, to give her something to blush about when she thought about him, to make her sing in ways nobody had done before. Head buried between her legs, fingers stroking her body, he drove her forwards—and then she was shaking beneath him, clenching around his fingers, sweet against his mouth, his name music from her lips.
Christine collapsed against the pillow, gasping and sated. He peppered kisses against her skin as she struggled to catch her breath. His lips graced her hipbone, her navel, her ribs. He leant a cheek against the rapid thudding of her heart, feeling her chest rise and fall beneath him.
It gave him a triumphant satisfaction to know that he had done this. His own desire was hard and throbbing against her hip, but to listen to her light, wispy breath as her heart slowed its insistent thudding—
A breathless laugh escaped her lips, shaking him out of his desirous thoughts. Erik lifted his head, resting chin against her sternum as he grinned slyly up at her. It was a testament to how pleased she was that she didn't roll her eyes at his cockiness as she always would, instead gazing down at him with hooded eyes and fully acknowledging his success in pleasuring her.
"Good?" he offered, a wolfish smile on his lips.
He watched with a certain delight as she rolled her eyes, breaking the spell. "Now you're just fishing for compliments," she reprimanded, yet Erik saw the begrudging smile she wore. His grin widened triumphantly.
"Yes," he agreed bluntly. There was no shame in admitting how smug he always felt at making her come undone before him.
Another laugh escaped her lips, this one severely amused and slightly disbelieving. "Shut up," she giggled. "Come here." He eagerly manoeuvred his way back to her supple lips, swallowing her laugh.
Christine began to trail her hands downwards, making Erik let out a low moan when her fingers disappeared between their bodies. Slight shifting, and then their bodies were joined once more. He sighed into her mouth at the feeling of her around him, sheltering him with her heat. This was where he belonged—circled by her arms, trapped between hooked legs, pulling him towards her as their bodies moved together in that age-old dance, beautiful and ravishing and enchanting.
Before long he was pushing deep into her, both of them gasping each time their bodies joined. Heat was building within him, sweet and unbearable. Long, plunging strokes—and then he was losing himself within her, gasping and moaning and chanting her name, Christine, Christine, Christine.
Erik collapsed on top of her, now being the one who was struggling to catch his breath. He felt her fingers knife through his thick hair, stroking and murmuring soothingly as he buried his face into the skin where neck met shoulder, breathing heavily. Dark curls tickled his nose.
END OF SMUT
A sudden thought came to his mind. "Christine," he said after a while, voice still ragged and unsteady, "we were safe, weren't we? I mean—"
"I'm on the pill," she assured.
Sighing in relief, he pressed a tired kiss to her neck. He laid back, body thrumming with pleasure.
While he would love to eventually settle down with his angel—and the thought of marrying Christine sent a surge of longing within his chest—there was no guarantee that any children they may have would be safe, provided they did marry, and that Christine wanted children, of course. The thought of marriage had never appealed to him before, and with his career Erik assumed that it would be too risky to get involved with someone. It was too risky being with Christine at all, but as long as she remained oblivious to his occupation and he was careful to cover up his tracks, Erik was positive that nobody would make the link between opera diva and master assassin. Nobody had, after all, connected the masked Phantom to the recluse Erik before. That didn't make it any less risky.
But he couldn't resist Christine.
Of course, she didn't know that the same hands that made her cry out in pleasure had also been tainted with the blood of countless men. He wasn't proud of his occupation, especially since his darling was the opposite of everything he was. She was pure, untainted, innocent. He could never tell her—she would run from him.
And he was too selfish to give her the chance.
Did that make him a bad man? Probably. But he refused to overthink it—not when she induced such emotion within him, such happiness and sense of belonging.
A sudden loud, insistent beeping filled the room, disrupting their contented silence. With a jolt Erik realised that it was the emergency telephone the KGB had given him. Breathless and sated in the arms of the woman he loved, and the government was calling him to murder someone else. He vaguely wondered who it might be this time—a balding rich man, or a sly, sufficient target?
He swore, then in a flash, Erik was on his feet and hunting for his clothes. His head was pounding, still stupefied by the sweet pleasure she had given him. He was reeling. Why did he even chance staying over at Christine's when he knew there was always the possibility of being called in urgently? He hadn't received an emergency call for over six months, but he knew he should not have taken it for granted, knew what he signed up for when he had joined the KGB. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And of all times, why now? And why here, with his sweet, innocent Christine who only thought the best of him, who didn't know he had to leave her to slit someone's throat?
But he should have expected it, been prepared for something like this to happen. There would surely be questions from his angel, for she was curious and demanding, and he would have to make up some other lie to avoid the subject.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Christine sat up, confused and slightly dazed from the after-effects of their pleasure. "Erik, I thought you didn't have a telephone?" she questioned, puzzled. His urgent dressing made her frown. "Who was that? Where are you going? Erik, I thought you didn't have any plans for today—"
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, but I have to go," he apologised quickly, finally fully dressed and buckling his belt into place. He wished he could stay and beg her forgiveness, especially for what he was about to do, but knew that he needed to leave as quickly as possible. If his emergency device was beeping, it could only mean that their target was getting away. "It's an emergency. I'll explain everything later, I promise."
"What?" she queried, eyes clearing now as she watched him hastily move around the room, collecting his wallet, keys, jacket. He was always so calm, composed—it was unsettling to see him rushing about. "What emergency? Do you need me to come—"
"No!" he shouted, and she flinched, startled. "No," he repeated in a slightly softer tone, "don't come—it's a family emergency."
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You told me you didn't have any family."
He swore, cursing his carelessness. He was running out of time. "I can't explain right now," he said impatiently, refusing to meet her eyes.
Her frown deepened. "What's going on? Erik, you're scaring me."
He paused, shooting a look of protective concern at her. All thoughts of his duty towards the government fled from his mind, replaced by images of his Christine in danger—from him, because of him. Everything within him screamed at him to leave her, to cut all ties to ensure such a thing never happened to her. His heart clenched painfully in his chest to think of living without her.
"Scared?" he repeated. "Why? Are you being threatened, Christine?" The mere thought made his blood begin to boil, and he looked at her sternly. "Who is it?"
She was taken aback by the urgency of his admission. "What? No," she answered, bewildered, "what—Erik, this isn't funny. What are you—"
"You have nothing to fear, Christine," he declared fiercely, crossing the room to the bed where she sat with the covers hiding her modesty, and taking her hands in his tightly. "I'll protect you, whatever it is, whoever it is," he stated firmly, looking deeply into her electric blue eyes. "You always come first, Christine."
Her eyes flickered with alarm and she jerked her hands back. "Erik, what? I don't—"
Realising he had assumed wrongly, Erik abruptly stood. His emotions were getting the best of him, and right now, he couldn't afford that. He had a job to do—a government to serve. They would not forgive his tardiness, and if they were to ever discover that he had been with Christine—
"I have to go," he said shortly, offering no explanation. Christine's protests were met with a deaf ear as he strode out of the room, leaving the scent of lovemaking in the air. She sat with sheets bunched around her waist, completely at a loss.
The golden pocket watch she had gifted him lay silently on her desk.
Erik didn't return that day.
Christine had waited, at first. It must have been something important for him to rush off so suddenly, especially after their passionate morning. She knew how much Erik cherished their time together, always ensuring her pleasure as well as his and always eager to touch.
Yes, Erik would not have left if it wasn't for something urgent. She only wished she knew what had occurred.
His words bothered her. He had asked if she was threatened—even the idea of it seemed absurd to her. Who would threaten her? She was a simple opera singer, a woman who spent her days in a theatre with harmless eccentrics. She lived with her best friend and never gave her address to anyone other than those closest to her, with whom she had been friends with most of her life.
But Erik had been so fierce, so wild. His stare burned into hers when he had asked—no, demanded if she was in danger. Why would he think such a thing? Was he in danger? And the fact that he had lied to her...
Christine had half a mind to bundle up in her coat and venture out into the snow to Erik's place. It wouldn't be too bad a walk, since the snow had stopped falling and people were now braving the street. But then with a jolt she realised that she didn't know where he lived.
It sent a deep surge of disbelief to her core. How could she not know where he lived, after five months of being with him? Yes, she had never had a reason to since he would always pick her up from the theatre, but surely there was a time when she had visited his home? Christine searched her mind for a forgotten address, a chair, perhaps, that Erik favoured, a bed she might have curled up with him in—but came up with nothing.
So it was true, then. Five months and he had never invited her to his home, never even mentioned the idea of a simple get together for lunch or dinner, or more. It was an ugly feeling, to realise that the person she'd been with—the person she loved—didn't even trust her well enough to disclose his home address.
By lunchtime, Christine was irritated enough to want to venture out into the cold. Meg had been as puzzled as her upon hearing about Erik's abrupt departure, but while she had been sympathetic and comforting, Christine felt an intense urge to leave her home. She didn't want to linger in her bedroom, where the sheets were still ruffled, reminding her of how Erik had held her, touched her, kissed her that morning. Thinking about their lovemaking felt physically painful, yet all she wanted to do was have him back in her arms again.
It was impossible to be angry at someone you loved, but she was determined. If anything, she deserved an apology and explanation, and she would not let her feelings rule her actions when she saw him again.
Trudging down the street, her boots left deep footprints in the snow as she walked towards her favourite café. She needed a strong dose of coffee since it was too early for alcohol, and ordered a black with no sugar when she reached the counter. Her fingers tapped incessantly as she waited for her drink. It was infuriating to think that she was sulking because of Erik, but she was too angry to do anything else.
Being angry was easier than admitting how hurt she was by his actions, anyway.
Just as she was about to snap at the barista to hurry up, a familiar male voice called her name.
"Christine?"
She turned from the counter to see a handsome young man, most definitely in his early twenties. Stylishly cut blonde hair fell over his forehead, and blue eyes a shade lighter than hers stared back at her. He wore a simple blue coat, and she noted that his scarf matched his eyes.
Christine blinked, surprised. "Raoul?" she questioned incredulously.
A slow grin spread over the the blonde's face, eyes lighting up like Christmas lights. "So it is you!" he said enthusiastically. "Wow—I'm so glad to see you, Christine!"
"Me too," she replied—and was surprised at the genuine honesty in her tone. She and Raoul had been friends since childhood, but had drifted apart as they grew. He had been a good friend to her, a dependent boy who had always listened to her troubles, who never failed to encourage her to keep singing whenever she felt like giving up. When her father had passed, Raoul had been by her side at the funeral, even if his parents had heavily objected against it.
Raoul's parents worked in the government. He had been ashamed when she had first found out he was part of the few elite who had certain benefits due to their administrative positions. Raoul had detested it, and made no attempt to conceal this from Christine. Nomenklatura, he had bitterly called them. He often declared that he would run away when he was older and live like a proper Soviet, one who shared the lives of everyday people, who had worked honestly and had the same income as everyone else did.
It seemed that Raoul didn't follow through with his plan. From his cashmere scarf to designer boots, Christine knew that he was still with his parents. Surprisingly, she wasn't bitter over his decision to stay with his parents. Slightly shocked, since he had been fiercely adamant about it, but not bitter.
She shook herself out of her thoughts as he posed her a question. "Sorry?"
"Are you busy?" he repeated, then gestured towards the counter where two steaming mugs of coffee sat. Christine blinked—only moments before hers was the only mug there. Had she truly been so distracted?
"No," she found herself saying, and then Raoul was leading them to an empty booth and loosening his scarf, insisting on catching up. She sat opposite him and blew softly at her coffee.
"How are you?" Raoul asked conversationally, some snow falling off his light hair as he shook his head. His smile was sweet and genuine, and idly she noticed how his dimples stood out, so different from Erik's quirk of lips.
No, she firmly told herself. No thinking about Erik right now. You haven't seen Raoul for years—you should catch up.But putting Erik off her mind was too difficult, especially when she remembered how he drew shivers from her spine only this morning, how he kissed every inch of her body with his thin lips...
Raoul's lips were full, she noted. He was the complete opposite of Erik in so many ways: golden hair, sky-blue eyes, boyish smile.
"Christine?" Raoul was saying, and she blinked once more, realising she had unintentionally drifted off once again.
She sighed and took a sip of the bitter coffee, scorching her tongue in the process. Her eyes watered and she blinked back the water gathering at the creases. "I'm sorry," she apologised, "yes, I'm fine. How was your new year?"
"Fine," he answered shortly, shooting her a concerned look. "Christine, are you sure you're alright?" His hand came to rest lightly on the table, as if reaching out to take hers. She didn't let him.
Christine forced a smile and nodded, but Raoul simply rolled his eyes.
"Christine, we used to be best friends. I've known you for years," he pointed out, "I think I can tell when something's wrong." Leaning back, he folded his arms against his chest and lifted an eyebrow as if in invitation for her to confide in him.
She sighed once more, shoulders slumping in defeat. "There is," she admitted. "I'm sorry, Raoul—it's been so long, and I'm so happy to see you, I really am, but—"
"Christine," he interrupted. Blue orbs met blue, one set confused and slightly hurt, the other warm and knowing. "Don't be sorry. Come on, tell me what's got you so upset."
"Oh Raoul, you don't have to listen to my rambling—"
"I'm your friend, Christine, it's okay," Raoul assured.
Finally, with yet another sigh, she confessed, "It's my boyfriend."
It was odd to think of Erik as her boyfriend. The word felt foreign on her tongue. They had never put a label on their relationship, preferring to simply acknowledge that they were together.
But essentially, Erik was her boyfriend.
"Ah," Raoul said knowingly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Of course. It always comes down to a man, doesn't it? Or, well, a woman, in my case."
Christine groaned and leaned her elbows on the table and before long, she was spilling out her feelings to her childhood friend. "Everything was going so well!" she exclaimed. "We've been together five months and he's just the most amazing man I've ever met in my life. We spent the New Year at my place, which was just wonderful, and I was so happy he came because he doesn't usually like social gatherings. And this morning was just so lovely and comfortable, but then he got a call and he just—left!"
"Without explanation?" Raoul asked, frowning.
"That's the thing, Raoul," she moaned, "he did offer one, but he lied. He lied to me, Raoul! He told me he didn't even have a telephone. He said there was a family emergency—but he doesn't have anyone, just like me. He was so wild, just—I don't know!" She dug her fingers into her hair, grasping at her locks in frustration. "And then I thought that maybe, I should go over to his place and yell at him for a bit, demand an explanation. But then I realised I don't even know where he lives—"
"What?" Raoul interrupted incredulously. "You've been with this man five months and you don't know where he lives? Christine, that's dangerous!"
Christine stared at him. "Dangerous?" she repeated disbelievingly. "Why is everyone so concerned about my safety all of a sudden?"
His eyes widened and he looked around quickly, voice reduced to a hush. "Christine," he whispered, "are you being threatened?"
"What?" she screeched.
"Keep your voice down," Raoul hissed, noting that some people were starting to stare.
But Christine was having none of it. "First Erik, now you? Why would anyone threaten me?" she demanded, voice rising in disbelief. "I have a total of three friends—disregarding Meg's ones—and I'm a singer, for god's sakes! I don't even know anyone remotely dangerous, unless it's Anton whenever set pieces malfunction—"
"Christine," Raoul interrupted once more, his voice quiet now. His eyes bored into hers gravely. "What does your Erik do for a living?"
She opened her mouth to answer, but stopped when she realised that she didn't know. Christine sat back in her chair, stunned.
She didn't know what he did for a living. In all of their time together, Erik had always been strangely free during the days and always made a point to bring her lunch during rehearsals. There were times when he didn't contact her for days at a time, but this had been early on in their relationship and she had simply brushed it off as him being busy. She had asked him once or twice what his job was, but with a jolt she realised he would always distract her with a kiss or a touch or simple flattery until she was blushing and had completely forgotten what they were talking about.
But Erik always seemed to be better off. His clothing seemed modest, but she had once caught a glimpse of a branded tie around his neck, an expensive watch by his wrist. He brought her to lavish restaurants, treated her with gifts and necklaces without a care where others would struggle at the cost of such items. She had brushed it off before, but now the thought made her throat drop into her stomach in horror.
Where did he get all his money from?
She met Raoul's eyes helplessly, shaking her head. "I don't—" Christine broke off, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god," she whispered, "I don't know. I don't know what he does, Raoul, I don't know where he lives—" A sob caught in her throat as another sudden thought came to mind. "I don't even know where he comes from, or anything about his past—I don't know anything about him!"
Christine was close to hyperventilating, unable to believe that she was in love with a man who kept just about everything in his life a secret from her. He was always eager to know about her, to ask about her childhood days and fondest memories. If she ever did the same, he would twist the question or tease her or kiss her to avoid the subject. How could she have let this happen?
Who was this stranger?
During her internal panic Raoul leaned forwards, reaching a hand across the table once more. He took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly. "Christine," he said seriously, "don't worry. I know this is bad, but I can fix this. I can help you."
"How?" she demanded in a hushed whisper, feeling deranged and confused and hurt all at once. "I love him, and I don't even know him! How could you possibly help?"
Raoul listened to her ramble silently, and even while she posed legitimate questions he wasn't moved, was never unconvinced. He took a deep breath, then looked straight into her eyes.
"I have ways, Christine. I can find out who he is."
A/N: Yes, quite careless of Christine not to notice, but when you're in love you do tend to be a little stupidly blind, no? Any ideas as to what Raoul is planning?
In the meantime, leave a review and let me know what you think!
