Christine was a good girl, and Erik was glad for it. It made things far easier on him. And though he saw a piece of her spirit break off and drift away, he thought that perhaps it was for the best. She had never been an overly confident girl and for that he was grateful. In a new country, with him as the only familiar, he knew he didn't have much reason to fear her running.

Not that she would run, if she could. After all, she was a good girl. A good, smart girl. She knew what was best for her, and at the moment that meant swallowing every bit of pride she ever had and remaining at Erik's side.

She sang for him. Of course she did, she did whatever he asked of her with little to no fight. She had no fight left in her, you see. She surrendered her right to fight long ago, when she had allowed him to be her angel. He knew this, and it seemed it became clearer to her as every day passed.

Her voice was perfect. Her pitch phenomenal, her pronunciation and accuracy crystal clear. The only thing she lacked was the emotion that she once held, the emotion that brought Paris to its feet. But it was no matter. He had fixed that once before and he would do it again, even if it killed him.

He knew that the things he did were wrong. He knew that his harsh words only hurt her and chipped away all that was left of her already broken spirit, but he couldn't stop. Christine consumed him, she completed him, and it terrified him to think that one day she would open her eyes and understand the amount of power she truly had over him.

He loved her. He truly did. He loved her with a deep passion and he would give her anything she asked of him. But he thought it best to keep that bit to himself. As it was, the girl didn't ask for much.

The most she had asked for since learning of her new identity was paper and pen, which he had supplied without a second thought. She would sit by the fireside every night, small and childlike curled up on the floor, and scribble away furiously. He never asked to see what she wrote - he simply observed her, watching as her face scrunched up and relaxed, seeing the way she would pause and look so pensive, then suddenly dive back into her fury of writing.

He found himself curious as to what the pages contained, but he resisted the urge to rip them out of her hands and devour them. He had her. She was his, in mind, body and soul. He absolved the guilt that he felt over his sins by allowing her that small privacy.

For hours they would sit, the only sound that of her pen scratching the paper while Erik watched her and sipped a glass of brandy. He had never been a fan of alcohol, but he indulged now, realizing how it fit the picture of a husband and wife. Perhaps they could be normal.

And every night, when she would finally set the pen down he allowed her to scurry off, hiding the pages (which he knew resided tucked into the space between the top of her nightstand and the wood of the table, crafty Christine), and then return to him, sitting at his feet and allowing him to gently stroke her hair.

They lived mostly in a comfortable silence. Words were not needed. She belonged to him, he loved her and the feelings were not returned. What more was there to speak about? But, oh, how Erik longed to hear her voice. And night after night, he would sit in silence, waiting for her to break it.

And then one night, she did.

"Will you tell me a story?"

He thought for a moment, contemplating wether he felt up to it. "What kind of story, Christine?"

She shrugged and nuzzled against his knee with her head. He smiled and brought his hand to her hair.

"You can just talk," she offered quietly. "I just need to hear your voice."

He continued to stroke her hair and sighed. It was almost as though she had read his mind. How strange that their needs could be so in tune with one another. He supposed that maybe that was just what happened when two people lived together.

"Do you love me yet?" He tried, figuring if all she wanted was to hear his voice he may as well force her to converse with him.

She let out an indignant huff but didn't move. "I need you," she said quietly. "You're all I have."

He paused for a moment and then continued to stroke her hair. It wasn't so bad, he thought. Perhaps that truly could be enough for him. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

"That is a no, hmm?" He said instead.

She sighed again and he let out a low laugh. "You, my dear, are the one who wanted to talk."

She nodded and stretched her arm across his lap under her head.

"Do you miss him terribly?" Erik asked after a moment.

"Sometimes," she admitted easily. "And other times it's as if he never existed."

He felt hope blossom at her words. "That is good, Christine."

"I still feel guilty," she admitted.

He nodded slightly. "Understandably. He will forget about you in time, Christine."

She laughed a shaky laugh. "I suppose that was meant to be reassuring."

He let his hand trail down her hair and then lightly traced her throat, hidden under her mess of curls. He felt her heartbeat quicken under his touch and he smiled at that. "I never intend for anything else, my love."

She whimpered as his hand trailed lower, over her shoulder until he could trace her collarbone, feeling her heart beat against the palm of his hand.

"Do I frighten you, Christine?" He asked suddenly. He felt her swallow against his hand.

"No," she said sullenly. "You would never hurt me, Erik."

"That's right," he said. "Erik would never hurt his Christine. He only does what is best for her."

She tucked her head down and kissed the tip of his finger so quickly and lightly that he wasn't sure if it happened or if he imagined it.

"Why do you let me touch you?" He asked curiously as his hand slipped lower and lower, until it slipped into the gap between her dress and her skin.

She shivered under his caress and shrugged her shoulders.

"You do not love me, but you allow me to touch you," he mused as his hand came to rest in the valley between her heaving breasts. "Why is that, Christine?"

"Because I am yours," she whispered against his knee.

He nodded as he removed his hand from her dress and leaned back, resuming his careful petting of her hair. "And you will never leave me," he reminded her.

She laughed. "Where would I go, Erik? If I left you, where would I go? To the streets? Or perhaps to the husband I scorned? I'm sure he would be delighted to know that his wife ran off in the night with the very man who attempted his murder."

He twisted her hair in his hand until he heard her give a pained gasp and then he released it suddenly. "I will not bear guilt for that," he mumbled. "I beg you to remember it was I that you betrayed in the first place. Honestly, that whole nasty business could have been avoided had you only come to your senses before marrying the boy."

She nodded against his lap.

"You have always been mine," he continued. "You said it yourself, Christine."

"I did," she admitted.

"You did me a great disservice," he said calmly, "by giving your body away to another first. You know, if you have always been mine. It was terribly selfish of you."

"I've done a lot of selfish things," she said quietly.

Erik nodded again. "Christine is a wicked, selfish woman. But Erik is good, and he forgives her for her sins because he loves her."

"I'm feeling terribly tired, Erik," Christine said suddenly.

"Then to bed we go. Is that what you wish for, Christine?"

She nodded sullenly.

"Why so sad, my love?" He asked as she began to rise from the floor, stretching as she did so.

She shook her head. "I am fine, Erik. I'm just tired."

He knew that she was lying but she looked so pretty in her sadness that he could hardly be angry with her for it.

She walked toward the bedroom and paused. "Are you coming to bed with me?"

Erik swore he heard a hopefulness in her voice and his heart beat harder at the thought. "Would you like me to?" He asked carefully, observing the way her muscles tensed.

She looked at him over her shoulder and then quickly turned her head back. "If you wish," she said meekly.

He rose and came to stand behind her. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders and smiled at the shiver his touch sent through her body. "If I do," he said to the back of her head, "I hardly believe that sleep will be the first thing on your agenda."

Her shoulders shrugged under his hands and he felt his heartbeat quicken. It was the closest Christine had come to expressing a desire for him, and though she didn't say it he knew that her nonchalant attitude was a permission to him.

He grasped her hips and brought his lips down to her throat, kissing the spot that always sent a shiver through her. "I want you," he said gruffly.

She nodded. "I know," she replied quietly.

"Tell me you want me," he insisted as he gripped her hips harder, pulling her closer so that she could feel his hardness against her back.

She shivered and gasped, but made no movement to obey.

He sighed and began to gather her skirt in his hands, lifting it until her pantaloons were exposed to his eyes. He released the ribbons with two fingers and let them carelessly fall to the floor.

He lifted her, skirts still bunched in his hands, and brought her to the back of the chair he had been sitting in moments before. He released her skirt and allowed it to cover her for a moment as he reached around her body and guided her hands to the chair.

"Bend over," he commanded her. And the good girl obeyed, using the chair to support herself.

He pulled her skirt up again, allowing himself to take in the image of her most private area exposed to him so openly.

He brought one finger down to caress the damp, puckered lips and slid it inside of her, watching in fascination as she shivered and sighed under his touch.

"Your body will admit it," he said, as he began to move his finger in and out of her warm body. "Why will you not? Admit that you want me. Tell me what your body does. Tell me that you crave me."

"I want you," her broken whisper came. "God help me, Erik. I want you."

"Good girl," he whispered as he used one hand to release himself and guide himself to her entrance. He was much gentler this time, admiring the way her body clung to him and slowly pulled him deeper and deeper.

She shuddered under him and cried out with a moan as he slid into her.

He began to move against her, rocking his hips into hers and relishing every cry that she made. The chair scraped against the floor as he thrust particularly hard, and Christine cried out, arching her back toward him as she offered him easier access to her.

He scooted the dress further up so that he could grab onto her bare hips. "Know," he growled, "know that no one else can make you feel this way, Christine."

She gasped as one of his hands snaked around her and slid between her legs, finding the little bundle of nerves that had seemed to make her gasp before and flicking his finger up and down it in time with his thrusts.

"Know that no one else can make your body sing."

She cried out and began to shake under his ministrations, panting as she seemed to grow tighter and tighter around him. He began to thrust harder, admiring the way her body clung and still admitted him.

Her voice rose as her moans turned to high pitched cries of pleasure. She began to cry as she felt the intense buildup, the pleasure so much that it burned and turned to pain.

She cried out and collapsed against the chair as her body spasmed and Erik felt the wetness spread, feeling the spasms from inside of her. She offered no fight as he used the chair to his advantage, lifting her by her hips and using the chair to support her midsection as he thrust deeper and harder within her.

When his release came he pushed deep inside of her, allowing her to feel his own spasms and twitches. And when he was calm enough to allow his rational thought to return he replaced her feet on the ground, letting her skirt fall to cover her as he pulled his own trousers up.

He took her in his arms then, lifting her like a child and she gave no fight, just allowing her head to lull against his shoulder.

"I will come to bed with you," he announced as he carried her in that direction.

Her arms wrapped weakly around his neck, and he felt his pulse quicken. This was the first time she had offered him a gentle touch without coercion, and when he came to the edge of the bed he was reluctant to break the contact.

He fought with himself over it for a moment before he decided to compromise and sit upon the bed himself, letting her rest across him. To his delight she didn't break the contact, she simply slid her hand down until it rested beside her head on his chest.

"Love," she whispered. "How can you truly know if you love someone?"

He brushed her curls back from her face and pulled her closer to him, trying to calm his wildly beating heart. "You just know, Christine," he offered. "You say you love your boy. How did you know you loved him?"

"I cared deeply about him," she said. "His opinions mattered to me, I was excited to see him. I liked talking to him. He was handsome."

Erik let his hand run down her back, enjoying the caresses she allowed him to give her. "What is your question, Christine?"

He saw her eyes look up at him, wide and ironically innocent.

"Why... Why is it that you can drive me wild with a single touch? Why could he never do that Erik? Why did I never feel this devotion to him, this connection to him?"

Erik pulled her closer to him. "Perhaps you didn't love him, Christine."

She gave no answer to that and he pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Sleep, Christine," he whispered to her.

He watched as her eyes closed and her muscles relaxed, falling quickly into a deep sleep.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time after that, contemplating her words with restored hope in his heart.