A/N - Ladies, if you are single and searching for a hunky man craving, have I got the solution for you! *LOL* It's what inspired me for this chapter. If you can take language, nudity, and well, it's HBO, I highly recommend True Blood. I'm watching Season 1 right now, and well. . .you HAVE TO WATCH IT! Ahhh! I cannot stress this enough. The hotness known as vampire Bill Compton will please any angsty-hunky-man-lovin' POTO fan. That is all. *L*

Anyways, now that I managed to vent that off, I really hope you enjoy this next chapter. Things are beginning to look up for our troubled couple.

Chapter 12

The Gallery

"The master is really in a mood today!" Annette announced as she entered the kitchen where I sat peeling potatoes.

I glanced up from my task and brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The woman moved quickly across the kitchen and set down a tray of food on the counter. I bit my lip, repressing the urge to question her. Last evening, I left Erik to mull over my accusations when I stormed out, and now it felt like a bad dream. Today, I felt tired and listless, and yet I could not endure another day shut up in my room. I sought out my new friend for company and discovered a simple pleasure in assisting her in the kitchen. The sun shone warmly and cheerily through the windows, settling over the kitchen in a hazy afternoon glow.

"He asked about you," she added. I did not turn from my work but I could see her watching me from the corner of her eye.

"Hmm."

"I have seen men like this before," she added.

I did not reply, for I did not want to fuel the direction of her conversation.

She turned, sitting down across from me at the table, with her steady, even gaze capturing my attention. "When a man is as irritable as he is, it's usually due to one thing," she said.

I looked up, sighing softly and laying down the knife. "Annette," I said gently, rubbing my temple with firm fingers.

"He feels guilty," she said softly, seeing the frustration in my eyes, "I can see it – the way he moves about, how he won't touch his food, the sketches. . ."

"Sketches?" I interrupted.

A brief smile flickered on her lips. "All over the walls of the study. I did not know the master had so much talent."

"He is very talented," I murmured. "What has he drawn?"

"I believe they are likenesses of yourself, my dear," she replied, lifting a potato from the dish and joining me in my work.

***

I do not know what I was thinking or why I did it. I waited in the sitting room all afternoon and listened to every movement in the house. I wondered if Erik would ever leave his study, but I knew that eventually he would have to come out. The sun was beginning to set, and I watched from the windows as the sun turned the sky shades of orange and pink. I could not sit still as I thought of what Annette had told me. Would there be no end to this madness?

I heard her footsteps echo in the hall and knew that she had checked on him. Standing at the door, I watched as Annette crossed the hall, her skirts brushing the polished floor. My eyes shifted back to the door of Erik's study. The door lay open, and I could see a silhouette in the doorway, illuminated by the soft glow of the room. I watched quietly, careful to keep my breathing as silent as possible, as Erik left the study. The hall was darkening from the setting sun, and I could not make out too many details. After shutting the door, he walked slowly but methodically away from the room. Even now, after all this time, I found his tall, strong frame intimidating. I shrunk away from the crack of the door, afraid that he might see me spying on him.

I waited breathlessly for a few minutes until I was sure he was gone and slipped from the sitting room into the darkened hall. I navigated quietly across the polished floors until I came to the door of Erik's study. My hand froze on the door handle for a moment, unsure of what I was doing. I knew that I had to satisfy my curiosity, that I had to know, and so I opened the door slowly. The room was plunged into darkness and I quietly closed the door behind me before I continued my exploration.

I allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness for a minute before moving forward and nearly tripping over a chair. I steadied myself against a desk before reaching out in an attempt to find a lamp. My hands traced over small tables, over papers scattered about, and finally I found a lamp. I lit the lamp and sighed as a soft warm glow filled the room. It was not a great deal of light, so I was forced to carry the lamp around the room.

What I saw shocked me.

Papers. Papers covering the large desk, papers scattered on the floor, and papers hanging from the walls. I shivered suddenly, feeling a strange fear entering my heart. I gazed about, overwhelmed with the assault on my senses, and struggled to focus on the details before me. I walked to his desk, glancing down at the papers that littered its rich surface. There were sketches of me everywhere. Sketches of my profile, some betraying a horrible sadness, others a soft smile gracing my features. There were some of me sitting and glancing out of the window in quiet meditation. Others featured me in quiet study of a book.

There were sketches of the opera house, depicting some of my performances, but those that caught my attention the most were sketches from Don Juan Triumphant. I was entangled in his embrace, his face resting against the curls of my hair. Whenever he appeared in the sketches, it was always a darker figure, almost hidden in the shadows and not as centered as myself. His face remained unfinished in each depiction. I cannot convey the emotion that it invoked within me, of seeing how he sketched himself, of how he thought of himself.

I turned away from the sketches, too troubled to continue. I focused on those that hung on the walls. I was wearing an elaborate ball gown. In another, I wore a wedding dress, the same dress he had forced me to wear. Contrary to what one might expect of a bride, my eyes in the sketch were large and haunted. There was a deep sadness settled in them. Another drawing was of me sleeping. I drew in a startled breath, recognizing the room that I had occupied for weeks now. The drawing focused on my sleeping form, buried beneath the soft blankets of my bed. My face was closed in peaceful slumber, and the faint glow of moonlight illuminated my skin in a way that seemed unusually beautiful. Surely I did not look like this! He had embellished these drawings. I was not the woman he had portrayed.

One picture in particular caught my attention. I was crumpled on the floor, wearing nothing more than a thin nightgown and robe. The robe had slipped from my shoulders and I could see my bare arms lifted, my hands covering my face. It was obvious that I was weeping, for my shoulders were lifted and my head bowed. The simple nightgown that I wore was drawn so intricately, no detail forgotten. I marveled at the level of detail in the embroidery. The gown clung to my form softly, and I could almost feel the glow of light that illuminated part of my form.

The one detail that drew my attention the most was the darkened prints on my upper arms. I recognized the bruises easily. My hand reached out of its own accord and traced the injuries. My arms had healed, but I could still feel the pressure of his hands when I remembered. I found the edges of the drawing uneven, as though the paper had been crumpled or moisture had altered its form.

A sound behind me snatched me from my thoughts and I whirled around. Erik stood in the doorway and was watching me. I could not make out the expression on his face, but I instinctively drew further back, fearing that my intrusion would invoke a violent response from him. His shoulders seemed to drop slightly at my movement and I could see his arm lifting out towards me.

"I will leave," I murmured in a shaking voice. "I-I should not be here."

I moved around his desk but he moved to block my hasty escape and I stopped in my tracks, frozen in place. I shook like a deer cornered by a wolf, my eyes widened in fear.

"Please," he said softly, in earnest, "do not fear me."

Without thought, I lifted my arms across my chest as though to shield me. My hands gripped my arms softly and protectively, rubbing the skin where I could remember the pain he had caused me too clearly. His eyes drifted down towards my arms and a mixture of regret and sadness filled his eyes. He took a step closer, reaching out with hesitant hands which never touched my skin, but hovered over my arms as though trying to do something. I watched him closely, never removing my eyes from his hands.

"Are you still in pain?" I heard him ask weakly.

"N-no," I replied, shifting away from him.

My eyes wandered over him and I realized how little I had seen him over the past few weeks. He was not dressed so formally. He wore no suit jacket and instead wore a loose white dress shirt, partially opened at the neck, revealing a very masculine physique from which I had to avert my eyes for fear of being noticed. I almost seemed thinner than I remembered. His face, at the least the exposed half, was a bit leaner, yet chiseled to a perfection that caught my breath. I could see the strain of fatigue in his eyes, and the way his brow was wrought with worry.

Once again, I drew my attention to his hands. They were long and thin, and yet very masculine and strong. I had always loved his hands – the way they moved when they played the piano, the way they beckoned me, and the way they felt upon my skin when he was gentle.

"Please," he said gently, "don't cry, Christine. I cannot bear to see you cry."

Was I crying? I lifted my hand to my face and brushed away a stray tear that had slipped from my eye. I did not want to let him see my weakness. I glanced over at the sketches.

"You drew so many," I observed, "why?"

He moved across the room, brushing his fingers across several of the drawings, pausing at one where I looked at the viewer with a sadness I could understand. "It was the only way I could have you near," he said so quietly, I could barely hear.

His hands traced the contours of my face in the drawing with such reverence, that my heart suddenly ached more than I could bear.

"Please," I said embarrassed, shaking my head softly. "The woman you have drawn does not exist. She is not flesh and blood."

He turned away from the drawing to look at me, his piercing eyes holding me in place. There was an intensity in them that suddenly reminded me of a strange book I had once read, a novel written by a man name Bram Stoker. Surely, he had been describing Erik. Erik had that power in his eyes. He could command an army with one look. He made to move towards me but stopped when I tensed.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice like rough silk.

I pointed at the drawings that lined the walls. Drawings of a demure young woman decorated the study– a woman so beautiful that one's heart nearly stopped at her gentle eyes. "Surely this is not me," I argued, "I look nothing like this. There is no beauty like this. . .she does not exist!"

His features twisted in confusion, and I noticed how his dark, thick hair was uncombed and hanging slightly into his eyes, and over the mask. Yet, the dark hair did not cover his brilliantly shaped eyes. They were narrowed at me, though not in anger or suspicion, but disbelief.

"I have drawn you. I have left no detail out of each one and I have drawn each one as accurately as possible. Do you not know how beautiful you are?" he asked, moving towards me so slowly, that I did not perceive the movement until he stood mere inches before me.

"Why did you do this?" I asked, emotion wringing my voice. "I am watching, I am reading, and I am. . .sleeping! How did you. . ."

He turned his head to the side, closing his eyes briefly in shame. "Forgive me, angel," he said, his rich voice wrapping itself around me, "I never meant you any harm. Forgive me for invading your privacy."

"You did not sketch me while I was. . ."

"No!" he said loudly, raising his eyes to meet mine.

I sighed, dropping my eyes from his and suddenly realizing how tired I really was. "I should leave," I said.

He raised his hand slowly, pausing before me with a pleading look on his handsome face. "May I touch you? Just once?"

I felt my heart race for a moment. Was it fear? Was it something else? I remembered what I had told him before. I had been so angry for what he had done to me – for forcing me to marry him and for hurting me. I had promised myself that I would not allow it, but over time, my anger had started to disappear. Too weary to argue, I could only manage a small nod of my head.

I shut my eyes, feeling my arms trembling at my sides, awaiting his touch. It did not come for a long moment, and all I heard was my own shaky breath. Finally, my eyes opened quickly, brimming with moisture and I gazed up at his face which now hovered so close to mine. My eyes followed his hand as it finally met my cheek and grazed the skin so softly. He traced my features as delicately as he had the picture. Fingers trailed across my chaw and my chin. They stroked along my temple, following the rise of my nose, and finally, a thumb parted my lips very softly.

My eyes shot up towards his and I could see how deep in thought he was as he grazed my features with his hands. I almost reached up and pushed back the strands of dark hair that hung over his narrowed eyes. I almost ran my hand along his strong jaw, beside his ear, past his carefully groomed sideburns. I almost laid my small hand against his chest. All of these things, I could not do. I drew in a shaky breath as he lifted his hand from my face.

"I am very tired," I murmured softly, looking up into his eyes as though to beg permission to leave.

"Forgive me," he whispered huskily.

I turned to leave, feeling a prickling along my neck as though my decision was not the right one. I had to leave. Looking back once more at him, I noticed that his hands had dropped back down nearly to his sides, but that we was looking upon them with such emotion.