Julia21

What truly broke my heart was Erik's demeanor when I asked him to change from his sullied clothes so that I could properly examine his wounds. He seemed almost catatonic as I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled his arms through. With his eyes fixed on a distant point, he sat with his lips parted.

I swiftly gathered my supplies and dampened a clean cloth. I scrubbed soap into my washcloth and cleansed him from the neck down. He didn't argue, he didn't protest, he didn't ask me to stop at any point. Like a statue he sat, seemingly oblivious to my hand against his chest and the cloth at his collarbone.

As I washed away blood and dirt, I wondered how men could treat another man with such cruelty. It was one of the questions I had always wanted to ask Louis. If you love me, truly love me, then how can you raise your hand at me or your daughter? I was certain Erik could find a thousand reasons for someone to cause him harm. I could find two thousand for someone to respect him.

"Here." I lifted his arm from his side where I saw a long cut across his ribs. It wasn't deep, but all he needed was a superficial injury to become infected and poison him.

He continued to stare at the wall. His lack of reaction frightened me. I leaned forward to look him in the eye and he drew back.

"They should be ashamed of themselves," I said under my breath.

"Why?"

"Because…because this was wrong."

He met my eye briefly. The infinite sadness I saw in his gaze made my heart plummet. He'd been beaten before, which I had always known. But now, when I looked at him, I realized he'd been beaten much worse in the past—and he'd believed he was deserving of such treatment.

I didn't know if I should feel angry or sympathetic. My attraction to him had always been as a lover and caretaker. He'd never struck me as a man who desired to pull at my heartstrings. In fact, he didn't want my pity. He never wanted anything from me—at least anything beyond physical affection.

"I'll bring you more medicine in the morning. Laudanum if I can find it."

He shook his head, his eyes fixed on mine as I wiped his knuckles.

"For now, one of the pills should see you through the night. I'll leave you something should your stomach betray you."

He still didn't protest. As much as I should have appreciated his compliance, he worried me. I sat closer and turned up the lamp so I could see if he needed stitches for his injuries.

"Must I ask for your permission to eat or do you intend on governing that as well?" he grumbled.

Ah, at last, there was my Erik -- surly and uncooperative. I smiled but didn't reply as I touched his left eyelid. His face was quite swollen—which I expected it would be for several days. He drew away from my touch and exhaled hard.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," I whispered, feeling the need to assure him that I would never intentionally cause him harm.

Our eyes met once more and I offered a gentle, reassuring smile. Remember me, I wanted to tell him, but I wasn't sure he could remember his life before he'd been brought viciously to his knees. I could forgive him for his cruel words, but I didn't know if he would ever forgive me for still loving him.

Holding his gaze, I reached up to his forehead and hairline. He'd scraped his head badly—which compounded the split in his forehead that was held together by stitches.

"Please don't do this." He whispered, his voice tight and almost childlike. "Bring me a mirror and I will do it myself."

"Close your eyes," I replied.

He stared at me, a shiver passing through him as he silently decided whether he wished to protest or allow me to dominate him. The expression on his face made it perfectly clear to me that the idea of a woman caring for a man was too foreign for him.

He shut his eyes and shivered again as the cool rag touched his forehead and scalp. I brushed my fingers through his thin hair, felt him tense as I gently caressed his temple.

"Your eyes are so bruised," I whispered. "You are fortunate you did not go blind."

"The only sense I need is my hearing," he answered.

"What about touch?" I ran my finger against his cheek and he turned his face toward me, allowing me to touch him…on the unmasked side. It was at least a start, I hoped.

His lips trembled and I reached for his hand but stopped when I glanced at his hips and saw his arousal straining against his trousers. I stared at him in disbelief. How on earth could he feel desire in his current state?

"I'll fix another compress for you but you must keep it on all night long, is that understood?" When I glanced up I discovered him staring at me.

"If I may eat, I'll agree to anything." His voice sounded deeper, resonating with his current and obvious feelings.

"How useful are your fingers?"

He had the audacity to smirk as he flexed his hand. Ignoring his childish behavior, I gave him a spoon and stood to fetch his soup. When I returned with his dinner tray I nearly sat it in his lap, but there was still an obvious—and seemingly growing—problem.

"You're in enough pain as it is," I said, nodding at his legs. "I'll save you from burning yourself." He watched me as my face reddened. Aggravated, I rolled my eyes, almost preferring his silent state to this nonsense. "There is nothing endearing about your vulgarity—and don't even start with me. I see everything you're thinking in your eyes."

He wished to poke my nerves with a sharp stick.

"I suppose your innocent thoughts revolve around sewing and herb gardens?"

"Women don't think as lewdly as men."

"As lewdly?" he challenged. "Meaning that they do indeed have improper thoughts."

I had many improper thoughts running through my head as I could barely keep my gaze from wandering.

"Not as improperly as you. Now sit quietly or I'll put your supper outside for the tramps."

It was a false threat. As much as I should have remained his nurse, I wanted to crawl into bed beside him, wrap my arms around him, and fall asleep. I hoped that come morning our lives would return to normal—or normal for us. If I could have him in my bed for several hours I would be content. He didn't need to stay the night, to hold me close and whisper that he loved me. I didn't need to run my hands through his hair or kiss his lips. His body was my treasure, the feelings he gave me what I needed to survive.

My God, I felt like crying when I looked at him and realized how weak I was, how trembling and stupid I had become over the years. I'd settled for the ghost when I should have insisted on the man.

"Not as improperly! Pah! Then clearly I am delirious."

"Then eat something. The medicine will upset your stomach."

I felt as though I were the delirious one walking around my own house, fretting over this man. Not now, I told myself, not when I was so close to finally seeing him for who he was and not putting him upon a pedestal. I couldn't allow myself to look past everything that had happened. I wanted him to change and I wanted to change with him.

With one weak smile, I turned away from him and braced myself to spend another night alone in bed. It was like placing a bottle of wine before a drunk. Could I bear leaving him alone?

Again I sat and palpated his ribs, needing distraction. I was unable to leave his side. His sheer presence was strong, magnetic.

"I would never strike you," he blurted out. I stared at him briefly, uncertain of what he meant. Perhaps he envisioned Christine at his bedside. Perhaps I no longer existed. "I shouldn't have raised my hand at you."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Now sit still. I think you've broken a rib."

"Julia—"

I pressed harder than I had originally intended, my aggravation with myself escalating. Why did I insist upon this man—this intolerable, greedy, pig-headed man? There were hundreds, thousands of men in Paris alone. Surely I could have found another.

But I didn't want to find anyone else. I enjoyed the way he argued with me, the way he stomped about and waved his hands in the air. Irritating and irritable, he fascinated me each time I saw him. Quiet though never really silent, afraid yet truly fearless of heart…he was an enigma—a string I wanted to unravel and tie around my heart.

I tried to keep him quiet, to convince him that I was tired and both children were in my home, and I merely wanted a moment of peace. But he wouldn't listen.

"In your dining room, when I came to look for Alexandre, I forced you against the wall and you thought I would strike you."

He spoke without taking a breath. It was as though the words had remained lodged in his throat for hours and begged for release.

Ashamed, I drew away from him and refused to meet his eye.

"I hit you first."

He exhaled hard, a muffled groan leaving his lips. "You are a woman," he said under his breath. "I would never hit you, or Madeline, or Meg, or even Christine."

A question burned within me, one that needed to be released just as his words desperately sought a voice.

"How many times did you watch?"