This is the final chapter, with an epilogue to follow!

Chapter 25: Finale

"Mademoiselle Daaé!"

Christine cringed when she heard Durand's voice shout over the others in the crowded parlor. People nearest them hushed and craned their necks to nose their way into the sudden commotion. Calling attention to herself was the last thing she wanted right now; she wanted nothing more than to slip upstairs and into Erik's arms.

Unfortunately, both men rushed over to her, but at least they were no longer yelling.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," Durand, art director of the Academy, said as he puffed up a bit out of breath. "I have been searching the better part of the day to find you. Thank God I have."

Abbey pulled up behind him, mustache twisting in a smile. "How nice to see you again," he said to her, tapping his hat. "Edmund here has been creating quite a fuss."

Durand sputtered, whirling on the other man. "Only because you are trying to steal my discovery away from me! I heard that you have invited Mademoiselle Daaé to become prima donna at your little adventure you call an opera house."

"Not quite," Abbey said easily, still speaking to Christine. "I would, however, like you to come sing for my business partners. I am sure they will sign you immediately."

"At the Metropolitan Opera house?" she asked to clarify.

"There is no such thing!" Durand spat.

"There will be by the beginning of next year," Abbey said. "We have a building and a stage-"

"But no seats!"

"Yet. Mademoiselle Daaé, I haven't been able to stop hearing your lovely voice within my head. I know this is rushed and rude of me to show up at your hotel door, but if you would come sing for us, I assure you I can make it worth your troubles."

While Durand's mouth flapped open like a fish's, Christine considered this. "When?"

"Immediately," Abbey said, "if you would. Many of our stakeholders are already gathered there to discuss the construction's current progress."

Christine withheld a sigh. She could never have dreamed that her prospects would turn out so well here in New York with not one but two opera companies wanting her to join them. Erik himself had once told her that the Academy had its own list of problems, and she knew what joining an uncompleted opera house could mean for Erik. If he so desired, he could mold this Metropolitan opera for his own purposes the way he had the Populaire – not necessarily to haunt it, but to have the opportunity to shape its secret passages, and its musical talent, the way he liked.

"She came to sing for me first," Durand said, still red in the face. "I will not have you steal her away!"

"Come now, Edmund," Abbey laughed. "I cannot steal her. She is a human being, after all, and a most talented one at that." Here he winked at her. "What do you say, Mademoiselle Daaé? Would you show my compatriots what you have to offer?"

Christine twisted her gloved hands. She wished Erik was here to consult with her, but she had to follow this path to see where it might lead. "I will sing for your partners, Monsieur Abbey, as long as I am able to choose the music."

"Of course," he replied, clapping a hand on the furious Durand's back. "You can join us, Edmund, if you like. Our doors are open to all." He seemed to say this with a bit of a derisiveness in his voice that had not been there before. What had transpired between these men in the past?

Why had Abbey decided to start a new opera house?

"When shall I be there?" she asked.

"As soon as you can, my dear," Abbey said, smiling once again. "I shall head that way now and await your arrival with bated breath." This time, he held out a hand to take hers and bend over it. "A pleasure once again, Mademoiselle Daaé."

She nodded, and he swept his way through the crowd. Durand gave a quick bow and fled on his heels, still furious. As soon as she was certain the men were leaving, she continued her way upstairs and to the hotel room.

She was rather surprised to find that Erik had not arrived before her. However, she used the opportunity to unlatch her father's violin case and retrieve the sheets of parchment within. The heavy drapes of red silk in her overskirt made it easy for her to tuck the pieces of paper until they were hidden, her tight bodice keeping them secure. She could have asked Erik his thoughts on the matter, but his first instinct was usually self-preservation.

And she did not want to give him time to think.

Erik arrived a brief time later, balancing a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Standing in the middle of the room, she watched him enter with a sweep of his cloak. Her husband. He was her husband.

"I have good news and bad news," she said seriously.

He paused in the middle of turning around after closing the door with his elbow. His mouth opened as he appeared to consider his options of replies, and then he closed it. Finally, he intoned, "Which is what, wife?"

Oh, that word. It filled her belly with warmth. "I was beset upon by Messieurs Durand and Abbey, who seemed to be warring over who shall have me in their company." The thought made her blush from the attention, but she had to use it to her advantage. "I believe I can use their interest to secure quite a decent contract. However, my love, it does mean that – " here she pointed at his food and wine – "will have to wait until we return."

"Return?" His eyes darkened in the dying glow of the fire that she had not stirred. "You do not mean that you intend for us to leave this room again tonight?"

Unspoken promises hung in the air between them.

She swallowed. "Regrettably, yes." Toying with the finger of one of her gloves, she added, "I also intend to make the wait worth your time." Oh God, how did she manage to act so forward with him tonight? Her face felt aflame, but she held his gaze even as he stared her down.

"Oh, wife, that is precisely what I shall do for you."

With the plate of treats and the bottle of fairly acceptable vintage left waiting for them, Erik hailed a cab for them both. Night had fallen outside, leaving the air chilly. He hoped Christine did not notice the way he shuddered when she pressed herself against his side once they climbed into the carriage. She interlaced their gloved hands, and he thought his heart might burst from joy.

How had he been enabled to find such happiness? If he had realized the pains of his life might lead him in the direction of this angel nestling her cheek against his arm, he might have weathered the suffering with more grace than he had.

He shoved such black thoughts away.

On the drive, Christine told him the details of how the two men had accosted her in the lobby of the hotel. If Erik had been by her side, he thought perhaps they would never have decided to speak in such a crass way before her. Certainly, he would not have allowed her to agree to this evening meeting, no matter what might be the positive outcome.

Still, Christine seemed pleased by this turn of events. He forbade her from speaking so that the night air did not irritate her throat, but her warmth at his side was more than enough company.

They arrived at the address they had been given. In the darkness of the street's gas lamps loomed an enormous building of light-colored brick that encompassed the entire block. Christine peered out of the carriage's window, eyes wide.

Erik took her hand, pressing her knuckles to his lips. "I would draw too much attention by your side."

Despite her obvious nervousness, she smiled at him. "As long as I know you are there, I will be fine."

He bent to kiss her hand again, but she scooted across the bench to press her own kiss against his mouth, her lips cool from the night air but oh-so sweet. She sighed as she broke away from him and stepped out of the carriage without looking back.

Once he knew no eyes were upon him, he slipped into the shadows of the theatre. While the face of the building was wholly intact, construction around the back made it easy for him to find his way inside. There were too few back rooms for him to hide successfully, but the space above the stage was impressively complex. He saw evidence that they were including electric wires throughout the building, perhaps in anticipation of the future of lighting to come.

He climbed among the catwalks and surveyed the auditorium. The structure of the inside seemed firmly completed, but there were no seats to be found yet. Two tiers of private boxes spread out in horseshoe fashion from the stage, and the layers of space for opera goers stretched high to the ceiling. The Metropolitan Opera, when it opened next year, might be the largest opera house ever built.

When Christine sang here, he would be able to tell the quality of this place. However, from his first observation, he was impressed enough.

Christine was entering the auditorium with Abbey at her elbow. Erik knew little about the man, and he would have to delve into his background before he allowed Christine to sign any contract. From Christine's laughter, he could see she, at least, was at ease around the manager.

A group of men stood near the stage. From their finery, they seemed to be wealthy businessmen, and Abbey introduced Christine to each. Erik held back a chortle when he listened to Abbey explain the reasoning behind the Metropolitan Opera's construction. A group of families, newly-made millionaires, had been unable to buy private boxes at the Academy. In retribution, they had decided to build their own opera house.

It was a shrewd move that Erik could appreciate.

The Academy's Durand stood, scowling, in the back corner of the auditorium. This… Met truly surpassed the Academy in style and grandeur. If they succeeded in drawing Christine away from the older opera house, the Academy might never recover from the loss of her brilliance.

His beloved was climbing the stage. Erik settled his eyes upon her.

Six men watched her every move. Seven, including the one she needed most.

Perhaps, months ago, this might have unnerved her. She could feel their eyes upon her as she climbed the stairs to stand in the middle of the stage. Without seats in this large, empty space, she thought her voice might echo, but there was little she could do to alter that. She had wavered during her first audition. Now, she found it easy to keep her spine straight.

Another man settled into the orchestra pit, taking a seat at the grand piano, the only instrument there.

"What will you sing?" Abbey asked her, in French. "I hope Verdi's Nabucco again?"

"Of course," she replied. She waited for the cue from the pianist and launched into the aria. Despite the reverberation from the theatre, she thought she did well. Erik did not speak in her ear, but she did not need affirmation from him to know how much her voice had impressed the men standing before the stage.

Enthusiastic clapping met her ears. Even Abbey, who had heard her before, had tears in his eyes, and Durand, tucked in the back of the auditorium, was also clapping.

"Brava, mademoiselle," Abbey said, still pounding his palms together.

"Madame." She had corrected him before she realized it.

His eyebrows rose. "Pardon, if I had gotten it wrong."

"You had not yesterday." A laugh bubbled up within her. "I have only just gotten married."

Abbey brightened, and two of the other men nudged each other good-naturedly. "Then congratulations are in order. Perhaps we might celebrate with another song?"

"Encore, encore!" one of the other men named Vanderbilt cheered.

Christine had come prepared for this. "I had something in mind. Would an original piece be acceptable?" As she spoke, she pulled the sheets of paper from the folds of her dress, smoothing the parchment.

"Who is the composer?" Abbey asked.

She grinned. "My husband."

Ah, now she heard that low voice in her ear: "Dearest, what are you doing?"

Of course, she could not reply. If he truly asked her to cease this avenue she was pursuing, she would stop. She sensed he was holding his breath and waiting to see what happened, so she walked the papers over to the edge of the stage where the pianist could take them.

The man glanced at the music, then up at her. "This's for violin," he said in English. He twisted, looking up at the businessmen. "I don't have a violin with me."

Christine spread her hands. "I could sing it without, but the piece is meant to be a duet between instrument and voice."

"Do you have a violin?" Abbey asked the man in the pit.

He shrugged. "A collection of instruments is piling up in one of the back rooms. There's probably one there."

Oh, his sneaky wife, stealing his sheet music and bringing it here! Erik crouched on the catwalks high above the stage, wavering between annoyance and pride. While the men scrambled to find a violin, he had discovered what Christine likely was scheming.

An opera house could do more than put on elaborate productions of someone's opera. They often showcased new works, and they could do the same with his music… for a price. Erik was unsure if he deemed such notoriety necessary. Had he not crafted Don Juan for the purpose of being recognized for his talent across the world? Instead, he had used it to manipulate Christine and almost destroy her.

But circumstances were so different now. He needed a passable way to produce income in a manner that would not appall Christine. To continue to be worthy of her, he could not reduce himself once again to extortion.

This meant that he could not force the hands of these businessmen to invest in his music.

Below, the pianist – who was talented enough – had found a violin and was attempting to sight-read Erik's composition. Erik knew his song would be difficult, nay, impossible, to play without extensive practice; the melody deliberately twisted the fingers as much as it was meant to twist the soul. He had written it as a means of healing himself, after all, in order to unravel the torment his own actions had caused.

Swiftly, he found where they had stored their instruments, clicking his tongue at the half hazard way they had laid them around the room. Clearly these men were more focused on being able to strut about in their finery than listen to exquisite music. He saw some potential here for his own meddling to shine this mess into a diamond.

Quietly tuning the instrument against his ear, he made his way back to his perch and cringed to hear the pianist attempting to screech out some of his more complicated rhythms. Christine was starting to twist her fingers, a habit she had developed to combat her own nervousness. He saw the way she sought out the lump of his ring on her gloved finger, and a flash of possessive satisfaction blazed through him.

He set the violin to his chin, closed his eyes, and played.

The men were growing agitated at the wait, and Christine could tell the situation was starting to affect her. All she had wanted was to showcase Erik's talent, but she had only so far succeeded in having the pianist embarrass himself.

When she was about to call it off, she heard the tendrils of another violin waft down from above. She knew immediately it was Erik – only he could draw that sound from that instrument in the way she had only ever heard her father play. The businessmen hushed as each of them heard the music, their heads turning as they tried to find the musician. They would not, of course.

Erik had not yet played the introduction of his piece, but he slid his way into it easily, merging his notes with those of his song. A smile tugging at her lips, Christine waited for her cue and let her voice rise up to entwine with his instrumental melody.

It was a beautiful song, unlike anything she had heard him compose before. Even though this was not the first time she had encountered it, not at all, tears welled up within her eyes, threatening to overspill as she sang. The men were rapt at attention, intermittingly staring at her and at the ceiling.

She and Erik finished, their connected triumph echoing in the empty chamber, and long seconds passed before anyone spoke. In her ear, Erik whispered, sounding slightly choked.

"I love you."

She glanced upward, smiling where she knew he could see it. Then she leveled her gaze upon the stupefied men before her. From their astonished faces, and the way Durand suddenly stormed out of the theatre, she knew she had them.

"Well, gentleman?" she asked in French. "I am willing to negotiate."

An hour later, Christine finally dragged her heavy skirts into a carriage that would take her back to the hotel, nearly collapsing onto the bench seat.

"Make a circle around the opera house," she asked the driver, who did so, and they paused to let in a shadowed figure who had been waiting.

Erik slid in next to her. In one moment, he was banging his fist against the cabin to signal the driver to continue; in the next, he was delving shaky fingers into her pinned hair and running calloused thumbs across her cheekbones.

"Ah, my love, my angel," he murmured, sliding his lips from her forehead to her jawline, a line of skin to which she greedily gave him access by tilting her head back. "You were magnificent."

She laughed breathlessly. "They agreed to everything – my singing contract, your position as artistic advisor. Even showcasing your music between productions!" She grasped at his shoulders to pull him closer, his cloak bunching under her fingers. "Four years, Erik!"

"I would have preferred five," he said against her skin.

"Even so, you greedy man." His mask was cold upon her neck as he kissed his way down to the square neckline of her bodice. She squirmed, wanting to talk but also wanting all of him at once. "They even agreed to let you maintain anonymity. I think they are used to such behavior from business partners. Plus, they seem to like the mystery."

He pulled back to peer down at her, eyes two fiery points in the darkness. "We shall tread carefully, my love. The rich love their gossip. They may not rest until they have found me out."

"Then there are other opera houses in this world, are there not?" She unfurled her arms around his neck, drawing him close once again. "Kiss me, husband."

Shuddering, he did so without hesitation, lips tugging at hers, a moan in his throat.

All too soon, they arrived at the hotel. He intertwined his fingers with hers and led her upstairs to their room. Staring at his hat and cloak, those lengthy shoulders, the edge of his wig just above his collar, she flashed to other times he had taken her somewhere. Her wrist had been encased in his fist, and she had stumbled in order to slow him. Now, she squeezed their fingers together and picked up the front hem of her skirts so that she might follow without tripping.

She had hoped he would fall upon her like a predator might its prey once they were alone inside their room, the door locked behind them. However, he left her side almost immediately and began to see to the room, lighting a gas lamp and kneeling to stir the fire. She followed him, taking hold of his hat when she drew near. To her satisfaction, he only glanced at her and went back to the fire. She set upon his cloak next, leaning into his back to search for the clasp at his neck. His throat bobbed at the searching sweep of her fingers.

Finally, the heavy fabric fell away. As he finished with the fire, she hung his cloak and hat, and added her own articles of outer clothing to the rack. She thought briefly of the food and wine still patiently available upon the table, but she found she had little appetite for food.

"I keep awaiting something to happen," he said quietly, stoking the fire.

"What do you mean?"

"Too many things have fallen into place, too many variables clicking together that I thought were out of my reach forever." She came back to his side and stroked his wig; he caught her hand and brought the tips of her fingers around to kiss. "Perhaps I will blink and awaken."

She laughed softly. "You sleep too little for dreams, my love. And even so, you are very much awake at this moment."

"Am I?" His deft fingers tugged at her glove until his lips could stroke the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. "You are too warm for this to be a dream." He turned his head slightly, teeth dragging deliciously along her wrist, to peer up at her. "Are you this warm everywhere else?"

"I-I would not protest," she gasped, "should you wish you find out."

"Indeed, I do so wish." He scraped white teeth along her wrist, and she shivered. Biting into the fingertip of her glove, he eased the leather downward until her hand was bare. He did the same to her other glove, and when both hands were freed, he pressed the knuckles of each to his lips.

"May I?" she asked, reaching for his mask. At his nod, she hooked her fingers around the porcelain and gently pulled it from his face. He had worn it too long today during his excursions, and some of the uneven ridges were an irritated red. Bending down, she kissed just below the line of his wig, tracing his twisted cheek with her fingers.

His hands grasped at the red silk of her dress, pulling her a step closer. "I do not… I do not deserve-"

"Hush," she said, echoing the word with her fingertips upon the seam of his mouth. "I only want tonight to be about us, moving forward, together." Prying his fists from her skirt, she tugged until he climbed to his feet. Her blue eyes scanned over his as she began to loosen his bowtie.

"I am in need of a bath," he admitted, sounding a bit hesitant.

She only smiled up at him. "May I join you?"

His eyes widened at that, but she was his wife, and he was her husband, and by God, she would have everything she had wanted from him for so long. Last night had only spurred her desire to be close to him, to know him as well as he knew her. However, she knew not to push him too much, that he was as cognizant of the scars upon his body as he was the marring of his face.

He did not reply, but neither did he stop her assault upon his bowtie. As she released the silk and tossed it upon the nearby divan, his hands drifted to her bodice. He did not undo any clasps, not yet, instead distracting her by the firmness of the pressure of his hands as he caressed the womanly shape of her. She inhaled sharply at the contact, senses already aflame, and his lips curled upward.

"I have barely touched you, my love," he said teasingly.

He should not dare to play such a game with her. Unbuttoning one of the middle buttons of his shirt, she thrust her hand inside, pressing her palm against the coolness of his chest. She felt his shuddering breath and the way his heartbeat began to race. When he spoke, his lovely voice rumbled up from beneath her hand.

"Ah, my match, in all ways."

Consenting to her wishes, he set upon the clasps of her bodice as she also followed the line of his buttons, undoing him to his waistcoat, which she also cast aside, until he was bare to the navel. His white skin shone in the light of the fireplace. How easy to undress a man! His cream-colored waistcoat followed quickly.

Her bodice parted, and he pushed the fabric apart. In the same movement, she also shoved at the shoulders of his tailcoat, and he had to pause for a moment while she removed it down his arms. At once, his fingers were upon her again, mirroring her motions and sliding her bodice down her arms. His shirtsleeves gaped at a V from throat to quivering, flat stomach. That pale skin held her entranced attention until he bade she turn around with firm, insistent hands.

Quick tugs upon her waist, and the thick yards of her silk gown drifted to the floor in a puddle of red and gold fabric. Her bustle followed, tossed onto the divan, and then he was ridding her of layers of thick petticoats until she stood in a circle of her own clothing.

"Erik-"

Before she could say anything more, he had scooped her into his sturdy arms, and he was off to the bathroom with them both. He placed her carefully onto her feet, bent to turn on the tap to fill the tub, and then knelt to one knee. She still wore her shoes, and he pulled these off first before sliding his hands up her calves.

His eyes flickered to her face once, and she caught sight of the mischievous glint to them. She had worried that undressing before her would cause him to shut down, but he seemed to be handling the situation well, channeling to focus to her instead of him. His touch light and cool, he found the clasps that held up her stockings and undid them, rolling down each, his fingertips unmistakable in the way they chased the thin fabric with their own caresses.

She took the time to stroke the top of his wig before easing her thumb to the edge of where his wig met his forehead. If he wanted to pull away, he could do so, but he did not. And so she pulled it off and set it carefully aside, and set to running her hands across his bare scalp, his thin hair.

Both of her stockings were off. "Turn around, dearest," he murmured, and she did so without hesitation, letting him unlace her corset and remove the binding garment so that she stood in only chemise and drawers.

Suddenly, he was wearing too much clothing, and she wanted it off.

She heaved his shirt free of his pants, startling him so that he snapped his eyes to meet hers. Ignoring him, she unbuttoned the shirt the rest of the way and shoved it free of his shoulders, letting gravity drag it to his wrists. Since she had not unbuttoned his cuffs, the shirt caught upon his hands, leaving his hands caught at his sides. So much the better for her. She stepped closer, feasting upon his broad, smooth chest with fingers and lips, tasting the slight salty flavor from his earlier travels and the dark musk that was only him.

A breathy kind of moan rose from him. He unfastened his own cuffs, letting the fabric fall to the tile floor. The tub was filled, and he paused long enough to turn off the water.

"You are beautiful," he breathed.

"So are you," she said, and she bent to her knees, mimicking his earlier position. Like he had done for her, she unlaced his shoes and slid each off his feet. Then she rolled down his black socks, baring his long, white feet, his angular toes. She could have risen at that moment, but she decided instead to remain on her knees, singularly aware of the fierce attention of his eyes, the shakiness of his fists.

Sliding her hands up his thighs, her wandering fingers found the buttons of his trousers and flicked them open. His eyes blazed. Grabbing fistfuls of the black linen of his pants, she dragged them downward, noticing with no small satisfaction that they caught upon a rise just below his belly.

Once he had stepped free of his pants, she stood. He kissed her at once, lips melding with hers, tongue lancing and demanding freely-given entry.

He parted long enough to state, "Into the bath, wife."

He found the hem of her chemise and pulled it over her head, baring her to his hungry gaze. Tenderly, he untied the bandage around her stomach until the thin fabric left her bullet gash uncovered. It had mostly scabbed over, and he nodded approvingly before giving her a look that sent her heart racing.

As he dragged the backs of his knuckles from her collarbone to her stomach, she did the same to him, until they both reached the waist of each other's drawers. Together, they untied. Twin pieces of linen fell to the floor.

She allowed herself a single rake of her eyes along his naked flesh before fastening her attention to his eyes. The swirling passion she saw there made her legs feel weak. He extended a hand, and she took it, stepping into the bath. The water felt exquisite, the warmth heady and caressing. Erik followed her quickly, leaning against the far end of the porcelain. She stared at him, his long legs stretching to either side of her. He was magnificent, all long limbs and pale skin. She crept forward, and his lips curled just as his hand did, beckoning.

With his hands guiding her, she turned around. His hands crept to her hair. One by one, he released the pins from her hair, letting them ping upon the tile floor until her long tresses were freed. Then he coaxed her to lean her back against his chest. The position was intimate, the shock of his dampened skin upon hers taking her breath away. She could feel his arousal against her lower back, although he seemed in no hurry to truly consummate their marriage. Her nerves fired off, and she was almost the point of begging him to touch her.

Luckily, he did so without request, running his calloused fingers along her inner arm before dropping to her side and caressing her ribs.

She squirmed. "Touch me."

His chuckle reverberated around her. "I am."

"No, touch me." Stilling his hand, she took it and placed it upon her breast, his weight heavy and welcome.

To her dismay, he removed his hand. But instead, he grasped the bar of soap, rubbing it until it was a thick lather, then returning his hands to her sensitive skin. O-Oh! That felt heavenly, the slip and glide of his soapy palms against those two globes, the way he tested the weight of them in his hands and gently squeezed.

Despite herself, she arched into his touch, letting out a cry.

"My, we are sensitive today," he cooed in her ear, pinching the two peaks of her breasts, and then brushing his rough thumbs across them when they pebbled. "Tell me – are you still sore, wife?"

She might have been a little, and she was anxious that the second time might hurt as well. Yet she wanted this closeness with him too badly to stop. Her hips bucked as one of his hands drifted lower, fingers splaying across her belly. She grasped onto each of his thighs, blunt nails digging into him, and he hissed, not a pained sound.

"Please," she whispered. "Please – oh, please, Erik."

His teeth found the shell of one of her ears, teasing the delicate skin there. His hand continued its downward descent until his fingertips brushed the curls between her legs. He was warm, so warm from the bath, slick skin behind her, legs stretching out beyond hers. The soap had turned the water an opaque, milky color, hiding his fingers as he delved beneath the surface. Finally, finally, he slid over her sex, sending sparks up her spine and heat below her belly.

She clutched at his thighs, and he was ruthless in his pursuit of her, his own harsh breaths hot in her ear. Those lithe fingers, those musical digits, swirled and pressed and did not so much as ease her into her pleasure as they did crash her into a churning abyss. She writhed against that hand, her knees clutching together as she split apart in a series of sparks that were almost painful.

His fingers slowed, his touches turning more into lazy caresses, easing her down from her cliff. Her heart pounded, and he waited until she had drifted back to herself before wrapping his arms around her and clutching her tightly.

"Such an exquisite creature you are," he murmured, the reverberation of his voice sending shivers down her arms.

She shifted, feeling the hard length of him pressing into her back. When she trapped him between their slick bodies, he let out a groan.

"Do you need something, monsieur?" she asked coyly.

"You, only ever you."

His reply made her pause. She twisted around so that she could see his face, and the look he gave her, that desperate adoration, made her understand that he spoke his own truth. Although he had once tried to manipulate her into marriage, it was her very existence at his side that he craved the most. Even after all the physical attention they had shared, he might have been content with only this – her in his arms.

But they had the rest of their lives to spend in this simple embrace.

She stretched up to glide her lips across his, a ghost of a caress that caused him to tremble beneath her. "Our water grows tepid."

He gave a strangled laugh. "So it is." And he quickly sluiced his body as she rinsed her own.

She wanted to wash him herself, to feel his skin beneath her palms, slippery with soap, his scars a map of his past. If she asked him now about the silver gash across one of his arms or the large, shiny mark upon his hip, he might tell her like he had talked about the slashes across his back. But like those remnants of his time in the carnival, the rest of his scars likely carried memories she did not want him remembering tonight.

Tonight was about their future.

Instead, she bent and kissed where something had ripped into his bicep, letting her kisses say what she did not just yet: I see you, I know you, and I love you.

When Erik pulled the plug to drain the tub, shyness began to overtake her. It was one thing to be beneath the water with him, and quite another to stand naked before him. To her relief, he seemed to feel the same pressure, and before the water could drain much, he grabbed two towels, handing one to her. Then they both stood, she tucking the towel under her arms while he draped it around his slender waist.

Eyes adverted, they both dried themselves with equal furor, the ends of her hair dripping onto the floor. She let out a laugh at their own awkwardness. Was it so arduous to be naked in front of the man she loved?

Just when she was about to toss away the towel, Erik stretched a hand to her. She slid her hand into his broader one, letting him lead her to the bed. After pulling aside the covers, he picked her up and set her in the middle of the mattress. She watched him, heavy-lidded, as he stood at the edge of the bed, hands upon the towel wrapped around his hips. She did not want this discomfiture from him, and so she took the first step, spreading the towel open from her own body and tossing it away.

Withstanding his intense eyes, she tried to keep her arms at her sides lest her quivering betrayed her. When he did not move, she managed a small smile.

"Join me?"

He blinked, and finally, let the towel fall from his lean hips. In the flickering light of the fire, he was all long limbs and pale skin, his deformity not so stark and simply a part of him. She ached to feel his skin upon hers again, and she sighed with relief when he placed a knee upon the mattress and slid into place beside her.

They were both still damp from the bath, their skin warm. Erik delved his fingers into her hair, pulling her close to kiss her deeply. Ah, to feel the long line of his body, firm where hers was soft, broad and bony where she curved.

Their lips parted with a soft pop of suction, and he trailed his misshapen lips down to her neck, her collarbone, and lower still, until he could take one of the tips of her breasts into his mouth. She squirmed, running her hands across his shoulders, feeling the scars twisting his flesh there and committing them to memory. But he did not pause long, teasing one bud of flesh into a hard pebble before questing to the other to do the same. She writhed.

He continued lower, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her ribcage to the slight curve of her stomach and the roundness of her hip.

"E-Erik?" she stammered in question.

"Let me."

His breath fanned across her most intimate area as he kissed her inner thigh, gently but relentlessly spreading one of her knees to make room for him to slide between her legs. Almost in reflex, she brought the other knee up along with it until her legs clung to his shoulders. He gave a single lick, and she nearly bucked against him.

She brought one hand to her mouth, biting into the firm flesh of her palm just below her thumb to stifle a high whimper. Her voice did not sound like her own, her cries mewing and catching in her throat. Unlike in the bath, when he had used his knowledge of her body to plunder her senses away, he took his time with tongue and lips, lapping at her folds with delicious slowness. He found the little bud that ached the most, and she was so sensitive from earlier that she could hardly bear the pressure of touch.

His devouring of her was slow and gentle, and her mind lifted away until she was again tightly strung, thighs tensing around his head. She brought her hands to his scalp, twisting her fingers into his sparse strands of hair. She was spinning away once more, so much so that when he added a single digit within her core, she immediately clamped down in the throes of her second release.

He continued stroking her as pleasure pulsed through her, his tongue lavishing its steady strokes. Her knees eased away from his head, her limbs feeling heavy. Finally, he relented, climbing up her body with slow precision, and she opened to receive him, languid in her own movements. A thick probing made her suck in a breath until his lips angled across hers, and she tentatively lapped with her tongue, inviting him inside in more than one way. There was no pain this time, only a bit of discomfort, but his kisses, his slow caresses, his murmurs helped her to relax.

She shifted against the utter feeling of being stretched, of being filled, and he slid in abruptly, causing them both to share a gasp.

He started slow, so slow, so slow she tossed her head back and forth and finally begged him to increase his tempo lest she completely fall apart in the moment of skin dragging on tender skin. He groaned, eyes clenched shut, and she was lost in the motion of his hips. Her senses fired in all directions, and it was not long before she felt tremors overtake her once again, verging just on the edge of pain. His weight bore her into the mattress, and she wound her arms around him, clutching him to her, his face buried into the curve of her neck.

He buried deep with a wet gasp in her ear and went still before collapsing onto her. She welcomed the bulk of him, unable in her own exhaustion to do more than swirl her fingers in the slick sweat of his shoulders. They lay there in the fading firelight, as close as two people could physically become.

Her ears heard the crackle of the fireplace, the slowing throb of her heart, the soft, staccato breaths of the man above her – and she knew she had made the right choice.

Erik eased off his beloved, not wanting to crush her, resting upon an elbow next to her. He gazed down at her flushed face, brown curls matted to her forehead, a smile blossoming on her lips. She returned his scrutiny, looking upon him with no fear of his appearance… or his character.

How could he have come so far in the past weeks? Had it truly been such a short amount of time since he had fallen apart? And here, here was the angel who had not given up on him.

Ah, there was her bashfulness, surfacing in the way that she began to squirm a little. They were both completely unclothed, after all, though he took measures to keep his eyes on her face.

"What is it, Erik?"

"I took your name."

"What?" she asked again, this time softly. "Oh, you mean… the wedding."

He leaned over and kissed the rise of one of her breasts, then drew the blankets up to their shoulders for the comfort of them both. "On our certificate of marriage, yes."

"How?"

"I recorded my name as Erik Daaé on the document." He watched her reaction carefully. "Yours, I wrote as Christine Nilsson."

Her eyes widened, but he knew she had seen the name on the paper when she signed. "My mother's maiden name."

"Yes. Unfortunately, by law, you must take your husband's surname, and I could see little other way to make it legal."

"You took my name legally?"

He let out a noise, a rather strangled chuckle. "Yes, my dear. We are officially Monsieur and Madame Daaé, at least in the eyes of the American government."

He thought she would be happy, and he expected some reaction like that, but he was not expecting her to rush into his arms and burst into tears. Stroking her hair, he murmured, "I should have spoken with you about it first."

A laugh bubbled up within her. She raised up, tears cutting down her cheeks, a wide grin upon her full lips. "You did this for me. To be able to keep my father's name."

Ah, so the tears were from joy. "You will still be Christine Daaé, up there upon the stage. Whenever they cheer your name, I will be watching."

She laughed again. "Yes, you will be watching, husband! I bought you a box!"

"Pardon?" he asked, stunned.

"A box, an opera box! It cost the first month of my salary, but that was a bargain considering what they are charging the other shareholders. Yes, Erik." Her blue eyes twinkled in the firelight. "When I sing, I want you there, left of the stage, as always."

As always. An opera box, his own, a space where he could listen to Christine sing – his very own wife – and perhaps be able to toss his own rose down to her.

He lay back upon the pillow, and Christine curled up to his side. They had much to do. They needed a place to live, with enough space for Laurent – and the Daroga, should he ever decide to join them. They needed a piano, a garden, a room where he could compose, all of those items Christine had mentioned, which they could share together.

At his side, Christine sighed, tucking her cheek against his arm as she began to slip toward sleep. He did not think he had made enough good choices in his life to deserve such easy consequences as these, but he would not squander what he had been gifted.

A thought occurred to him. He nudged Christine's shoulder, trying to wake her without startling her. She stirred, blinking a hazy blue eye at him.

"Mm?"

"Would you go for a walk with me on Sunday?"

Author's Note:

Much of the details I included about the Academy of Music and the Metropolitan Opera in New York are routed in history. Durand is a made-up character, but Abbey most certainly was among the first trio of managers of the Met, if not the first manager. He did indeed have a large mustache! The Academy of Music did indeed close its doors to opera a couple of years after the Met opened. All of my descriptions are based on the original design of the Met, which went up in flames eight years after its completion. They rebuilt it, and later, the Met moved to its current location.

Abbey is also credited with discovering Christina Nilsson, who opened the first season of the Met with Faust. If you know much about the original novel of the Phantom of the Opera, you know that Leroux likely used Christina Nilsson, a Swedish opera singer, as his inspiration for Christine. Early on in this fanfic, I discovered this connection, and everything fell into place so easily, including the timing of the building of the Met.

Anyway, an epilogue to go!

Thanks for reading!