Julia26 (Ch32)

He couldn't cause much trouble, I assured myself as I peeled back the coverlet and eased into bed. He was contained to one room where he would sleep for the remainder of the day and allow me to rest as well.

Soft, cool sheets enveloped me and I sighed as I played with a strand of my hair. Despite my exhaustion I was still unable to close my eyes and drift into sleep. I couldn't remember if I'd refreshed his water or taken him a new blanket. Perhaps I should have given him another pill for his pain or left an additional pillow in the chair.

"Or maybe you should have kissed him," I muttered to myself. Then it would be over and I wouldn't have to wait for him to make up his mind, to test him as I insisted upon doing. We would both have a little slice of what we desperately wanted from one another.

I turned onto my side and forced my eyes closed. I would not think of Erik Kire a moment longer. This was my moment to rest and not fret over him. My goodness, he could work me up like no one else and I doubted he even realized how much he put me out of my mind. Aside from Madame Giry, I wondered if he'd ever had anyone care for him, to mother him as I so readily did each time he came into my home.

In a strange fashion I rather enjoyed caring for him. It made me happy to see him look over a plate of cookies and select his favorite. As the years passed I learned exactly what he liked and how he liked it prepared, so that the plate of cookies I set before him was emptied, with only a smudge of powdered sugar in the corner. He would have licked it clean if I didn't stand at the ready to remove all empty plates and cups. That, I knew, aggravated him, but in a sense I felt it made me more important in his life. I gave to him, I took away from him. It was hardly a loss to him, however, considering what he truly wanted.

Christine stepped into the foreground of my thoughts and threatened to keep me awake. Every photograph I'd ever seen of her made me despise the wretched little waif. She had the most artificial smile and an ungodly wide mouth. Her chin was too small, her eyes set too far apart, almost like an insect…or perhaps a cow. She looked like the type of woman who batted her eyelashes when she laughed and probably fluttered her hand in the air as though she were a delicate China doll. Perhaps she was delicate, but she was also quite dangerous, if Erik's state of being was any indication. I doubted very much that she'd ever kneaded dough and sprinkled it with powdered sugar for the man she loved. I doubted she had done anything for anyone, save herself.

I hated her. I hated her more than anyone or anything in the world—and I didn't know a thing about her other than she had an outstanding voice and could apparently act fairly well. Uncle Luc found her quite delightful. Judging by his reviews, he was her biggest and most outspoken fan. I gave a cynical chuckle to the fact that he adored Christine de Chagny's voice and abhorred Erik's music.

I placed my pillow over my head and considered nursing a snifter of brandy. It was then, when I was almost asleep, that I heard a tremendous crash followed by loud cursing.

"Oh, you," I said under my breath as I rose from bed and ran my hands over my face. "Worse than a dozen children. Worse than a litter of puppies. Worse than the devil himself let loose in my house."

I grumbled to myself all the way down the stairs, wondering what exactly he'd done. It sounded as though he'd felled a tree, but obviously he hadn't. He must have attempted to move the dresser or the bed. It was typical of him to rearrange my furniture. Why should life-threatening injury stop him?

When I entered the guest room, my heart threatened to leap out of my mouth. He was belly-down on the floor, and for one fleeting moment I thought he'd killed himself. He didn't move a muscle, made no indication that he was breathing. How he'd managed to murder himself I had no idea, but with Erik there was no telling what was possible.

And then he released a groan and I knew he was still alive. I couldn't decide if I was relieved or infuriated with him.

He turned his head to the side and looked up at me. Blood stuck to his eyebrows and the tips of his eyelashes. His face was completely crimson, dyed by his own blood.

"My God," I gasped. Fear turned to anger at his foolishness. "What in the hell are you doing on the… You're bleeding…what happened to your head? What in the world are you doing?"

He blinked at me. "I hate him." His voice was weak, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Who? The vicomte?"

"No."

He stopped talking and I realized he'd lost consciousness. Exhaustion…loss of blood…I had no idea what afflicted him, though I was certain stupidity played a large part. My own head pounded as I gathered up several towels and pressed them to his forehead, which continued to bleed. He'd obviously hit his forehead on the dresser, though I couldn't understand what he was doing out of bed. He couldn't have needed anything from the dresser.

"Stupid, stupid, prideful man," I scolded. I nudged his shoulder and attempted to move him onto his back. All of my labor roused him and he stared at me, confusion in his eyes. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"If you didn't give me so much water, I wouldn't be out of bed."

It was a typical answer for him and I rolled my eyes. "Sit up. You've got blood everywhere; my floors, the dresser, your shirt, pants. I should have known that the children would keep the house neat and you, confined to one room, would make it into a sty." I sighed again in frustration. "Must I tie you to the bed?"

A twinkle entered his eyes. "As you wish, Madame."

We stared at each other briefly, but I saw through his words. He'd never, ever allow me or anyone else to restrain him. Despite his attempt at playfulness, I caught the hint of regret in his eyes. Perhaps the beating had reaffirmed his fears of being helpless, of being unable to escape. It was a deep-rooted fear, I knew—one he'd never want me to know because it stemmed from his childhood. As far as he was concerned, he'd never been a child. He'd simply appeared on earth one day a full-grown man with no past, with no surname or family. Perhaps it comforted him to be nameless.

"Idiot," I muttered to break his solemn mood before it started. "You are maddening, do you know that? You are a dreadful pig of a man."

He held the rags over his wounded forehead and glowered, "Take the painting down. I can't stand it a moment longer."

"Is that why you are out of bed?"

"No, I told you why I was out of bed. But I don't want to have him look at you—or me."

Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised me, but I regarded him a moment and couldn't understand why he'd left his bed on account of a painting. At last I rose, walked toward the wall, and removed the family portrait from the wall. Since I had nowhere else to place it, I left it facing backward, propped up against the wall.

I didn't need to face Erik to know he was watching my every move. His breathing had turned harsh and lusty.

"Worse than a dog in heat." I crossed my arms and stood over him. "Up with you, Erik. If you managed to make your way down the hall, I trust you can stand. I'll stitch you up once I clean my hands."

He did his best to mask a grimace of pain as he climbed to his feet. The bruises on his legs must have been deep and painful, as it took him a moment to stand to his full height and take his first step. I watched him briefly before I closed the door and walked to the water closet to scrub my hands.

My throat tightened and tears threatened. He was healing, yes, but he was still weak and in more pain than I knew I could ever tolerate. I imagined what had happened to him in a darkened alley, the way several men had surrounded him like a feral animal they wished to destroy.

Alex had blurted out his distress concerning his father, but I hadn't fully grasped the details until I'd seen him doubled over. He'd been kicked in the shins, in the chest, in the stomach. Punched in the face, hit in the back, clawed at and scratched when he couldn't defend himself… What sort of people treated another human being in such a manner? It wasn't right to beat a dog, much less a man. Or a woman. Or a child.

I was suddenly glad Erik had asked me to remove the painting because I didn't want to see Louis either.

The water in the faucet turned scalding hot and pulled my hands away and allowed them to air dry before I returned to his room and found him sitting in bed with blood drenching his shirt. It looked as though he'd smeared blood from his head all over his pant legs.

This was indeed more difficult than tending an infant. At least the infant didn't talk back or protest.

"You can't lie there covered in blood. Change your clothes," I ordered. I pulled out a new night shirt and matching trousers from the dresser and left them hanging over the bedside chair.

"Are you staying?" he asked casually.

Once again he'd caught me off guard. At first my eyes widened, then narrowed in feigned disgust. "You have ten minutes. If you are not properly dressed when I return, you may stitch yourself up."