XXVIII

Erik leaned against the doorjamb of the parlor, watching his three siblings and his love playing a game called Jeter le Sourire. Elise, who stood in the center of the circle, danced and pulled faces, trying to make one of the other three laugh. Any who laughed would take a turn as the joker who would then try to 'throw' their smile at the audience. Had Christine really only been here a month? She was breath and life, joy and light. The magnificent fir bedecked in Christmas finery lorded over the parlor's far corner, filling the room with its faint, fresh perfume. Even the sight of that wretched dock could not twist his heart in his chest as it once had.

A small velvet box rested in his pocket, a souvenir from his trip to the jeweler's in town while Christine had her lessons. He'd give it to her tonight: Cook had already offered up his best attempts at meatballs, rosehip soup and mashed rutabagas—which several texts assured him was a most Swedish supper. Christine has been ecstatic and Raoul had gorged himself with equal zest. Nadir sequestered himself away after supper, acutely uncomfortable despite Erik's protests. A Muslim amidst a Christmas celebration was awkward at best, Nadir had argued. He was content with Elaine's company.

Erik touched the box in his pocket, returning his thoughts to his planned seduction. He'd pamper her, of course, with a hot bath and him as her faithful bathing attendant, and after they made love . . . When she was sweaty and sated and happy, he'd slip the ring on her finger, a perfect gift for their first Christmas together. Her blood had ended a week ago and the strain of not being together save for that marvelous interlude in the study had added a piquant edge to their loving. He looked forward to making her beg again. She begged so sweetly.

Raoul's stony façade cracked into a reluctant grin as Elise began her best imitation of Monsieur Forel's nasal accent. The three watchers groaned as Raoul took his place in the center of the circle with an extravagant bow. His jokes made his turns merciless. The clock on the mantle struck the nine o'clock hour. Madame Villon bustled in and urged the children to their beds with exhortations of good behavior, lest Father Christmas not arrive. Erik stepped in, dropping kisses on the girls' foreheads.

"I believe it is Jacqueline's year to choose the story," he said, nodding toward the bookshelves.

"A story?" Christine asked. She was nearly healed, the bruises an afterthought, the shapes of her face as clear and lovely as they always had been. Likewise, his wounds were on the mend.

"Every Christmas, I read the girls a story before bed," Erik explained, leaving it unsaid that the tradition had begun with Thomas, and his poor heart couldn't let it die and lose that tenuous link to his boy.

"Jackie and I trade off on picking the story," Elise said, giggling and ducking away from Raoul who snaked a hand out to tweak her braid. The elder de Chagny sister was already snatching a worn book from the shelf, her favorite childhood tales. For all the pretense of choosing, neither of the girls strayed far from their beloved fairy tales.

"Oh yes! Oh Christine, you'll love this one!" Elise said.

"I think Christine should read to us this year," Jacqueline said quietly, book folded protectively against her chest. Elise chimed in her enthusiastic agreement. Bewildered pleasure fluttered across Christine's face and Erik's heart soared, swallowing the instant of hurt that sprouted. It was a good thing Jacqueline wanted to include Christine, for God's sake!

"That is a wonderful idea, Jacqueline. Now all three of you, go wash up and meet in Jacqueline's room for story time," Madame Villon said, ushering the three of them toward the stairs. Beaming, Christine snatched a quick kiss on his lips before dancing toward the stairs, her and Elise's linked hands swinging merrily. With a sigh, Erik fondly bid his fantasy of using Christine's bath as erotic torture goodbye—at least for tonight. He consoled himself with the thought that he could still fuck her into boneless satiation and chain her to him forever with a band of diamonds once the children were safely asleep.

Raoul was staring at the stairs like a hound left shivering in the cold and Erik felt a bone-deep stab of sympathy. He braced a hand on his brother's slender shoulder, guiding them from the parlor to the study.

"They didn't mean anything by it, little brother. Story time is for little girls; they probably thought you didn't want to come." Color suffused Raoul's cheekbones.

"I know," he said. Erik shrugged, striving for lightness.

"If it makes you feel any better, they excluded me too. I've been tucking them in for years then in comes Christine and I'm second chair," Erik said without heat. Raoul raked a hand through his golden hair, loose and gleaming in the light of the gas lamps.

"Thank you, it does help. And it's been . . . good getting to know them. I didn't expect that." Erik snorted, striding toward the decanter as Raoul took his ease in one of the chairs beside the fire.

"And what did you expect, Raoul? To be turned away at the door?" Erik was honestly curious. Beyond his stolid good nature, fierce loyalty and gruff stable boy's reserve, he knew very little of his brother's soul. There was an odd balance of the immeasurably worldly and perfectly innocent in Raoul. Since his return to the Château, Erik had poured his focus onto Christine and the girls. It was high time he and Raoul spoke as men and brothers.

Pouring a generous finger's breadth for both of them, Erik took his seat opposite Raoul, slouching in a way that took his weight off his injured shoulder. Contemplating the shimmering contents of his glass, Raoul's soft-voiced answer was almost lost in the crackle of flames.

"Yes."

"But why? Father wrote you into the will. It was your right to be here," Erik said, matching the quiet of his tone.

"I heard my maman say so my entire childhood. You didn't see a painted carriage riding up to spirit me off to a palace then." That's because he didn't make you his heir until he was on his deathbed. He was waiting for something better to come along, either my heir or one of his own body. Erik left the words unspoken, but nevertheless, they hung in the air, tangible and bitter. Another token from Michel de Chagny.

Raoul threw back his brandy and set aside the glass, swiping his mouth on the back of his cuff. He turned the full battery of ocean-deep blue eyes on Erik, tension quivering through him like a plucked violin string.

"I tried to fuck Christine. Twice. Wanted to for longer than that." Once the words were out, Raoul clenched his eyes tightly shut, as if waiting for a blow. Erik's grip tightened on his glass. He let the silence draw out like a blade, waited for one blue eye to peek open.

"Yes, I know. She told me. I also know she refused you. Twice." If there was the faintest edge of satisfied sharpness in his tone, Erik felt justified. Raoul had ambushed him with the topic, after all. He strove to soften the words.

"You both thought I was dead, I understand the life-affirming psychology of it. Are you . . . are you in love with her?" Erik feigned nonchalance, sipping his brandy. Raoul's violin-string tension was still there, a baffled look softening his severe features.

"No. And I don't want her anymore. I see how happy she is with you. I just wanted . . . comfort. And I wanted to get as close to you as I could." Erik recoiled, eyes flying wide.

"No, no, not like that! I mean, I do like men, but I like women too." Raoul buried his beet-red face in his hands. His words emerged muffled, thick with embarrassment: "Christ. Now you think I'm sick . . . a deviant." A sliver of blue eye could be seen through his woven fingers and Erik held up a finger with a wry smile.

"No, little brother. You simply need to explain. And more brandy." Raoul looked dazed and a little wild-eyed, like a cornered wild thing. Erik snatched up the bottle and poured another measure for both of them.

"Now talk. Your proclivities are none of my business, as long as you are discreet, though I would remind you of the dynastic responsibilities of noble families." Raoul frowned, sipping his second measure slower.

"But don't you and Christine want children?" Erik's eyes fluttered shut briefly, assaulted by the potent vision of her ripe with the fruit of his seed, of the dream-daughter with her wild hair and his eyes . . .

"More than anything, I want a child with Christine," he whispered. He opened his eyes and regarded his brother sadly.

"But I know better than anyone that these things are hardly a foregone conclusion. Babes sicken, die. Pregnancies fail." Five words had never held more grief, terror and bitter, bitter pain. Raoul shifted in his seat, obviously ill-at-ease with the thought of offering comfort.

"Christine is a fine, healthy young thing. If she were a filly, I'd breed her in a second." Erik threw back his head and laughed. At Raoul's miffed expression, he only laughed harder, until tears leaked from his eyes. He held up his hand to forestall Raoul's temper, tapering into milder chuckles.

"Thank you, Raoul. I know you meant it as a compliment when you compared my future wife to a horse." Realizing his error, Raoul flushed.

"It was a compliment," he said beneath his breath.

"As I said, thank you," Erik said, bowing his head in grave acknowledgment.

"Now," Erik clapped his hands on the arms of the chair, skewering Raoul with his gaze, "no more distractions. Explain what it is you mean by ah . . . wanting to be close to me via Christine's body." At the moment, Raoul showed more kinship to a tomato than a de Chagny. He would no doubt blame it on the alcohol and the heat of the fire. Raoul heaved a sigh and addressed the polished surface of Erik's shoes.

"I told Christine that the love you two share wasn't something she could just throw away. It's precious. And you were the only family I had. I missed you and I wanted . . . I wanted to feel good, and touch whatever was so good between you two." It was love the boy wanted, what he ached and pined for. But surely a former prostitute knew it took more than the act of love-making to make it true? Raoul risked a glance at Erik's face.

"Am I mad to want it?"

"No, no you are not," Erik said softly. Raoul released a heavy breath, relaxing back into the chair's embrace. Silence reigned between them for a long moment.

"And as to my . . . proclivities?" The puzzled frown combined with the questioning edge to Raoul's words was one doubtful of the word's meaning.

"It means your inclinations, your tendencies . . . in this case, your taste in sexual partners."

"Oh. Don't worry; I'll marry a lady someday."

"On the condition that you divulge your tastes to her. It would be most dishonorable to wed a lady under false pretenses." Claire had strung him along for years with the hope of reconciliation, the contradictory impulses of love and hate making them both miserable.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Raoul looked doubtful, but he agreed readily enough.

From there, their talk ranged to more pleasant topics, to horses, shooting, and fencing, the lattermost of which Raoul was showing a real aptitude. The clock struck eleven o' clock and Erik rose to stretch.

"Come, brother. It is time for bed. We must hurry, so Father Christmas may visit." Raoul chuckled, looking pleasantly muddled by the brandy. His embrace was a sloppy tangle of limbs.

"Goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Raoul."

The Comte's chamber was bloody freezing. The fire had gone out and Erik yawned, wondering if it was worth the effort of rekindling it. He thought not when he could just nestle close to Christine. Erik beheld his love sprawled on her belly, damp hair hanging in her face as he shucked off his coat and removed shoes and socks. She looked like a sleeping, drooling angel. Madame Villon had reported that both children were already sleeping, and story time had been a rousing success. Erik hoped he wasn't permanently supplanted; he rather enjoyed reading to them. Erik heaved a sigh and burrowed into their pocket of warmth beneath the coverlet, draping his arm over her and burying his nose in her hair. She smelled of fine soap and warm, sweet female. Peace unfurled in his soul. The ring would keep until morning.

XXX

Christine waded through the syrup of indistinct dreams toward the rich murmur of Erik's whispers. What was he saying . . .? She felt him curled behind her, warm and solid with his face buried in her hair. Erik spoke a short phrase in a different language, the consonants short and sharp. Another phrase, in a more guttural register. Then another, with the same spice and savor of the Persian's voice. Cracking open one eyelid, she saw only darkness, without the barest shred of daylight visible. Still the small hours of the night, then. What was he doing practicing languages at such an hour? Christine kept her limbs loosely relaxed, her breathing even. Perhaps he would let some sweet secret slip when he thought her safely asleep.

"Jag ӓlsakar dig." A sweet melting feeling trickled through her at Erik's whispered confession of 'I love you' in her native Swedish. Warmth tickled her scalp as Erik sighed.

"They seem so small, those words, no matter what language I speak them in, or how many times I say them. So . . . inadequate to describe what I feel. I need more descriptive words: 'adoration,' 'worship,' yes, that's closer. Adoration gathered into a band of diamond . . . worship written with my body to yours . . ." Christine couldn't stifle the soft whimper that escaped her.

"Christine?" his voice was a little sharper. Christine feigned limpness, an impish impulse wanting to hear more sleep-soft declarations.

"Christine," he sang softly, weaving such aching longing into the syllables.

Her body warmed and softened, nerves tingling in delicious awareness of where his body was pressed to hers, still chastely clothed. With a languorous purr, she nestled back, rubbing sleepily against the decidedly hard lump behind her. Let him think she was asleep and dreaming.

"Erik . . ." she slurred, her voice husky and low. Let there be no doubt as to who she was dreaming of. Her beloved uttered a wonderful sound, part groan, part whimper, and all desperation. Erik's arm, draped comfortingly over her belly, began to creep, stealthily wadding up her nightgown to caress the bare skin beneath . . . After some fidgeting behind her, he pressed against her naked and hot and so, so hungry. There was such power in it: in how much he desired her, in how she could seize control like a horse taking the bit between its teeth. In all of their loving, there had been love, and lust, and wild desperation, but never play.

"Oh love . . ." a gust of warm breath fluttered over her ear and cheek as he panted, throbbing against her bared arse. Smiling through a curtain of her hair, Christine rolled onto her belly, trapping his hand between her mound and the mattress. A dull jolt of pleasure speared her at the blunt pressure of his callused fingers. Oh, that felt good. Still feigning sleep Christine rocked and ground herself against his trapped hand, whimpering and uttering broken fragments of his name.

"Oh God," Erik groaned, tugging feverishly at the nightgown separating them. Christine shivered a little as he pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses to her newly bared shoulder.

"Christine, oh love, wake up. Wake up for me darling, I need you," he growled, punctuating the words with a light nip on her earlobe. She exhaled a soft breath. Arousal swept through her, pounded in time with her heart and ached with the sweet well of moisture between her thighs. His clever fingers stroked and rubbed that pert little nubbin of pleasure . . .

"Erik?" her voice sounded convincingly sleep-roughened and unfocused.

"Yes," Erik hissed. Hard fingers curled under her chin, holding her still so he could plunder her mouth with his. Even with her eyes adjusted to the dark, she could make out little more than his shape looming over her. All she could do was smell sweat and male and musk and feel: heat, the rasp of his stubble, the wet, secret joust of his tongue, the hot, urgent press of his naked skin against hers.

"I love you," she whispered when they broke apart to breathe, feeling Erik's breath gust against her face.

"Oh I love you too. I wanted you to wake up; I needed you to know it was me." Her heart broke at his tenderness.

"I know a couple weeks here don't make up for a year of abuse," he crooned, nuzzling her cheek with his nose.

"No. But you make up for it." Christine's softly spoken words drew a groan from him.

They separated long enough for Christine to yank her nightgown over her head and for Erik to shuck off the encumbering cocoon of blankets with a twitch of his shoulders. Christine rose onto her hands and knees and was rewarded by a gentle tweak of his fingers between her thighs. Hot, shivering pleasure made her body arch toward that touch, the cold room made her skin stipple with gooseflesh and her nipples tighten.

"Yes, good girl. Just like that." Erik's voice sounded like the urgings of a fallen angel, eager for the sins of the flesh.

His free hand smoothed down her back in a gentle, proprietary caress. His mouth mapped her flesh, starting at the small of her back and reversing the journey his hand had just made. Erik draped his body over hers, carefully moving aside her hair so he could kiss and nibble at the nape of her neck. She arched into his lazy affection, his wonderful animal heat, teasing his hardness with gentle flares of her hips. His wicked fingers rubbed and Christine bit her lip to contain her cries.

Gripping her hip with his free hand, Erik sheathed himself in her in one long, slow slide. All she could do was gasp and buck and feel: hot, hard, buried so deep . . . Her breaths emerged in hiccupping stutters as he thrust. No possibility of thinking of anyone other than him, no, not with him draped over her back, fingers knotted together in the sheets, his fingertips kneading at her pearl in time with his methodical strokes, not with his voice in her ear and his kisses dusting her shoulder blades. So good . . .

"More. Erik, please . . ." she panted. Christine arched her back, taking him deeper, thrusting back to meet each stroke. Erik's exhaled breaths emerged in a low whine, his thrusts faster and harder.

"Oh . . . oh . . . oh yes! There! Right there!" Christine cried, her attention inward, to that sweetly tortured spot inside her that Erik stroked with the blunt head of his manhood. Their cries rose and tangled together in crude harmony as her climax crashed over her in a blinding assault of heat and pleasure. Another pounding flurry of thrusts and he followed her, filling her up with hot spurts of his seed. His lax, warm weight settled on her back, hips lazily rocking, lips dropping messy kisses on her shoulder and neck. A pleasure-saturated thought hoped his seed would take root inside her; that they'd made a baby tonight. It seemed the only gift of worth she could give him.

Feeling her faint shiver as their sweat cooled in the frigid air, Erik gently removed himself from her to gather the blankets over them. Christine nestled against his side, rubbing her cheek against his chest. Several minutes ticked by in sleepy touching, Erik's fingers in her hair and hers stroking his belly.

"You're right, you know," she said at last.

"Hmm? About what, darling?" the words were distorted by a yawn.

"They don't quite describe what I feel either." She felt the weight of his gaze, equal parts amusement and exasperation.

"How did you like my suggested descriptors?" Christine hummed, pecking a kiss on his chest.

"Worship was quite successful, as long as it's mutual."

"Quite," he replied, drawing her up for a lingering kiss. Settling comfortably against him, Christine listened to his heartbeat for a few moments.

"And . . . adoration?" she let the sentence hang. Chuckling, Erik sat up, reached for something, then drew her up cross-legged and facing each other.

"I'll fetch a candle, my love. So you can properly admire your adoration." Christine giggled, pecking a kiss on his hand before he rose.

The candle lit, Christine paused to admire the tautness of his form, his mussed hair, the heart-breaking beauty of his scarred face. Husband. Yes, she would like calling him that. Expression grave, Erik gently grasped her hand and dropped a kiss on the back.

"Your ring, darling." It fit perfectly. Of course it did. Christine tilted it toward the light and admired the square diamond flanked by two round emeralds. Emerald, a de Chagny color, and she would be surrounded and protected by it forever.

"Do you like it?" his voice held an endearing note of vulnerability. Christine kissed it away.

"Of course I do. It's perfect," she whispered against his lips, and saw his green eyes light up.

"Jag ӓlsakar dig," Erik whispered.

"Je t'aime," Christine replied.

In any language, it was true.


A/N: Fun note, "Throw the Smile" was an actual Victorian-era parlor game. Thank you everyone for your reviews and favorites! They keep me writing and keep me sharp!