A/N: I've got a lot to say tonight, so please bear with me. One: I'm very melancholy about this chapter. Honestly, I'm so afraid to disappoint or that you won't like it. I feel like the pacing is super fast here and that concerns me…but a lot had to happen so I had to shorten some things. This was over 10,000 words and then I trimmed it down. Two: I'm sorry for the heavy language use in this one. Well, it's heavy for me.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: This chapter was a lot. So, if you are squeamish to any violence, please skip down to the first page break and continue ready, you will be safe from there. It's not so much that actions that are the trigger, but it's the words for this one, and they hit hard.

As a reminder, I want to take a moment and remember the main point of this story. Domestic violence is the real issue here, this is the enemy as much as our apathy to it can be. Never ever believe you are beyond help and never ever believe you are above giving help to someone. To help or to receive help does not show weakness, and more than anything it does not mean that a hidden agenda is at play. I really am trying to do my best to help people see what true domestic violence can be. It is so much more than a hit, a shove, and a punch. It's manipulation, it's control, and it non-communcation. More often in books we see romantic heroes as nothing more than fanatical glossed-up abusers and heroins who do nothing to stop it because they believe that it true love. It sickens me that that is what young girls look for in men now. I want to redraw the line - take a hard look girls, is this what you really want? Push aside the kisses and the gentle touches because they are just for show, and look what truly lies in that shell of a man.

I'm sorry if my little speech seems a bit all over the place, but it never hurts to remember that THIS IS NOT OKAY. And to drive the point home, my favorite artist Sam Hunt portrayed domestic violence brilliantly in his latest music video - "Take Your Time." Please Please PLEASE watch it if you can. It will bring tears to your eyes and really help you remember the many forms that domestic violence comes in.

Now to wrap this up, I must must thank you all. I would not be writing this if it were not for each and every one of you. I love you all.

Please send me your thoughts, one more chapter to go now.


...

Of Hockey, Harmonies, and Husbands

Chapter 29 - Of Implications and Repercussions

...

It's like staring up at the sky and spinning in a circle, watching the tops of the trees dance until they become a blur. And then it's like falling to the ground and laughing until your sides hurt while your head spins and it's too heavy to even lift from the ground. That's what it feels like, except for this, this feeling doesn't go away in just a few minutes. No, he prolongs it. So this feeling lasts hours, days.

It's torturous...grueling.

For parts of the day her eyes would remain open and she could clearly see her closet doors and see the shadows that would move throughout the day as the sun rose and dipped, but she could not move. No muscle would respond to her voluntarily - her fingers would not twitch, her limbs could not wince, but her breath stayed steady along with her heart and for that small part, she was grateful.

She was paralyzed - all by the hands of her husband and a mug of coffee.

It had been a week of this; this excruciating waltz of going in and out of consciousness. But she had lost concept of time eternities ago, so it wasn't like she could truly tell anyway.

Each night when Montparnasse would come home, he would sit her up, hand her a glass of water and ask, "How was your day? What did you do?"

She would stay silent for a moment while her mind tried to recall anything that happened over the previous hours and then she would simply say, "I can't remember."

In reply, he would kiss her temple with a small chuckle, tuck her thick hair behind her ear and remark, "That's alright. Maybe you'll remember later. Come, let's go make dinner."

They would eat together and he would retire to the couch while she cleaned up the kitchen. Then he would tell her to shower and go to bed. Some nights she would be so nauseous that she'd spend a half hour retching over the toilet. All the same though, when the next morning would come, Éponine would eat breakfast and then Montparnasse would bring her a cup of coffee in bed. Each time she would drink it willingly and she would succumb to him once again, never to remember any of it.

For reasons that Montparnasse couldn't fathom, every morning he acted just the same each time he would hand her the mug of coffee and watch her drink it. Once she would finish the black liquid, he would take the mug from her hands, place it on the nightstand, and then wrap his arms around her svelte body, tucking her right into his chest and holding her until she fell asleep. He would watch her eyes drift shut and feel all the muscles in her relax and only then would he feel at ease, knowing - for a fact - that only in her sedated sleep would she not leave him. He would kiss her supple lips as he laid her down on the bed and then he would watch her motionless body for just a few minutes more.

As the week ended and the weekend came so did workers that Éponine had never seen before.

Éponine sat still on the couch while Montparnasse chatted up the bundled workers and told them exactly what he wanted. They all gave her a friendly smile but none of them said a word to her, and neither she to them.

For the entire Saturday morning, all Éponine heard was banging and drilling and buzzing while drafts poured in through constantly opened doors. At least she was dressed warm enough though. Knowing the workers were coming over, Montparnasse had her wear long jeans and boots, a thick cream sweater where the sleeves fell down to the tips of her fingers, and a big tan infinity scarf to cover the swoop neck of the sweater. The only exposed skin shown was her fingers and face, both of which appeared a pale alabaster to the naked eye.

At one point in the afternoon, a worker walked into the living room and paused hesitantly by the couch. With wide eyes, Éponine removed her eyes from the television and looked up to him but said nothing.

"Excuse me," he started. "But your husband said you could get me and some of the boys a few water bottles? We've worked up quite a sweat outside."

She took in his tall physique and reddened skin from the cold as he slipped off his damp gloves and held them in one hand. "Yeah," she whispered, rising to her feet and walking toward the kitchen.

The worker followed behind her, eyes dropping low to the sway of her hips as she moved. Opening the refrigerator, Éponine began to pull out a dozen water bottles and set them on the counter.

Instantly, the worker closed the distance between them and reached for a water bottle, making sure to brush her hand as she set it down. He only smirked and she retracted her hand like she was touching fire. Under her fearful look, he tucked his gloves under his arm and opened the water bottle, locking eyes with her as he took in a long sip.

"Thanks for that," he said upon swallowing. "Work's coming along great if you were curious to know. We should be all finished no later than five."

She cast her brown orbs up to him with worry and confusion all rolled into one. "What are you doing out there?"

"Didn't your husband tell you?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"Well...no."

"Oh," he said a bit too cheerily. "We've been changing and updating all the locks on the windows and doors and even adding a security system and cameras. He said he got freaked out after hearing about an increase in burglaries. But I don't blame him, I guess, better safe than sorry, right?" He tipped back the water bottle, gulping another sip, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Odd though," he started again, wiping his sleeve over his mouth, "this is the first time I've ever put locks on both sides of the doors. Weird, but your husband said it was for a good reason, but he didn't say what." The worker nodded to himself before gulping down the rest of the water bottle in one sip. "Your husband's a nice guy, gets along with the boys great, makes jokes and everything. How long you two been married?"

After a moment of silence and taking in all this new information, Éponine realized that question was for her. "Five years," she answered, her words slurring. She couldn't understand why she felt so lethargic or why her chest felt so tight, but she put up a facade, hoping this man wouldn't notice. "Need help carrying some of these?" she asked, beginning to gather a few bottles into her arms.

"Yeah...yeah, thanks, real nice guy," he mused and then held up the empty water bottle like he was presenting her with a gift. "Trash or recycle?"

"Recycle, but I'll take it." She reached forward for it and he seized this opportunity to snatch her wrist, eliciting a gasp from her and causing the three water bottles in her arm to fall.

He spread her fingers apart with one hand as she stood frozen, unable to move or blink. "Pretty ring," he said, brushing his thumb over her gold band. "And wow, anyone ever tell you how soft your hands are?"

"Éponine."

That voice chilled her bones, made her jump back, sent fear crawling up her spine, and racked her body with shivers.

"What are you doing?" Montparnasse asked, his question aimed at both individuals in front of him.

Was he going to ask about the worker in the room with her? Was he going to accuse her of flirting with him? Was he about to explode? Yell at her? Cause a scene? What she would give to know what was going through his mind right now.

"G-getting the w-water bottles," she stuttered, heat swallowing up her entire body, her skin crawling as if it were burning. "Y-you asked for...for t-them."

Montparnasse knitted his lowered brows and pushed his way in between Éponine and the worker, making sure to cast a stare at each of them.

"Go watch T.V. in the bedroom, 'Ponine. I'll be in there shortly."

It was a threat.

His deathly green eyes watched her scatter out of the room and he turned his vicious gaze to his hired worker. Montparnasse grit his teeth together, hard enough to crack them. With tempered rage, he spoke through them: "Get your fucking things. Get away from my fucking property. And get out of my fucking house."

The man opened his mouth to ask about pay but he shut his jaw seeing Montparnasse's hands ball into fists. Payment suddenly fell to the back of his mind.

In the bedroom, Éponine fell onto the bed hyperventilating, hands gripping her chest. Breathing was a near impossible task as her heart felt like it was being seared apart. She tried her best to control the gasps that racked her body with uncontrollable force, but it was to no avail. Any minute now, Montparnasse would burst through that door and accuse her of infidelity. And no matter what answer she gave, he would punish her for it, all while the workers continued their work outside, completely unaware to the beating happening no more than thirty feet from them.

But no, it wasn't punishment.

Éponine's mind did a backflip. There is no such thing as punishment. This is abuse.

But it did not matter what it was called, for regardless of the name, the fact remained that she would still be hurt for her actions. That thought cooled the sweat that was seeping through the underarms of her sweater. And rightfully so, Éponine was ready to leave. She was ready to run far away and never look back at this house or her husband again. She would rather be anywhere right now than in Montparnasse's clutches - to be his caged bird while he sat as the cat, watching and waiting for his turn to torture her.

Could she leave right now? Of course she could, but she would be asking for more trouble if she did. So instead, she sat on the bed, knees tucked tightly to her chest while she rocked back and forth steadily, the distant sounds of drilling and her own labored breathing the only thing she could hear.

The bedroom door creaked, alerting her attention, and sure enough, the grim shadow of Montparnasse walked into the room. His face was stone, marble eyes setting on her as he closed the door behind him, making sure to flip the lock button on the handle.

Stealthily, he sauntered nearer to her. "How many times do I need to repeat myself, Éponine? If you so much as look at another man - "

"I wasn't flirting with him. I swear, 'Parnasse."

He came up right in front of her, kneecaps hitting the mattress as he cast a deathly glare down to her. "Then what do you call it then?"

"I...I was just being polite. He...he touched me - "

He lunged for her, latching onto a fistful of her hair and dragging her to the floor. She yelped, blind hands groping for his wrist to make him let go. "You're a whore! A slut! Another man comes into the house for a blasted two seconds and I find you all over him? Where is your loyalty?" He bent down, his face mere inches from hers, the spit from his words hitting her clear in the face. "In. My. Own. Home." Letting go of her hair abruptly, she fell to the floor with a thud.

Her head pounded as his words echoed through her skull again and again. But when the clouds in her mind separated for just a moment, she fought the onslaught of fatigue and narrowed her eyes at him, rising to her feet. "I've always been faithful to you. Never once have I looked at someone else. Never have I been unfaithful. You've always been my everything."

"Lies! They're all damn lies. I've seen it a hundred times, I've seen the way men look at you, I've seen the way you bat your eyes at them. You say you love me but you love the attention more."

Boldly, she took a step toward him, standing her ground, preparing for a battle. "You know damn well that isn't true - "

He closed the distance in one fierce stride, grasping her upper arms. "You forget that you're mine! All mine!" he shouted. One hand lifted from her arm to fist her hair behind her head, giving her a sturdy shake. "You are my property, Éponine. You have no right to talk back to me, you have no right to fight me, and you have no damn right to look at another man!"

She snapped.

Something within her, something foreign impaired her thinking, gave her ideas that her brain never concocted in her life before. With a new anxiety, a new urge, she jerked in his grasp and pushed him - hard and square in the chest, forcing him back a step. "Get off of me! Don't you ever touch me like that again!"

His eyes lit aflame the same second that he let go of her hair. He stared at her for a grave moment, his brain finally comprehending that she actually just pushed him. He almost laughed. "Are you telling me what to do?" A sick smile fell over his lips. "That's not how it works, my dear."

Her heart found her throat, choking the air from her lungs and in that same instant, so were Montparnasse's hands.

"You think you can push me? You think you have the right to touch me?"

His fingers slipped beneath her scarf and curled around the flesh of her neck, nails harshly digging into her skin, thumbs pressing right against her esophagus. She cried out silently, already losing the battle she was desperately trying to take part in. Her legs grew weak as pain engulfed her and his strong arms forced her to her knees.

"I should break your arms."

Defiance. Disobedience. Rebellion.

"I should chain you to the bed."

Control was slipping from his grasp and he wanted nothing more than to take it back. His instincts took over once again and he knew the only way to gain control was through pain...humiliation...suffering.

"I should whip you...hit you..." Lowering his lips to her blue-tinted face, he whispered right in her ear: "...or just use a wrench."

Her eyes grew the size of saucers as her face took on a look of hurt. He only sneered at her expression, knowing he hit her right where he wanted.

He needed to weaken her. He needed to see her beg on her hands and knees for mercy, see her shout apologies into the floor, grovel for him to end the torture; plead, beseech, entreat him to forgive.

"Does the dog tell its owner what to do?" he snarled, loosening the pressure on her neck but not resolving his hold of her. "Does the bitch bark orders now and expect her Master to oblige?"

Her eyes coated over with water before they sagged and her eyelids began to fall. "I'm not your bitch." This was her last attempt to stay in the fight, one trivial little sentence that even she did not fully believe.

Immediately, Montparnasse let go of her neck with one hand, palm grappling the side of her head as his thumb peeled back her eyelid. "Yes you are. I own you. You are my bitch and I am your Master. I do not listen to you and you do not give me orders."

A sudden cough erupted from her, giving her reason to fight for oxygen. It was the only thing left she could fight for. Words were failing, her breathing was failing, she was failing...fast and hard.

"Tell me whose you are."

She didn't answer right away, the black spots took over her vision, claiming her attention. He growled in frustration, his hands tugging her rougher.

The tighter his hands grew, the more she wanted the pain to end. So she gave in to him. "Yours," she breathed.

"Say it again."

"Yours." Her word was a wheeze. She could barely even feel his hands on her now; the feeling of his touch had long gone numb and she found herself at total mercy of his claws.

"Louder."

"I'm yours!"

He dropped his face close to hers again, staring right into the depths of her dazed eyes. "Now tell me what you are. You are my what?"

Slowly, she shook her head and instantly he squeezed her head between both of his palms, the heels of his hands pressing into her eardrums.

Sound fell away. She swallowed, the sound of it an earthquake in her brain. Her heart was a muffled thunder, pounding, thrashing erratically. She stayed quiet, trapped into this little world that he created for her.

"You are my what?" his muted voice said from a place faraway. With no answer still, he shifted his hands and demanded again.

His voice rang clear through her mind this time and she knew he was a breath away from squeezing her brains out. Could she win this fight? ...There wasn't a chance in hell.

"I'm your bitch," she relented.

Satisfied with her answer, he released his hold on her by a fraction. "Why can't you get it through your thick skull? Why can't you obey me? Why do you always fight me?" A beat. "I control you. You do as I say. You do what I want, when I want it, how I want it. I control what you do, I control your actions, I control the very thoughts in your head. You belong to me." He shoved her to the floor with a grunt. "Now be a good little bitch and suck me off, Éponine. I want my cum inside you...claiming you. I want to control you from the inside."

His fingers made haste at unlatching his belt and undoing his zipper. He leaned back against the bed and all but forced her mouth onto him.

Montparnasse knew that he'd won. He always won, it was no shock. But no matter his words or the things he said to her just now, he would never be able to control the exact thoughts that encircled her mind in the next moment.

The truth was, Éponine was still defying him even as she gave him what he wanted, for in the forefront her mind, her thoughts laughed:

I will leave you, and when I do, I won't even look back.

...

The next morning she awoke salivating, sweating, trembling. She was huddled in a cocoon of blankets, arms tightly bound against her chest and hands clammy from her own hot breath. She didn't hear him, she didn't know what time it was, and she couldn't make sense of anything until a chilled hand pressed against her forehead.

"No, no fever," he murmured.

Her eyes focused enough to see his piercing green eyes looking down at her with a look of pity. "What...did you do to me?" her voice rasped.

He shook his head with a grimace. "Nothing," he shrugged. "Why would you think I did something? I would never harm you like this."

Like this, the words echoed in her head, the meaning behind his sentence freezing her heart.

In the next second, he was walking away from her and out of the bedroom. She stayed wrapped under her blankets, her eyes closing once again, and only realized the faucet had been running when the sound of it stopped. Hands were suddenly groping her again and she moaned a loss of warmth when the blankets were tossed aside.

"Please, stop..." she begged drearily, wishing that he would just let her suffer alone, that he would just let her endure this hell that he had - no doubt - put her through by herself. There was nothing worse than this; to be at the mercy of the one who wanted to hurt her, to be scared of what he would do to her and having no ability to stop him.

He didn't make any motion to stop no matter how much she feebly tried to push him away. His hands continued their motions, slipping under her sweat-soaked pajama shirt and peeling it off her. Next, he slipped off her underwear and pants in one motion, tossing them into some random pile on the floor.

"Please," she cried, tears coming from her eyes before she could stop them.

Ignoring her with a sigh, Montparnasse simply wrapped a blanket around her nude body and lifted her from the bed, carrying her out of the room with ease.

"I think you lost some weight," he remarked as he kicked open the bathroom door. "Not to worry though, you'll be eating lunch again this week so you shouldn't lose anymore."

Her feet landed on cold tile and he stripped the blanket from her. "Where am I?" she asked, pressing a hand to her forehead and squinting her eyes in the bright lights.

"We're in the bathroom," he said, keeping an arm around her unsteady frame so she wouldn't fall over. "C'mon," he prompted. "Hold onto me and get in."

She glanced around, eyes blinking as he helped her into a tub of steaming water and sat her down. Once she was settled, he sat on his knees outside the tub, rolling up the sleeves to his Henley shirt. Leaning forward, he cupped water in his hand and drenched the dry parts of her skin.

"My fingers are tingling," she whispered.

"You're going through withdrawal," he explicated. "This is just your body's way of detoxifying itself." He leaned away from her and grabbed a glass that was ready and waiting for him on the sink counter. "Lean your head back," he told her and she obliged. Dipping the glass under the water first, he placed a gentle hand under the back of her head and poured the water over her hair.

"Withdrawal?" she repeated after a long while.

"Nothing major," he mused. "Should just be a day or so until it all flushes through your system. You weren't on it for that long anyway."

She sat, bewildered beyond the point of comprehension, not understanding what he was talking about or what he meant by any of it.

Nevertheless, Montparnasse squirted out a dollop of shampoo into his palm and brought it closer to her. Immediately, she shied away from him, scooting closer to the tiled wall.

His face hardened momentarily. "Be a good girl, 'Ponine...I won't sedate you tomorrow if you behave."

As if being struck across the cheek, her mouth fell ajar and twisted into a grimace. "Sedate me?"

He nodded nonchalantly and pulled her closer with his free hand to lather the shampoo into her hair. This time she relented, curiosity overtaking her fear of him. "Yes," he said. "But it won't be necessary anymore so long as you behave." He talked while he massaged her scalp with suds and then dumped fresh water from the faucet over her, cutting her off from any refute she might have had.

She spit out the water and soap that leaked into her mouth, gasping for a moment before she found words again. "But...work?"

"You're not going to work."

"But - " Another stream of water poured over her head and his hand stroked through her wet locks, rinsing out all the leftover suds. She panted, "Why not?"

He held her back at arms length, staring right into her eyes. "Because I don't trust you outside of this house. And if yesterday proved anything, I can't even trust you inside the house." Her eyes cast downward at his words, her heart hardening further and further. A finger under her chin lifted her stone face to his. "You're not still mad about yesterday, are you, Éponine? I gave you my forgiveness, didn't I?" She wrenched her face from his grasp, averting her gaze from his eyes. He huffed. "You have no reason to be mad about yesterday. 'For jealousy makes a husband furious; he will show no compassion when he' - finish it, 'Ponine." There was no response. "When he does what?"

She sniffled and jutted out her chin just an inch.

He ground his teeth in her silence. "Éponine."

"'...takes revenge,'" she bit out. *

"Good," he smiled, a grin showing off his pearl teeth. As he reached for the conditioner and squirted out a dime-sized amount, he chewed on his thoughts. "Let's do another one. 'The wife does not have authority over her own body, but...'" He paused waiting for her to continue while kneading the conditioner down to the tips of her hair.

"'...her husband does,'" * she finished. Suddenly, her head lifted in realization. "'Likewise, the husband - '"

"'A wife is bound as long as...'"

"'Likewise,'" she started again, undeterred by his interruption. "'The husband does not have authority - '"

In one swoop, he filled the glass with water and poured it over her face, a scowl etched onto his features.

"'A wife is bound as long as her husband is alive,'" * he said in full. His eyes glared daggers at her, teeth pressing hard together for a full minute of silence. "I think we're done here," he finally said.

Montparnasse took in a calming breath, closing his eyes and pacifying his rage. When he opened his eyes, Éponine sat terrified, staring at him with her wide brown orbs until another small convulsion took hold over her body. He reached forward with all tenderness and cupped the side of her head, bringing his lips close to hers until they met in a searing touch. Pulling away, a smile adorned his features contrasting the horrified look on her face.

"'A capable wife is a crown to her husband, but the wife who acts shamefully is like rottenness in his bones.'" * He reached past her, grabbing the bar soap from the ledge. "C'mon now, let's finish your bath and then get you back in bed, my sweet girl."

...

Murmurs of patrons flooded into the conversation as silence overtook the three men. With a gruff sigh, Joly placed down his iPad on the table and the two others stared at him, hanging on his every word.

"So, is it done?" Enjolras asked.

In reply, Joly just flicked some leftover crumbs off the table as Babet groaned softly, turning his gaze from Enjolras and rubbing the back of his neck.

"What?" Enjolras asked with a pointed stare to Babet.

"Nothing," the stoner said, automatically rising to the defense. "I just still don't think this is a great idea."

"Ten minutes ago you just agreed! And now you tell me it's not a good idea?"

"It's not that it's a bad idea…I just don't see why I can't just go to the police. One look at me and they'd get a warrant to search their house."

Joly nodded his head. "I agree with Babet, Enj. I don't think it's such a good idea to post her photo."

Enjolras locked his eyes on Babet once again. "This will be good. Trust me. Once this story is out there, the police will have to do something more to help. And it's realistic enough, Éponine hasn't shown up to work, even the police can't find her, people will have to ask questions. She is a missing person for all they know."

Babet rubbed his hands over his face. "So let's just say that if her boss did report her missing, then wouldn't the police show up at Montparnasse's job before filing a Missing Persons Report? Wouldn't they try to contact him?"

"They tried. Can't reach him," Enjolras answered simply. "They went to the house and no one was there, they can't get ahold of him at his job either. That's what I had Joly write."

Joly butted in, "Enjolras, I just see this causing more trouble than solving anything. But I don't want to argue. If you're sure about this - "

"I am." His face was resolute, staring between both of them. "Montparnasse will have to let her out of the house, he'd have to send her to work at least. Seriously, Babet, he could be doing anything to her inside that house. She's not safe there. And now people will know about her, people will talk. The police can't keep masses silent."

Another irritated sigh left Babet's mouth. "We should just persuade the police to get a warrant and search the house. I think that would be smarter."

"And how long will that take? We might not have days."

Scraping back his chair, Babet stood to his feet, now looking down at Enjolras and Joly and all the untouched silverware decorating the table. "Please don't post her photo. Really, then you're just giving Montparnasse a reason to hurt her. We'll all go talk to the police again tomorrow. I've got a job tomorrow, I get off around eight. We can go then. But for now, I should get going." He gave a glance outside at the blackened sky and the yellow streetlights and nodded. "It's pretty late and I've got to walk."

With a little grimace, Joly rose to his feet. "I'll drive you home, Musichetta's probably waiting up for me, so I should head home too." He looked to his blue-eyed friend with a nod. "Enj, I don't think we should post it either."

A solemn nod to both of the other men and then Enjolras rose as well. He huffed out a breath of annoyance. "Fine. Tomorrow night then. Eight. It's all or nothing. I'm not playing games anymore."

"And neither are we," Joly assured, giving one more look around the bar at a small rowdy group of college kids. "You'll be good here by yourself?"

"Just a couple more hours. I close at two. I'll be fine." His tone was clipped.

"Alright," Joly sighed. "Goodnight."

...

Montparnasse tapped his fingers along the steering wheel of his idle car, a hard scowl stapled to his face, lips pressed into a hard line. For the past two hours, his eyes didn't leave the view in front of him. Across the street sat the much too familiar Musain, the inside lights giving him a perfect view of the table and bar counter and even the red-vested blonde bartender.

"You saw Babet go in there today?" he said to the man sitting beside him, still not removing his eyes from the little image of Enjolras.

Brujon grunted as he shifted in the passenger seat, clearly uncomfortable and itching to get out of the stifling car. "Yeah, me and Claquesous were driving by and I saw him walking in. That's what I told you before."

"I know, I just wish I saw him. You think he really knows that Enjolras guy?"

"I don't know, you heard 'em, man. Babet definitely knows something more about him and 'Ponine."

Montparnasse clenched the steering wheel before pushing back in his seat with a grump. "He said Enjolras loves her more than I do. You think that's true?" he flared, face already beginning to turn red.

"Relax, 'Parnasse. Babet just wanted to make you mad. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Babet still living with you?"

"Yeah, but some nights he doesn't come home anymore."

"You should change the locks," Montparnasse stated. "That's what I just did. I'm not letting 'Ponine leave."

Brujon was quiet a second longer. "How'd the rufies work?"

Montparnasse smiled, turning his attention fully to his friend. "Like a charm."

Simply, Brujon chuckled, turning his attention back to the Musain window and locking his vision on Enjolras again.

Montparnasse's attention followed in suit; a car passing by to reveal Enjolras refilling a beer from the tap. "Stupid cocksucker," he grumbled. "No one loves 'Ponine more than I do. She knows that. Why the hell would she cheat on me? And with him? God...even she could do better than him."

"Maybe attention?" Brujon shrugged. "Either way, this gives you cause to do anything you want to her. It's not all that bad."

Montparnasse balled his fists on his thighs. "God, when I get my proof of the two of them. There'll be hell to pay."

Once again, Brujon shifted in his seat, scooting a little closer to the dashboard and staring at the rowdy group of college students exitiing the bar. "What are you gonna do to her?" he asked almost hesitantly.

With a smile, Montparnasse released his fists. "I'm still planning. But him...? He'll be dead. I'll make sure of it."

"Hey, look," Brujon started, pointing ahead to the Musain.

Montparnasse stilled, watching intently as the lights to the bar began to shut off and Enjolras walked around wiping off tables and stacking chairs. There wasn't another word spoken between them until Enjolras slipped his coat on, shut off the last of the lights, and locked the door behind him on his way out.

"Which car is his?" Brujon pestered.

Montparnasse chose not to answer and instead, placed his foot on the brake and pushed the ignition button of the car. Cautiously, he waited a few moments, watching as Enjolras' silhouette walked down the block and stopped in front of a red car - maroon in the blackness of night.

When his car's lights illuminated the street and the car pulled out into the road, zooming past them, Montparnasse waited a precise three seconds and flipped a U-turn. His vision locked onto the red car up in front of them and followed behind it, close enough to keep track of it, but far enough not to raise Enjolras' suspicion. At a green light, Montparnasse slowed down just enough to let a car make a right turn, nestling itself between Enjolras and Montparnasse. From a car apart, Montparnasse and Babet followed through the emptier main streets of Boston until Enjolras took a turn into a quieter part of the city.

Enjolras put his blinker on and pulled off to the side of the street, double parking a car. Methodically, Montparnasse kept driving past him and circled the block. Before making the right turn to where Enjolras' car was, Montparnasse pulled off to the side of the street, pulling along side a parked car. He watched through the windows of the parked car to see Enjolras picking up two orange cones from between two other parked cars. He walked the cones to the stoop of one apartment door and then walked back to his car. Now having a parking spot available, Enjolras tucked his car right in front of - what Montparnasse believed to be - his apartment doorstep.

"What street are we on?" he barked to Brujon.

"Endicott."

Fury crawled its way up Montparnasse's spine. "Christmas Day," he gravely said. "She was here. With him."

At 3:17 a.m., after Brujon was dropped off at home and Montparnasse parked in his driveway, the black-haired man crawled into bed next to his sleeping wife. In the dark hue of night, he leaned over her to watch her, supporting his body weight on one arm. With her back facing him, he brushed aside her hair with his free hand and gently stroked her cheek with the pad of his index finger.

"Oh, my pretty 'Ponine," he whispered. "I'm finally putting all the pieces together."

...

Monday morning and Montparnasse was standing in front of the bedroom mirror, fixing his cufflinks and adjusting his tie. His eyes shifted to the background reflection in the mirror as he watched a bundle of covers move about and suddenly, a head of brown locks sat up.

"'Morning, sleepyhead," he called softly from the other side of the room.

She blinked around for a moment before adjusting her blurry vision to her husband as he gracefully then turned around and walked over to her. The air of the room felt light, despite the gnawing ache inside of her heart. For a minute she could pretend that this was any other day, like every other morning that had happened before. The familiarity of the scene in front of her was comforting - her husband dressing for work while she lazily awoke not too long after. But Éponine knew the significance of this day, she knew what today meant. She knew what must happen today, and she knew exactly how this day would end. The thoughts of what she was planning scared her, but Éponine was determined.

She was strong.

Still, she didn't know how this would all take place, but she knew once it happened, there was no going back. The scars on her arms began to throb in rhythm with her heart only heightening her fear. She could do this. She would do this. Éponine had waited far too long and now she only saw one way out.

"How are you feeling?" her husband asked, taking a spot beside her on the bed, his pant leg rising to expose his black socks as he crossed a leg over his knee.

Simply, she shrugged, brushing back her strewn hair with her fingers. Montparnasse reached out and stopped her motions, delicately combing his slender fingers through her hair instead.

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to rest today if you're still not feeling too well." His eyes gazed her up and down, taking into account, but not dwelling on the bright purple marks around her neck. "But I don't want you staying in bed all day, alright? There is plenty that has to be done." He glanced down, avoiding her empty gaze and began to pick at some imaginary lint on his slacks. "The bathroom needs to be cleaned. The house hasn't been vacuumed in over a week. Laundry is piling up. Dusting can be done..." He met her eyes again and took in their wide state. "You don't have to do it all today, but still, keep it in mind."

She forced a nod, her neck creaking as she made use of her strained muscles.

Looking back at her sincerely, he smiled, cupping the side of her face. "You know," he said cheerily. "I should talk to Mr. Thatcher. Perhaps I could fire Fredrick and use you as my assistant. Then I wouldn't have to worry so much about you during the day."

"I have a job," she said in a breath, eyes nearly pleading, emotions cascading over her like a waterfall.

"Not for long," he smirked, taking Éponine's hand and interlocking their fingers. "Come walk me out...before I'm late for work."

He kept his hand in hers, helping her stand to her feet and then wrapping his other arm around her waist. She thought for a split moment about refusing the contact, but her head was still a bit foggy and the guilt was beginning to grow. So appeasing him, she stumbled along with him, out of the bedroom, down the hallway and to the foyer.

With each step, tears were threatening to prick her eyes, her throat closing, constricting her breath, hurting. For everything she knew about today, she felt guilty. Shame dawned on her so much that she was afraid to even look at her husband. Her mind constantly reminded her that this was the man she loved. She had always loved him and she would always love him in some deep, desperate part of her. That's where the penitent feeling arose and where it suffocated her. This walk with him would be the last she ever took. In only a few hours, both of their worlds would be irrevocably changed forevermore.

And there would be no going back.

By the front door, the air suddenly felt thinner and colder; the winter weather radiating into the house, precisely adding to the cold forming in her heart. But the most jarring aspect in Éponine's vision was the newly installed white box that hung right next to the door.

Montparnasse came to a halt and faced her, both hands instinctively wrapping around her waist and tugging her closer. He smiled sweetly, eyes sparkling with adoration as he beheld her, taking her all in. In his mind, nothing would ever come close to the way she looked with that drowsy gleam in her eyes and hair still mussed with the remnants of sleep.

The look he gave her was enough to stop her heart, clenching and tightening just like her throat. His gaze was too much and so she tore her eyes away, looking down to the floor as a small tear escaped.

"Hey," he whispered, one hand lifting from her waist to grab her chin. He locked eyes with her again just in time to see her face crumple. "Why are you crying, darling?"

She opened her mouth, gasping in a breath of air, but no words would come out in her exhale. Instead, she shrugged.

He smiled. "Then there's no need for tears." Leaning forward, he placed a kiss to each of her eyelids as if silencing the tears once and for all.

His kindness only furthered the guilt that was slowly killing her. For right now - this man that stood before her with a light heart and true sincerity, this man who looked at her as if she were his only light in darkness, this man who was willing to make himself late for work in order to dry her tears - this was the man she fell in love with.

How could she do this to him?

"It's only work," he started. "I'll be home early tonight, alright? Will that make you feel better? I can be home at five if you want."

She shrugged, not sure of any other response. "I don't want your boss to be mad."

"Mr. Thatcher will be fine, I'm sure. But listen 'Ponine," he paused. Suddenly, his muscles tensed beneath her fingers and she searched his eyes for his changing mood. "I wanted to just go over with you some things before I left." She nodded warily. "There is a new alarm system. Once I leave I'll arm it with a code and I'll have thirty seconds to leave. The only way to disarm it is with a different code. That means while I'm gone, you can't open any doors or windows without the alarm going off and then I will be called and the police will be called. There are also new locks on the doors that only I have the key to and there are even new security cameras installed."

"Because you don't trust me?"

"It's for your protection, darling...and for my sanity," he smirked.

And there was her reason.

This was exactly why she was doing this. His words only solidified the actions of her heart for even if he kissed her eyes and whispered soft words to her, that monster was still there, lying in wait underneath - and more prevalent than ever before.

"Okay," she acquiesced.

With a small kiss to her forehead, Montparnasse released her and stepped around her. He gathered up his suit jacket from the small table that sat beneath the hooks of coats, slipping it on and grabbing his car keys. Éponine deftly took his pea coat from the hook before his hands could grab it and held it out for him to slip his arms into. Smiling to her, he complied and turned to face her once again. She made work of doing up his buttons for him as he reached down to take his briefcase from the floor.

When she secured the last button, she tugged him by his lapels a step closer to her. "You're mine, aren't you, Montparnasse?" she whispered, her eyes smoldering.

He placed a gentle and chaste kiss on her lips, the sound of it loud in the emptiness of the foyer. "Yours," he breathed. "All yours, my 'Ponine."

As he went to pull away, her heart nearly broke in two; the ache was suddenly building throughout her entire body, sending shockwaves up her spine and down her limbs. Without a second thought, she pulled his face back to his - nevermind the roughness - and smashed her lips into his in a bruising kiss. In a moment, her mouth was open, trying to devour any bit of him she could while her arms pulled him against her, pressing his body close, trying to feel any morsel of contact through the clothes.

He could feel the desperation in her kiss, taste the salt from her silent tears, but he didn't care. All that mattered to him was her - her body and the fact that she was craving him. Pushing her against the wall, he secured her arms above her head and pressed himself firm against her, hips grinding for friction while his lips continued to suck where hers had long ago ceased. With a grunt of frustration, he yanked his mouth away from her, breathing hard onto her face while his eyes locked with hers.

"When I come home...tonight...we'll finish this." He inhaled a deep breath. "I'm sorry, 'Ponine. I'm gonna be late."

She held his gaze, her expression unreadable while his hands still made no move to let go of her. "I love you," she said, breathless and panting.

His mouth lifted into a breathy smile and simultaneously, he released her. "Oh, 'Ponine..." Swiftly but firmly, his lips pressed against hers once more and in another few seconds, he pulled away. "I've got to go to work. Tonight," he promised. "As soon as I walk in the door. Be ready."

She swallowed and like lightning, the code was put in the little white box, his hand was on the door and the cold air was drenching her. "Thirty seconds," he murmured, a foot already over the threshold.

"'Parnasse," she called, he voice almost frantic.

He turned to face her in the doorway with a simper. "'Ponine," he echoed.

"Goodbye, Montparnasse. Just...goodbye."

With one last true smile, he nodded his head subtly. "Bye, 'Ponine. I'll see you later."

When the door shut, she fell against it; her forehead pressing deep against the wood, her palms flat and she whispered, "Bye."

She listened intently to his keys locking the door, his car starting up, the white box beeping to tell her it was armed, and the sound of the tires disappearing down the driveway. When silence finally encased her, she sunk to her knees and turned over to sit on her butt, back against the door. Éponine didn't know how long she sat there but it was well past the point of her eyes running out of tears, her shivers finally stopping, and her behind going numb from the draft beneath the door.

But this was now it. Do or die. Literally.

She knew the fact that it had come to that point meant that what she was planning was the right coarse of action. With a swallow and narrowed eyes, Éponine stood to her feet.

For the next few hours she meticulously cleaned and picked up the house, she straightened the bedroom and changed the sheets, she dusted and vacuumed, she washed the dishes, dried them, and put them away. Everything was neat, everything was orderly, everything was perfect. And only then did she pull the knife from its spot in the Chef's Rack and meticulously clean it just as everything else was cleaned.

Once it was shining and her face clearly reflected in the steel, she slid her fingers along the edge of it, just light enough to feel it but not hard enough to puncture. Rising from the kitchen table, she took the knife with her into the bedroom but not before stopping at the foyer to gather her car key and put on her white peacoat, just the same, meticulously doing up the buttons and brushing her hair over it perfectly.

Putting one foot in front of the other and hugging the knife close to her chest, Éponine walked diligently to the bedroom. Her heart was pounding, her head thrumming as each step brought her closer and closer to an end.

The end of a chapter.

The end of the life she knew.

Endings are a funny thing, aren't they? Sometimes they can derail you, but other times, they are just a catalyst for a new beginning.

And so, without so much as another guilty thought that would turn her back on her plan, Éponine stuffed random contents into a suitcase, leaving the room in disarray, and ran toward the living room. With all her strength she forced open the window, alarms blaring within seconds. But as her panic increased, so did her speed. She tossed out the suitcase first, the knife still fisted in her hand, and followed in suit. Doing her best to remain calm, she hurriedly brushed snow and ice from her car only enough so that she could see out the window and piled herself, the knife and the suitcase in with haste.

With the press of a button and the skid of tires, Éponine sped off down the driveway and onto the road, not even glancing back at her beloved home - just as she promised.


* Proverbs 6:34
* 1 Corinthians 7:4
* 1 Corinthians 7:39
* Proverbs 12:4