A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) This chapter deserves the rating and has been looked at by no one but me, per usual (please forgive any mistakes)...and now...


I Am There Inside

Chapter LIII

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With the anguish of the previous day all but forgotten after an evening spent in her husband's arms, Christine hummed to herself as she welcomed the new day. She had horribly overslept, again, but already decided the remainder of the afternoon and evening would prove exceptional due to the complete departure of The Curse. Indeed, the many cares and fears that revolved around their destiny together did not seem so prominent as before.

She and Erik were safe within their haven of candlelight and music, and there was always cause for hope, as long as she never relinquished her dreams, as Papa once taught her in life and Erik taught her through their lessons. So many of her fondest wishes had already transpired - her life and love with Erik, her aspiration for their music, temporarily waylaid, but the interruption wasn't forever. A simple intermission, nothing more.

Perhaps the danger above was truly not so dark and her fears had only blown things out of proportion...

Yes, the revolutionists were in charge but to her knowledge had caused no physical harm. Changes had been instigated, but that might not be such a terrible thing either. Perhaps this revolution would prove different than its predecessors. As long as Erik remained out of the Commune's clutches – and she was doubly relieved that no one but she and her Phantom knew the truth of his noble heritage – all should be well.

Not seeing Erik in the main lake room, Christine realized he must be checking his traps. He had mentioned last night of his plan to visit them. She shivered at the ghastly image they provoked, certainly wishing no man dead, but had come to understand their necessity. Especially with the ambiguity of what was happening above, she wished for no one to find their hideaway.

After a light meal and delicious soak in the heated waters that helped to ease her body and mind of the tremendous strain endured the past week, Christine dressed in a simple blue day gown and entered the main lake room.

Erik had returned and was pacing near the far end of the chamber beyond the mini theatre. Her mind took her back to the day of their first kiss, when she'd found him there, just as overwrought and upset, his appearance much as it was then. On the first occasion she had been the cause of his barely contained fury. She did not feel that to be the case this time since she'd left a note in the middle of the bed, telling him she had visited the heated spring.

At the sound of her step on the stones, he whirled around to face her, his velvet robe swinging around his lithe body with the motion. The black mask was in place, as was the wig. His face was set in stone, his eyes blazing fury. He held aloft what looked like one of his compositions.

"Those fools wish me – no, they demand me to change my opera to fit their socialist propaganda." He threw the folder in a fierce sideways arc, the papers of his opus streaming in a vivid white wash over the stones. "That's what they can do with their bloody changes. As if they can order me – ME – the Opera Ghost – to cater to their pathetic regime…."

He paced back and forth in an outburst of barely contained fury as Christine approached, her thoughts spinning in shock at the news.

Swiftly he turned and pointed at her. "They have chosen the continuance of that damned opera but they insist I take out all references to the nobility in power – mind you, the setting of this opera takes place in Seville in Spain and NOT in France – but they wish it to have a more revolutionist theme to pander to their wretched agendas. As if I would agree to change my masterpiece, no matter that it was created in retribution – it is still MINE! And NO ONE will tell me what is forbidden and that I must make revisions!"

"You spoke to them?" Christine found her voice, unable to disguise her fear. "You actually went above and met with them?"

"I have no desire to speak with such imbeciles. Their instructions were in a letter Antoinette left me." His tone came softer but no less bitter. "Those socialist pigs wish to meet with the composer of the Don Juan Triumphant, to state the entirety of changes they require. As if I would ever agree to work for them, as if I would change anything with regard to my opera!"

"Then, the opera – it will go on…?"

He gave an abrupt nod. "In time, yes."

"I am frankly astonished they care about such things. I didn't think operas and music would be so important to politics."

With his mind temporarily diverted by her confusion, he barely shook his head, attempting to abandon his rant against the idiots in order to hear and answer her.

"Apparently one of their leaders is fond of music and even socialists wish to be entertained. I am told the operatic performances have their place to broadcast the rebels' platform and compel all who attend to support their pathetic activities. Though I am certain their true purpose is a wish for the opera to resume as a camouflage for their underground activities."

He did not mention the literal truth of such a statement, having not yet told Christine of his discovery of The Commune's secret dungeons of torment. Nor did he know if he would, not wishing to frighten her excessively, or that she even need know. His traps would keep the vermin out of their home.

"We were told there would be a reprieve from performances while they made necessary changes," she said, "but I had not actually believed the production would reconvene, especially so soon …"

"YOU will not be singing, don't even think it. And MY opera will not again see the stage in anything but its original form. Though what would be best for all concerned is for the accursed sets of the Don Juan to burn into a pile of unholy ashes."

Not wishing to prolong his lingering ire or stir another fierce bout of it, she simply nodded. She hoped the Opera Ghost planned no fearsome comeback but decided it best not ask at the moment.

"What of Meg? Did Madame mention her in the letter?"

The Phantom hesitated from resuming his tirade and stared, noting the worry in her eyes. The tension that stretched his nerves taut since reading the foul edict slowly eased from his body though did not completely disappear as he forced his mind to give an answer to alleviate her dread.

"Meg is well. The letter is over there if you wish to read it." He motioned to the table by the sofa.

"May I?" she asked in surprise.

The harsh lines near his mouth softened. "Of course."

She smiled in gratitude. "Thank you, Mon Ange!"

She rushed forward and kissed his cheek beneath the black mask, before moving to the far end of the chamber. Taking a place on the sofa, she pulled the blanket over herself that had been left there. No fire lit the grate and the main chamber felt colder than usual. Or perhaps it was her inactivity that made it seem that way.

Feeling somewhat cozier, she plucked up the letter and intently read Madame's strong, narrow clipped scrawl, amused to note the handwriting was an uncanny match to her stern instructor.

The first paragraphs dealt with orders given to Madame to pass on to Erik, stating the revolutionist leader wished to meet and speak with him about required changes, in the sole role by which they knew him, as the opera's composer. A fierce pang of apprehension faded when she thought of her Maestro's furious reaction to the forthright order. He would never agree, even to refuse. She need not worry that he would come out of hiding for that. And clearly they did not know he was also the Phantom.

The lines that followed detailed additional changes required of the staff, even down to the demand for simpler, unadorned costumes that did not flaunt wealth or cause one to covet it. How bizarre that they should care about something so insignificant in an operatic tale of tragic pretense. Toward the end of the note, she found what she'd been looking for.

Tell Christine that Meg is well, though as I feared the influenza did make an ugly appearance four days past. She steadily improves and now harps of her ridiculous fears that she will forget all she learned in practice and gain unwanted weight from too much bed rest and lack of exercise.

Practices resume next week, thankfully, as I made clear to those in charge that the dancers must keep conditioned regardless of the delay in production, but I told Meg she will not again take the stage until I am assured she has fully recovered. I told the chorus that she was suddenly taken ill and is in quarantine, as you directed me to say, in order to explain her absence and need for seclusion. I assure you she knows the gravity of the situation and will tell no one of the secret passages or of your hand in saving her. I vow to you my eternal allegiance for saving the life of my only child and am forever in your debt…

Christine buried the niggling thread of jealousy, wishing to snap it completely. She was pleased that Madame considered Erik a friend, to write so freely to him, and that she promised her enduring loyalty, having long desired for others to see the goodness inside her Angel.

Smiling, she smothered a giggle. Meg must be recovering to be so disgruntled with her inability to dance and the need to keep her figure.

At a step on the stones Christine looked up. Erik approached and handed her a cup of steaming tea. Frowning, he gave her a cursory glance where she sat bundled with her legs drawn up beneath her skirts.

"I'll start a fire. You should have said something. You must be nearly frozen."

Before he could turn to the hearth, she grabbed his sleeve. "Sit with me beneath the blanket. We can keep each other warm."

The mask obscured most of his expression, but within its sockets his eyes sparkled in approval. Setting aside the tea, she pulled back the blanket in invitation. He lowered himself down beside her, and she brought the cover over his chest, snuggling against his shoulder and soaking up the heat of his body. For long moments they did not speak, simply appreciating the tranquil comfort of each other's presence.

"I empathize with Meg," Christine said at last. "I hope when the day comes that I rejoin the opera, I will not be sorely out of condition."

"You bring up a valid point, my dear. We will resume with your lessons as soon as you again feel up to the practice."

She wrinkled her nose, not having meant her voice but rather the tone of her body. Since she no longer danced in the chorus and barely exerted herself in managing the clutter of the lair – a task hardly worthy to maintain physical form to aid in the resilience needed for strenuous ballet – she would simply refrain from indulging in the rich foods Erik prepared so as to keep her slender form, including her favorite dish of Coq au vin, perish the thought. But there was little else to be done.

"I am relieved to know Meg is improving," she said bringing her thoughts back to the letter, "but she must be suffering from a terrible case of ennui with no one to talk to, since her mother has secluded her away."

"You miss her."

The Phantom phrased his observation as a statement, aware that his Angel shared a special bond with her little friend. He was unable to comprehend it since he'd never known such affinity with anyone in his childhood. Never had he experienced such a tie of two souls until first meeting Christine a decade ago, and he'd been a young man then.

"She is like family," Christine stated simply. "I have always thought of her as the sister I wanted and never had."

From his rapid inhalation of breath she was treading in dangerous waters that likely contained thoughts of the half brother he did have. Her heart pushed her to try again to persuade Erik not to give up on his family, though logic argued it would be a mistake to pursue this now. He was calm again and she wished to keep it that way.

"Life was good with Papa, what I remember of it," she mused. "I loved to sing and dance to his violin. People would gather to watch and throw coins into his hat. But there were other times when he was too busy or alone in his room, grieving for Mama, and I would spend long days with myself for company." Until the summer Raoul came to Perros-Guirec; he had been her first playmate.

"I have heard that Gustave Daaé was a great violinist in the orchestra," Erik pondered thoughtfully. "It is a sad state of affairs that his final days saw him peddling for coins as a street musician."

"Oh, no…" Christine shook her head against him. His words did not come snide, but she was quick to speak up for her father. "He promised Maman that he would take care of me and not pawn me off on others while he sought work. I overheard him speak to the priest from our village one day. Papa could have joined another orchestra, but not without letting me go, and so he made the sacrifice. We did live off coins made with our music, but we were mostly happy and I have good memories of those days."

"Your father had your best interests at heart," he agreed quietly. "I remember him speaking with Madame Giry, questioning her about what your life would be at the opera house should he allow you to train in the ballet. Knowing of Meg, and that she was near to you in age also helped persuade him that Madame would make the ideal guardian."

"I am exceedingly grateful for that." She squeezed her arm tightly around him. "The very day I met Meg, we were friends. And then there was you. From the moment you came into my life in the chapel, you gave me what I always dreamed of…"

"I deceived you."

"But I didn't know it then," she insisted. "And right or wrong in your methods, you restored my happiness and the desire to achieve all I wanted, in becoming my Angel of Music."

He was quiet for so long, Christine looked up, puzzled when he gave no response. He grimly stared into the dark, cold grate.

"Erik?"

He sighed and closed his eyes in brief contemplation. "Christine, forgive me."

She blinked. "What…? Why? Have we not already had this discussion?"

He shook his head. "It is not the fault of a fallen angel to which I refer."

"Then what is it?"

"The misfortune that you are so often made to suffer my demon's fury directed toward others when you are not to blame."

She drew her brows together. "Don't let it trouble you, my love. I have long been accustomed to your outbursts of anger toward those in the theatre."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked wryly. "To know that you accept my heinous behavior as the acceptable standard?"

Her lips turned up in the quirk of a smile. "While it's true I don't like when you're angry, I would rather you express yourself than to conceal it here," she pressed her palm to his heart. "In doing so, you only make yourself bitter and withdrawn."

"Of late, it seems we've had more than enough opportunity for me to express myself in conflicts between us, without need for me to bring my ire against those above into the equation."

She sighed, hating his reference to when they argued. "I've never observed any married couples – I was too young to remember my mother – but I would think all couples argue, so we are no different. Friends argue. Families argue - Lord knows I've had my share of tiffs with Meg! If you feel you must shout out your wrath against the world while in my presence, then do not resist. Yes, it troubles me to see you upset, but the alternative is worse. Like what happened when you allowed me to see your face in the chapel." His muscles tensed beneath her cheek, but she charged forward to say the rest. "You feared my reaction for so long that when you finally did tear away your mask, the emotions you had imprisoned almost shattered you. I shall never forget that day and never want either of us to live through anything like that again."

The Phantom remained silent. Her gentle blow to his pride to point out his façade of confidence that had then crumbled to weakness, and his self disgust that she so freely excused his fits of temper bound him in dismal silence.

His Angel should not have to make allowances for a devil's fiery outbursts.

She deserved much more than he'd given her, and now he had stolen her away from the world she knew and loved, from her friend as dear to her as a sister ... but perhaps he could begin to make amends.

It was time to unveil his surprise.

.

xXx

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Later that evening, with Erik engrossed in his work, Christine grabbed an apple and went to their bedchamber to continue with the novel she'd been reading. Though she missed her husband's company and had been a little shocked when he excused himself from her arms earlier to attend to some unknown task, she supposed they could not share every second of every minute of every hour together. It was unrealistic to hope for such things, even this early in their marriage. They had a wealth of shared interests, but fancied individual ones as well, and she would never wish him to feel smothered by her presence when he had lived a lifetime of solitude and was not yet accustomed to companionship. Certainly he had not seemed angered by their conversation over his unnecessary apology, though he became strangely distant afterward, and at supper he rarely spoke, his mind clearly occupied with other things…

She sighed and picked up the book from their bedside table, a small smile lifting her lips as her mind drifted to the world of pretense involved in Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland. She recalled as a child her delight in hearing about the new novel and later, in the chapel, telling her Angel of her hope one day to hear the full story. She had been a slow learner to read, though now managed well enough thanks to Madame, who insisted all the young ballet rats be taught. Her Angel had reintroduced the subject at their next meeting and enthralled her with a retelling of the fantastical story for the next week after each voice lesson. Christine now wondered if he had sought out a copy of Lewis Carroll's novel solely because she wished it. He must have, and now aware that he'd been only a young man seeking to find common ground with a child, and not an all-knowing celestial being endeared him to her even more. His social skills with others begged improvement, but his heart had always been selfless in his desire to make her smile.

Her mind remained in those magical nights, when he spoke of a harried white rabbit that carried a gold timepiece and a sadistic queen of hearts with a penchant for chopping off heads – recalling both her curious awe and gleeful horror as she sat before the angel mural and listened – before she turned the page and again became engrossed with the written tale…

"Christine…"

Startled by the bizarre summons that surely could have come straight from a scene in the book and feeling somewhat like the bedazzled Alice, Christine nearly dropped her novel halfway into the chapter. Her eyes flew to the tapestry curtain that concealed her beautiful gowns.

What on earth…?

"Come…find me, Christine…"

Her lips tilted at the corners, blossoming into a full-fledged smile. So, he was taking her on her own adventure?

His voice, disguised in falsetto, projected from her wardrobe, and she giggled as she was taken back to her girlhood. He knew she had chosen this book from his vast library and wondered what game he was playing. Would she find a potion with the tag "Drink me"? She grinned at the thought.

He may be a magician, and many marvelous things she had seen commence with a flourish of his hand, but she strongly doubted a potion existed to change a person to miniature size…And he could not fit inside the enclosed space, wide enough only for her gowns, at least not without the tapestry giving a telltale bulge to reveal his presence. He must be using his skill to throw his voice.

She set down the book and eagerly hurried to her wardrobe, throwing the curtain wide. With a puzzled smile, she noticed the new addition – a pair of unused ballet slippers in pale pink satin dangling by their ribbons. Tilting her head curiously, she took them down.

"Over here, Christine…look and see"

Smiling wide, she followed the disembodied voice to the phoenix-shell bed. Through the black translucent veil that enclosed the curved mattress, she could see that a practice costume of pastel rose-pink silk and tulle lay across the coverlet. A red rose with a black silk ribbon rested beside it and she lifted the bed curtain to take the flower into her hand.

"I trust it meets with your approval."

His natural voice came from the doorway, boyish eagerness underlying the calm, careless tone, and startled, she cast her attention his way.

He stood in the shadows with his arms crossed in nonchalance, his shoulder leaning against the frame of rock, and she wondered how long he had stood there, watching. Christine hurried his way and threw her arms around him.

"Thank you, Mon Ange," she pulled away but did not let go. "It certainly does! And your clever way to reveal the costume was delightful, but - why are you giving me these things?"

"Perhaps this will better explain it," he said, gently pulling her arms from his neck and turning her around, his hands at her shoulders.

She blinked in absolute shock.

Indeed, she had arrived to her own wonderland…

Past the throne and stairs, at the opposite end of the lair from where they usually congregated, the lower dais that formed a dead end with water on two sides, had been wondrously recreated. Once barren, it formerly contained only rock. Now, along the two adjoining walls of umber stone tall mirrors had been placed so that it appeared as though the walls a little above standing height were entirely composed of reflective glass. Drapes of lustrous ebony velvet made graceful loops along the top edges and framed the sides, each one held back with a wide ribbon of gold and black.

Upon first catching sight of the transformed area Christine had slowly moved from Erik, taking the five steps down, and could now see red roses in the design of the narrow sash and similar flowers of silk entwined at the top corners. Along one wall of mirrors a high wooden barre stood a short distance away from the looking glass for stretching. The stone beneath her feet here was smooth and glossy, like polished brown marble, perfect for soft leather soles, and she looked back at him in awe.

"You made a place for me to dance...?"

"I know it's not as large as what you're accustomed to, and the floor is composed of stone not wood, but I thought perhaps –"

"I love it." She smiled, now realizing what he'd been doing these past days she spent in bed – and why he so often persuaded her to lounge about or steal a few hours of slumber. "Oh, Erik, it's perfect. What a delightful surprise!" For the second time she ran to him and flung herself into his arms, hugging him tightly.

He chuckled at her exuberance. "I hoped it would not be too small."

"When you consider that the former area I used was shared with over two dozen ballet rats, and I will be the sole dancer here, the space is enormous." Almost as long and over half the width of the theatre stage, it would meet her needs well. "I cannot wait to try it out!"

She grabbed his head, giving him a swift but heartfelt kiss, before hurrying to her room to change into her new practice costume. This was just what she needed, to dance again, and how like him to realize that! And how foolish of her to presume a lack of interest to spend time with her had created his distance when, once again, his every minute had been devoted to seeing to her comfort and pleasure.

Soon outfitted, the silk fitting her to perfection, she approached her personal dance floor. A cursory glance toward her husband showed that he was again seated in front of his pipe organ, scratching out notes with a quill onto the parchment propped before him.

Christine worked on stretching her muscles until she felt limber. She allowed herself to go slow and not as stringent as Madame would have done, giving herself ample time to become reacquainted with the regime. Throughout her exercises, she was certain she felt Erik's eyes on her, but each time she turned to look he had his attention trained on his composition. From the organ's position, his back was to the dais where she danced, the path that led to it forming a gradual curve from the second staircase so that only the lake stood between them.

Once she finished with warm-ups, the organ's notes punctuated the air with finesse. Again she looked his way in startled suspicion, only to see the back of his head. The unfamiliar music was similar to Chopin's works, with a breezy, sensual feel, and she let the notes soak into her soul.

She began to dance, allowing the cares of the world to fall away as the minutes were swept up in the invigorating music. It felt incredible to again challenge every limb and muscle in a series of graduated leaps and spins, and she started simple, slowly gaining in difficulty. Once the music ended, she danced on, the notes following through in her head as if they belonged there. As if they originated within her soul and she was truly one with the melody…

She spun her finish in a chain of twirls in a steady tours chaînés déboulés – brought to a sudden stop as his large hands caught her low around the waist.

Stunned to see her Phantom where he wasn't a moment ago, in breathless curiosity she looked up into his eyes.

They looked back at her, intense and glowing with fire.

Grabbing hold of her hand he lifted it above her head and twirled her around so that her back was flush against his chest. Still breathless from her dance, her breathing was further impaired as his fingers linked with hers, his hands flat over hers and sensuously trailing upward over her body from hip to breast. He bent his head, and she gasped at the sensation of his mouth at the crease of her neck.

"Your every movement flows as transcendent as music …," he whispered against her skin, the tingles dancing along her spine at the caress of his warm breath, "…the inspiration to each note I play. You give the melody expression, mon amour, even having never heard the composition I write."

His head lifted, his eyes catching hers in the image of the looking glass. She addressed his reflection. "I told you, I feel what is inside your soul through your music. As if you are inside me, a bond that has always been there that I cannot explain…," Her free hand lifted behind to trail her fingertips against his temple and the edge of his mask. "And without this in the way, I feel even closer to you."

"Christine, don't." Lifting his hand, he covered hers to stop her from removing the black leather covering.

His entire body tensed against hers and she hesitated in surprise. Ever since they were wed he still showed grim hesitation each time she urged him to remove the mask or did so herself, but he never stopped her. Until now.

"Erik, you know my preference." Up above, he could wear a covering whenever and however he chose. When below in their home, she wished all masks to remain off. Not only for his comfort and to give his sensitive skin the air needed, but Christine had become accustomed to his natural countenance as what was normal and his mask the anomaly.

He turned his face into her neck, avoiding their reflection. In the image around them, the wall of glass reflected the lair behind, and her attention went to the row of mirrors covered by tapestries. The one he'd given her use of, in their bedchamber, also remained hidden, though she did not always remember to cover it. And these new mirrored walls held drapes to conceal them when not in use. She had given all of the drapery little thought, having supposed he did so to protect the mirrors and keep them clean when not in use, what with the cold fog often rolling in from the lake…

How could she have been so blind not to see! He may have used a mirror as a gateway to reach her, but clearly he avoided it for all else. He not only hid his tragic face from the world; he hid it from himself.

"Erik," she whispered, blinking away the tears that had begun to gloss her eyes. "Look at our faces in the mirror…"

At the echo of what he once sang to her in the moment before their eyes met through the looking glass for the first time on the night of her debut, he reluctantly lifted his head to meet her eyes there.

"Do you know what I see inside?" she asked.

His eyes were near stormy, his expression bitter, but he gave no answer.

"I see there a man and a woman," she said softly, "made perfect when together and happiest when not apart…" With gentle and slow insistence she pried the full black mask from his face.

His hand dropped away from hers, and instantly his eyes fell shut.

"Do you know what I see now…? That same man and woman," she caressed his face and turned in his arms. "Still perfect together, still happy. The exception being they are now open to one another, but still so very much in love…"

With a half sob, half groan, his lips covered hers and Christine gave a grateful sigh, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His actions darkly passionate, he whisked the pins from her hair letting it fall down her back in a thick swathe, his kisses traveling from her lips and down her neck. He brought his hands to her bottom, lifting her, and she readily wrapped her legs around his hips, the evidence of his need strong against her belly.

Carrying her swiftly to the mirror behind, he placed her on the thick rail of the barre with her back to the cool mirror, his warm lips never leaving her flesh. His hand brushed away the caplet sleeve of filmy gauze-like silk at her shoulder, baring the rounded slope for his mouth to devour, at the same time he deftly unhooked the top fastenings at the back of her practice costume. With more skin bared, he seized the advantage, and she groaned in need when he took one pert nipple in his mouth, circling it with his tongue.

As much as Christine would like to christen her new ballet area with their passion, the rail beneath her derriere was narrow, causing her to wiggle against him to find more comfort. Instantly he grabbed her beneath the legs, again pulling her close to his hard body, and she moaned into his mouth as her hunger sharpened to a finer point. Turning with her, he walked up the stairs to their bedchamber, his sporadic kisses brushing her temple and ear as she continually kissed his neck and tore at his shirt until it was spread half open, her free hand roaming his muscled flesh.

He let her fall back to the bed, following her with his body, and pulled the costume lower, pressing kisses to her collarbone and cleavage before suddenly pulling back on his knees. His eyes, had they the power, could burn tendon and flesh, and she shivered with the fierce look in their darkened depths, feeling the heat he aroused sear into her veins.

"If you wish to keep that costume intact," he rasped quietly, "you had best remove it now."

Sitting up, she quickly fumbled with the countless hooks that ran down her back while he hastily shed his own shoes and clothes, each of them intently watching the other, their minds enshrouded in an anticipatory haze of what was to come. Once she could shrug out of her costume, she pulled it down, shimmying it over her hips and baring herself completely to him.

The Phantom inhaled deeply at the sylphlike vision of his naked wife and pulled his hands away from unfastening his trousers to take hold of the bunched material of her costume, pulling it down her legs and tossing it aside then whipping the laces free from around her calves and ankles and pulling at them as fast as possible until slippers followed costume to the ground.

Taking hold of her ankles, he kissed a swift, fiery trail starting at the arch of one foot, up her leg and inside her thigh. Smoothing his hands up to cradle her bottom, he brought her even closer. "How I have missed this, missed being able to touch and kiss you like this," he whispered and ran his tongue along her drenched flesh.

She cried out softly, arcing her head back and clutching the coverlet in tight fists before grasping handfuls of his hair. Spreading her wide with his thumbs, he was tenderly relentless in his hunger for her and stoked her desire to a high blaze, the pleasure he inflicted and the insatiable ache for more both impossible to bear.

"Please, please, please…" she whimpered, her plea mindless, broken only by her escalating moans. Her lower belly coiled tighter, every sensation centered to where his tongue delved inside, and she gasped harshly as he moved to lave then suckle the sensitive nub of her flesh.

The moment he pulled slightly away she pushed herself up. Grabbing his sides, she kissed him, yanking his trousers to his knees. Pressing her mouth to his strong chest, she made a trail halfway down to his flat stomach with lips and tongue before he hissed and grabbed her wrists, pushing her back to lie on the mattress. He kissed her fiercely before tearing off his trousers the rest of the way then covered her with his body, clasping her hands with his.

Flesh pressed to flesh in warm desire, their kisses grew gentle but no less intense, the heat rushing through their veins as they shared rapid breaths. She reached down for him, taking his fullness into her hand, and he released a stuttering gasp against her mouth when she stroked his hard flesh, her thumb gliding over the jewel of dampness at the tip.

"Christine, take me inside you," he rasped in a tone that demanded her compliance...

But she was not yet finished with touching.

"Are you trying to drive me to madness?" he groaned.

With her legs spread wide and open to him, she half relented and slowly began to stroke herself against the hard silken tip of his flesh, her hips lifted and moving in teasing, sensual rhythm. Her lashes fluttered closed and she quietly moaned. "You feel so wonderful against me like this, my Phantom…"

He let out a guttural growl, no longer able to resist the need for her velvet walls to tightly enclose him, and shifting, he pulled her hand away and pushed hard into her drenched heat. His eyes rolled back in pleasure, his body going motionless. His head descended softly to brush the corner of her lips with his.

"Oh!" she exclaimed with a sharp rasp. "Even better…" She brought her hands up to cradle his face and moved her mouth fully to his, strengthening their kiss as he pulled her leg against his side, penetrating her more deeply. "I love you so much…" she said when she could again draw breath.

"You are everything, Christine," he murmured near her ear, his strokes coming slow and silken. "I cherish all that you are…"

Her hands sought to touch him everywhere she could reach as she moved with him in their exclusive dance of passionate fire. An expression of movement so sublime, above all other art forms, this art of their love. She wrapped her other leg around him, wishing the pleasure could go on endlessly, at the same time her body cried out for the blissful conclusion only he could give.

Three clangs of metal sounded in signal, a distant echo on the nearby pipes.

"What the…" His mind steeped in a strong haze of passion, the Phantom did not complete the thought, barely able to comprehend the interruption.

"E-Erik…?" she whispered, and he looked into her shimmering eyes, equally misty and darkened with ardent lust. A heated flush touched her warm, satin skin, and she looked at him in uncertainty.

Instead of withdrawing, he buried himself more deeply into her lush core, clutching her to him with strong resolve. "Ignore it!" he insisted hoarsely. "Several more minutes won't matter. I will run the entire way above to make up for lost time if I must…"

No emergency was worth a disruption of this mortal heaven.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Yes?" he repeated with another slow, intense stroke.

"Yes, God, yes – don't stop! Don't leave me…"

Grabbing him tightly she kissed him while he never ceased to move steadily within her. She brushed her mouth against his neck in hunger, lightly biting his shoulder. Lost in his beautiful wife, figuratively and literally, the Phantom intensified the cadence of their lovemaking, forgetting the rest of the world existed. All too soon he felt her shatter around and beneath him, the pulsations of her silken walls setting off his own strong release.

He did not leave her warmth immediately, nor did she suggest it, instead brushing his mouth against her neck and over her lips in their afterglow, which led to a leisurely kiss. He would have preferred to tarry in her soft arms all night, extending their sweet and heated bliss to the point of exhaustion and indeed, had not once rushed their intercourse.

He would be damned if anyone would ever again steal these moments he had so long coveted. Even should hell and all its demons storm the gate, he would never again deny his Angel the bliss that was theirs to share.

He noted the moment her mind again became cognizant to the situation, anxiety again shimmering in her eyes.

"What do you think she wants?" she asked.

"I will soon find out, but of one thing I'm near certain. She must possess some nature of a signaling device to know when we are intimate."

At his wry words, the barest of smiles traced her lips. "What a horrid thought…"

He cupped her chin and kissed those swollen rosy lips once more before leaving her embrace to gather his strewn clothing. Hurriedly he dressed, deciding to dispense with the time-consuming formalities of ascot and waistcoat.

"Try to get some sleep," he suggested, "I will return as soon as I am able." He retrieved his boots and turned back to the bed.

Christine had left its velvet covers and was in the process of pulling the gown she earlier wore over her chemise.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked grimly.

"Is it not obvious?" Calmly she reached for her slippers.

"Christine –"

"Don't bother. I'm going with you. The last two times you went above I suffered through my own personal Hades before you finally came back – and nothing is worth going through that torture again."

Their lovemaking always made her bolder, stronger, and he wasn't surprised to witness such a surge of her intractable confidence now.

"I don't know what I shall find," he insisted, sitting down to pull on his boots. "I don't want you hurt."

"I'll stay in the secret corridor and remain hidden the entire time if you wish. I'll do exactly as you say."

"And if I refuse?" he asked tersely. "Will you then take the journey alone as you've done twice before?"

Christine was about to obstinately agree that it was precisely what she would do, but the issue of his trust was still so raw with them, and she sighed, relaxing the rigid set of her shoulders.

"No, Erik. I made you a promise and I'll keep it. But I ask that you consider carefully. I'm not a child always in need of protection, and I wish that you would treat me as a woman outside of the bedchamber too. As your wife. To walk by your side and not always be left behind."

Where she had amassed such cool bravado, she wasn't certain, but his unexpected smile stunned her, small though it was. "Come then, if you wish it, but no matter what happens you must keep silent and do as I say."

"Yes." She smiled, nodding.

"Grab your cloak. We must hurry."

Once Christine returned to their bedchamber, cloak in hand, she noticed him buckle a strap around his thigh, slipping a dagger into the sheath that hung from it. Her eyes opened wide to see him gird himself with the weaponry, never having seen him use such a blade before, but she remained silent, understanding the crucial need to be armed, and fastened her cloak at her throat. He pulled his cloak around himself, grabbing a coil of thin rope to conceal inside, and she moved slowly to join him. He turned to look at her a moment before holding out his hand. Without hesitation, she closed the short distance and placed her palm in his.

"You are certain you still wish to do this…?" he asked, his grave tone making it clear he hoped she would decline.

"Yes. Please don't worry, Erik. I'll be alright."

He gave a curt nod and they collected his black mask from the ground where she earlier dropped it. He slipped it over his face, again taking her hand for the long walk above. They did not run, but kept their pace swift.

As they neared the corridors that ran beyond the opera house walls, genuine fear encroached like the pervasive shadows and began to torment Christine as to what they would find. Faced once again with the inescapable revolution that they had endeavored to ignore while far below ground hidden in a world of candlelight, her worries intensified. What if Meg was in danger or her health had taken another bad turn? What if she was again missing, hurt, or worse?

Christine did not air her fears. She had asked to come along; she would be strong. But she was doubly thankful for the reassuring strength of his hand, which never let go of hers.

Once they reached the hidden corridor behind Madame Giry's office, the Phantom put his index finger to his lips, signaling for his bride to remain quiet.

Her eyes wide and luminous, she nodded, and he pressed his hand to the secret latch that opened the panel, pushing it slightly ajar. From this vantage point, he could see Antoinette seated at her desk with her back directly to him, the trio of candles there the only source of light in the room. She calmly drank from a wineglass. No blood was being shed. No voices were raised in conflict. The door to her silent, dark office was closed and, he could see, barred from any intrusive entrance with her key still in the lock.

Impatiently he pressed the panel wider, keeping hold of Christine's hand. "You summoned me?" he said testily, "What the devil do you want so late in the night?"

His ire increased twofold to be so rudely interrupted from the sweet intoxication found in his wife only to be brought above for no apparent reason that he could discern. He swiftly moved a step forward, realizing too late that another presence was seated in the dark shadows in the far corner, formerly out of eyesight. He cursed his uncharacteristic rashness to confront his aide that led to his atypical inability to be aware of nearby danger. Yet before he could turn to push Christine back into the corridor and secret her inside, she came up beside him and clung to his arm, gasping as the unwelcome intruder stepped forward into the small pool of candlelight.

His clothes were worn and common, his hair a much darker shade that suggested a wig, but the perfect face the Phantom could not mistake. It had haunted him both in his dreams and out of them.

"Raoul ... why are you here?" Christine gave shocked utterance to the words whirling like a tempest inside the Phantom's mind.

xXx


A/N: Dun dun dun dunnn...

*runs