Christine's hair was not quite as soft as Erik had hoped it would be, but her skin was heaven. He dried her wet cheeks with his fingertips, then traced the ridge of her nose and the line of her jaw. If time had not been of the essence, he would have spent more of it stroking her lovely skin. Who knew if he would ever have such an opportunity again after this night? She was going to be angry with him; he had accepted that. He planned to beg for forgiveness, and kind, docile girl that she was, he had reason to hope she would give it, though he knew it would not come immediately. Even so, when forgiveness did come, he still could not imagine that she would permit him to pet her as if she were a cat.
He wanted very much to gently cradle her in his arms, to savor the moment, but efficiency demanded that he carry her over his shoulder to his borrowed carriage. If only he could have risked employing a driver, so that he could hold her to keep her from being jostled… but that would have been far too risky. There was only one way to guarantee silence, and he had promised not to kill unless it was necessary for his own safety. He already pushed that promise to its limit far too recently to slip up now and invite interference. Since he did not want her falling off the seat and sustaining an injury, he carefully arranged her on the floor, covering her with a blanket for warmth. Perhaps he should have brought more than one, or grabbed her dressing gown; he could see her erect nipples through the fabric of her nightgown. Her little feet were freezing too, so he rubbed them briskly before ensuring they were securely covered.
Christine began rousing from her drug induced stupor on their journey below the Garnier. First her eyes opened. Slowly, she became more mobile, though she was still sloppily relaxed and biddable. Erik could see her posture change, going from slack to rigid while she sat at his feet in the boat. She yelped and slapped at his hands when he picked her up to help her to shore — that was how he knew she was more or less herself again, though she followed him inside without much coaxing, and did not speak for several minutes. She appeared to be taking note of the flowers all around her, touching the petals and leaves of some, or examining the baskets and vases in which they rested.
When she finally spoke, she was unusually calm, except for a slight tremble in her voice, "Who are you?" she asked. "What are you going to do with me?"
Speaking in a voice that belied his own frazzled nerves, exhaustion, and aching back, he said, "Do not be afraid. You are in no danger."
The look of fear that had been growing on her face was replaced with a deep blush, and shocked, furious eyes. Her teeth clenched and she reached for his mask with surprising quickness for a woman who was still ever so slightly drugged.
He grabbed her wrist, trying to stay gentle and in control of the situation. "Never touch the mask. Never. Do you understand me?"
Angry words, words he had not realized a gentle creature like Christine would even know, flew from her pretty lips with more force than ever would have thought she could summon. He would have laughed delightedly if her tirade had been directed at anyone else. He still had to struggle to hide his amusement.
"Stop," he commanded, grabbing the other wrist as well and guiding her to a chair. "I promise, you are safe with me."
He watched her face change again, her rage dissolving into tears. Was she embarrassed? Disappointed? So angry that all she could do was cry? He did not know. All Erik knew was that he was going to cry too if she did not stop. He knelt at her feet, bowing his head, though he still held her wrists, stroking them with his thumbs. With great remorse, he said, "There is no Angel; only Erik." Then he confessed almost all, while she sat before him crying.
She collected herself enough to say, "I want to go home. If you are my friend, as you say you are, if you respect me, as you say you do, then please take me home. I can rest at home with Mama, if you truly think I need a break."
She was only trying to get away from him, as he had known she would. He offered to take her back, reluctantly releasing her wrists and rising to his feet. A look of relief passed over her pale face. Beneath the mask, however, Erik was smiling. She had said nothing he had not anticipated. He knew what power he held over her — he began to hum, softly so that she barely noticed at first. By the time she had become aware of his voice, it was too late for her. She sighed dreamily and did not seem to care that she was still in his home and not heading towards her own. Her recently drugged state was a boon to him. She even smiled at him, and did not flinch when he touched her hair, ever so briefly.
"I'm very tired," she confessed, touching her temple. "My head aches." He knew it was a concession that perhaps she should stay, at least this one night.
He stopped singing long enough to suggest that she lie down in his guest room. He began to hum again, and she smiled sweetly again, allowing herself to be led to her room, and tucked into bed like a little child. If he had not been determined to behave himself, he knew he could have done anything he wanted to her in her current state. The problem was that she might remember it in the morning, and how then could he possibly insist that he was her respectful friend? He kept singing long after he was certain she was deeply asleep, and took the opportunity to stroke her cheek again, to trace her pink lips, to feel her pulse in her neck, but only briefly so that he did not wake her.
Note: It's been a long time, I know. I had never actually abandoned this story; I've always known exactly where it is going. While I was working on it back in 2016, something very traumatic happened to me. For a long time, this story took me right back to it, and I just couldn't do it. I finally feel up to working on it again, at least for now. Fair warning— my life is a bit more hectic, with a far more involved career and the cutest, sweetest kiddo in the universe keeping me occupied. But here I am, losing sleep over election results (dear God, is one person counting everything by hand as slowly as they can? Is it the Count from Sesame Street? That's who I'm picturing.) and writing to distract myself. This chapter may be all kinds of wonky; my final read-through and edits were done under the influence of liquid courage, and also on my phone. Also most of this note was written while more than a little tipsy.