Author's Note: YOOOOO I have a surprise for you guys but I can't say what it is just yet. On another note, we're nearing 200 reviews! I'm thinking that maybe once we hit 230 reviews, that's when I'll announce the surprise? You guys are seriously such beautiful people! To all my story followers and my dearest reviewers, I cannot thank you all enough! We're still in crazy times but I hope you guys are doing well and staying safe!

Also, as promised, enjoy some more Erik and Jovan content after the lack last chapter! I had to drink two mugs of coffee beforehand though so I could get into the right headspace for writing this, but somehow I feel as if I were drunk when I wrote this chapter.

( thirty-seven )

AWAKENING

To say that Jovan threw herself into preparing for her 'return' as Comtesse Sauveterre was an understatement.

Erik watched, half in amazement and half in alarm, as Jovan thoroughly immersed herself in her work after her meeting with Laurine. On one hand, there was the pleasant surprise that whatever her preparation entailed, it included having to borrow several of Erik's books. Erik had to set the condition though that given the amount of books that Jovan wanted to borrow from him (his eyes quickly caught some of the titles and he saw that one was about overseas voyaging and another was a general guide to traveling Europe, a small book that he thought he'd already gotten rid of years ago), she had to study and read them in his home as he was unwilling to part with so many books at a single time. Jovan had immediately agreed before comfortably positioning herself on his divan, his dog-eared almanac in her hands.

Truthfully, Erik was very willing to part with so many books anyway seeing as it was Jovan who was borrowing them, but then he realized that a small lie would bring him advantage; specifically, allow him to maneuver Jovan into staying with and keeping him company while she read his books. He merely shrugged to himself and said that it couldn't be helped — would it be so terrible of him to do such a thing when Jovan had already moved out of his opera house?

He would never admit it out loud, not when it felt so foreign on his tongue, but he did miss having Jovan so close.

She only stayed with him on most nights to read. Mornings and afternoons she spent outside, under a disguise, shopping for whatever it was that ladies needed if they went country-hopping. True to what Jovan told him about her agreement with Laurine, her aunt unfailingly always left a purse of francs in his beloved Box Five, funds which he was sure Jovan was putting to good use. He had also offered to take on the simple task of fetching the purse every morning from the compartment it was left in, something that Jovan agreed to as they both realized it would save them both time and worry if it was Erik who collected the money since he still knew best the passageway leading to Box Five.

One morning, however, Erik arrived an hour earlier to see who came to the Opéra Populaire to drop off the purse every day, out of curiosity. To his mild disappointment, it was merely a skittish young man that Erik took to be a servant of the vicomtesse's due to his simple unembellished outdoor clothes.

It had been a four days since Jovan and Laurine met each other, and the downside of watching Jovan work tirelessly was this: that she took her job very, very seriously that it almost frightened Erik on some nights. He had once gotten ahold of a paper she left behind one night, containing a list of six names of men that were bulleted with Jovan's notes on each person. He reckoned that this must be the so-called board of directors that Jovan seemed so pressed about. The list almost seemed absurd to him in Jovan's terrible handwriting, as if it was a child's notes on France's long line of rulers taken from a history lesson. And yet, he couldn't blame Jovan for being so meticulous when he himself fell into a similar habit if he became hyper-focused on something that had caught his interest.

On another night, Jovan had him sit with her face to face so she could, as the redhead put it, "interrogate" him about his trip to Persia. It took every ounce of his self-control to not laugh then and there for some reason. She then asked him about his means of travel ("Did you take a ship or a train?" Both, Erik had answered, depending on which one meant less exposure), what it entailed to board a ship (she had been on trains before but never ships, she explained), what did one need when entering another country (among many other things, Erik had told her one needed clearance from the police to ensure that they had no recorded offenses, which took Jovan a moment to realize that he was fibbing because how could he have clearance from the police, they didn't even know he existed), and many other questions that helped Jovan pick apart the complications and procedures of traveling overseas.

"Did you get sea legs?" was one of her more irrelevant questions.

Erik had simply arched an irritated brow at her. "If I did, I doubt I would have become such an accomplished assassin."

Long before they had that conversation though, Erik had realized, on the second night of Jovan's studies, that while he would have the pleasure of her company, it was mostly spent in silence as she buried herself in his books and her papers. While Erik was not complaining and had his music to keep himself occupied, to simply play his organ or compose did not sit well with him when what he truly wanted to do was help Jovan in whatever way he could. But how was the question.

When he had asked Jovan on her first night in his lair how else he could help besides lending her his books, Jovan answered that he could wear his clothes inside-out and dance ballet, to which he had snatched his book on economics out of her hands. He stared hard at her until she apologized and admitted that letting her borrow his books and allowing her to study in his home was more than enough help.

And so, some time later, when Erik found himself rummaging through a large trunk of various fabrics of cotton, silk, leather, linen, and many other textiles of different colors after a musical block hit him, he decided he would study up as well — specifically, on his skills as a tailor. He decided to start with something simple (he wasn't going to consider the fact that years back, he once created an entire costume of elegant dark blue using silk and velvet among other fabrics — and the outfit turned out very nicely actually, but he ended up discarding it anyway, in another trunk to be forgotten after he realized that he ultimately didn't want to sneak into the Masquerade) and settled on making gloves.

His gloves, however, were still in good condition and he saw no reason to make himself a new pair. So he opted to make Jovan new ones instead.

He studied up a bit on the latest Parisian look for gloves just to be sure before he began his work. For Jovan's measurements, he simply walked up to her once while she was on the divan, snatched her hands up which caused her to protest, then gave them a good feel for a long moment that he also spent vehemently ignoring the heat creeping up his neck.

"Erik, what are you doing?" Jovan whined, but to his relief, she ultimately didn't fight against his hold on her hands.

"Just wondering what the average human body temperature is," he stupidly reasoned after half a minute of silence where he stared at the pale skin of her hands. As his own were without gloves during that moment, he felt that her hands were most certainly not as soft as he imagined them to be, which he attributed to the labor involved with previously being a stagehand and a seamstress. Still, they were much softer than his calloused hands, and he could not deny that they were warmly comforting.

Then, without another word, he dropped her hands and walked away from Jovan and back to his room where some paper and a pencil were waiting for him.

He kept his little project a secret from Jovan while hoping that she might appreciate the surprise. Erik worked whenever he was out of Jovan's sight during the night, convincing himself that he could help in this small little way. After all, a comtesse only deserved the best for her hands, didn't she? And who else could live up to the task of making such fine accessories than the Phantom himself, who certainly prided himself on his sophisticated sense of fashion.

On the fifth night in his home, Erik wasn't really surprised to find Jovan asleep when he checked up on her late in the evening. She wasn't sitting on the divan but was on the carpeted floor before it instead, with her head and her arms propped up on the divan while a sheaf of papers lied on her lap. Erik made out a few decipherable words that led him to believe the papers were about international cargo shipping. He then took the papers from her lap and they rustled as he set them aside, before he slipped one arm behind Jovan's back and another under her knees.

A soft grumble left her lips as Erik lifted her up. "That position can't be comfortable for sleeping," Erik quietly remarked in response, in case she could hear him, before walking to his room with Jovan in his arms.

The room was shrouded in complete darkness save for a lone lit candle on a small desk. Once they reached the side of his bed, Erik gently laid her down on the firm mattress, careful to not stir her from her sleep. He then approached her feet, cautiously taking off her boots while being grateful that Jovan had chosen to wear breeches on that night, saving him the trouble of maneuvering through her skirts which the very idea alone made Erik's heart race faster.

After propping her boots against the foot of his bed, he then pulled up the blanket over her still form. Erik himself rarely used his bed, being able to survive on just a few hours of rest and being more prone to falling asleep on his rosewood desk outside or, if the nights were too haunted, he would simply take up the space on the floor next to his bed. The silence was then punctuated by a rustling of the sheets, and Erik watched as Jovan adjusted herself before settling on a position that left the deep red of her hair splayed out on his pillow.

For a good moment, he could only stare at Jovan and drink in the sight of her fair features, peacefully at sleep. It was certainly a sight he preferred over the image of her crying in her bed, drunk and fearful of whatever nightmares came that plagued her rest. Tonight, there was none of that, only the steady rise and fall of her chest as Erik gazed at the lashes framing her closed eyes and lips that looked soft as petals if he were to touch them.

There was no other word for her but beautiful at that moment.

But Erik was quick to dismiss the thought before he finally looked away and left his room without another glance at the angel sleeping on his bed.

Laurine felt the mattress of the settee dip as Rémi sat down at the opposite end, a few inches away from her own feet. With her back against one arm of the settee, Laurine had fixed her legs and feet atop on the same level as her lap where a book sat, turned to a page near the halfway point.

The evening had been nice so far as she spent the last hour before bedtime reading one of the older novels she owned. However, the tranquility came to an end when she felt Rémi's hand slithering up her left calf. Beneath her nightgown, she felt his fingers caressing her skin. But Laurine only pointedly ignored him as she noisily turned the page of her book.

Then her husband's lips brushed against her skin. Laurine almost flinched as his hands pushed away the fabric of her dress and higher up her thighs.

With deep sigh, Laurine closed her book with an audible snap before swinging her legs away from Rémi and down from the settee. She stood up then walked away.

"Darling?" she heard Rémi ask innocently. The sound of him rising from the settee and following her did not go unnoticed as she returned her book to the shelf in the corner of their room. Still, Laurine ignored him.

Her novel had filled up the gap in the shelf with a push of her hand when a brush of warm air fanned her ear. Laurine swallowed thickly as Rémi hovered behind her, placing his hands on her bare shoulders. "Laurine, my love—"

The very touch of his fingers no longer brought comfort or even arousal to Laurine. Instead, there was only a terrible feeling in the pit of her stomach at the mere thought of physical contact with him. Clenching her jaw, she turned to face Rémi with one hand raised in the air.

The sound of skin hitting skin echoed in the room. Rémi staggered away with a hand on his cheek while Laurine stood still with glowering eyes.

"Have you no shame?" she hissed, unable to help the venom in her voice as she fixed the falling straps of her nightgown.

"Laurine, what are you talking about?" To his credit, Rémi truly sounded confused as he stared at his wife with eyes as wide as saucers. His hand dropped from his face as he smartly kept his distance from Laurine.

The blonde scoffed. "Honestly, Rémi. You carry on with this mockery of a marriage with me as if you did nothing short of evil to Nathalie!"

"No — no." Rémi's tone then grew exasperated the second he realized what his wife was saying. "Do not do this to yourself, Laurine. Do not do this to us."

"Do what? Confront the truth that perhaps all this time, you were never ever mine?"

Rémi gave a hard shake of his head as he approached his wife once more, with outstretched hands. "Laurine, we've talked about this before. I love you—"

But Laurine backed away before his hands could reach her, and a scowl placed itself on her lips as she wrapped her dressing gown tighter around herself.

Rémi fell still and raised his hands in a show of defeat. His voice grew soft when he spoke. "Listen to me, darling. I confess that along the way, my mind and my body strayed. But all this time, I swear that my heart belonged only to you."

His words sounded sincere as they always did whenever he said such sweet things to her, but Laurine now knew better than to be fooled by the honey coating his venomous tongue. She blinked at him. "And Mila?"

"Mila... is dead, Laurine. And even if I loved her, that was a long time ago, long before I even met you."

Laurine wanted to laugh, but she held it in. "Did you really love her though, Rémi?"

"That is not the point here, my love—"

"Because if you truly did, you would have never even thought about doing what you did to Nathalie!"

"Oh damn it, Laurine!" Rémi roared, his face contorting in anger.

"She was Mila's daughter!"

"We've been here before! How many times must I apologize for my sins?"

But Laurine was unfazed. His words held no weight to her, not anymore. Not after countless spats and screaming matches they had over the same things. "Apologize as much as you want, Rémi, but it's not going to turn back time. It won't undo what you did to Nathalie. What you did to me."

"Do not come at me for my shortcomings as if you have none yourself."

Worse words from her own husband's lips had been thrown at her, but that didn't mean that Laurine could no longer be hurt by what Rémi was trying to imply. She'd lost count of how many times they had argued over the topic, but if she was sure of something, it was that Rémi was thoroughly convinced that it was her fault she could not conceive a child at an earlier time.

As if she could be faulted for something she couldn't control. Laurine's mouth fell into a humorless smile.

But explaining that to her husband was fruitless, she knew that from so many fights where she would plead for him to understand, only to be answered with resentment and disappointment or even the occasional push or slap. She gritted her teeth as a familiar tightening sensation gripped her chest, threatening to deprive her of air, but she held her composure as she came closer to Rémi.

The smile vanished from her face. Her voice dropped low as she glared at her husband. "I know I'm far from perfect, but at least I can say that I never stooped so low as to rape my own n—"

"Careful with your words now, dear wife."

Laurine could only stare with cold eyes at Rémi, who had a fire of his own dancing in his blue gaze. She could tell that he was truly, truly angry now. No, this was no longer the exasperation and displeasure that usually had him screaming and slamming his hands on desks. Laurine knew her husband well, and she could recognize that this was the quiet rage he possessed and only showed when he was not getting what he wanted.

"Or what?" she replied, no longer hiding the spite in her voice. "Admit that you just can't swallow the truth, Rémi. You're despicable, and you are not the man I fell in love with."

Rémi then turned his eyes away from his wife. "I've had enough of this conversation, Laurine. Now, stop being difficult. It's getting late."

"Difficult?" Laurine echoed, half furious and half hurt. "I didn't know trying to talk sense into my husband meant being difficult now."

But Rémi gave no reply as he glanced back at Laurine before walking away from her. And just like that, Laurine knew their conversation was over.

A scoff left her lips. The salty sting of tears pricked her eyes but she refused to let them fall. Instead, she tied up the sash of her dressing gown.

"I'm sleeping in one of the guest rooms tonight. Good night, Vicomte," Laurine remarked, not even looking at her husband before she marched away on silent feet out of the room. The doors, however, she made sure to close with a bang that echoed in the silence left behind with Rémi.

The grass around her ankles swayed along with the wind as Jovan stood still, observing her surroundings.

There was no mistake about it, especially with the bright manor that stood in the distance and the lines of neatly trimmed trees guarding both of its sides. As a child, she had always fancied it to be the closest thing humans had to the temples that the gods had for themselves in Olympus. White against the bright blue sky, it towered over the pavilions to one side and remained just as magnificent as it was to her when she a mere young girl.

With glassy green eyes, Jovan stared at the manor that was her true home. And yet, at the same time, it was no longer home.

But what did she care about that right now? What mattered was that after many years, she was finally back.

And so Jovan ran. She ran in obedience to the weight leaving her chest, the fluttering of her heart as a breeze danced around her. As she scampered through the grass, she then grew vaguely aware that she had been barefoot all this time. Against her bare skin, the grass pricked her heels, but it mattered not to her as long as they didn't cut her.

The distance between her and the manor decreased as she continued running towards it, her unbound hair flying freely behind her. Jovan had no idea how she came to be here and why she was no longer even in the plain shirt, breeches, and boots she remembered wearing last, but again, did it really matter? No, Jovan told herself before she finally came to a stop and bent over, her calves burning from all the sprinting while her heart raced frantically.

Not once did her gaze leave the manor as she took a moment to catch her breath, sucking in one lungful of air after the other until the tightening in her chest went away. Only then did she truly assess the fabric beneath her hands before she lifted them away from her thighs, and she realized that she was wearing a sleeveless white dress made of light cotton, its appearance not too far from a nightgown.

What was happening? Jovan wanted to ask someone, anyone. But what does it matter? a voice replied as if it was whispering from the wind blowing about, and for the first time, Jovan's eyes left the manor as she turned around in a futile hope to find the source of the voice. But there was no one behind her and there was not another soul as far as her eyes could see.

Was she hearing voices in her head now?

Jovan opened her mouth, the question "Is anyone there?" waiting on the tip of her tongue, when two strong arms gently snaked around her waist.

A gasp instead left her parted lips as she felt herself be pulled towards something. Or rather someone, Jovan realized as she felt the solidness against her back move, breathing in and breathing out.

She made no move to break free as, and against her expectations, she felt the adrenaline drip away from her veins instead, leaving only the rapid beating of her heart. Now that she had calmed down, she could also feel the heartbeat of the stranger behind her, its rhythm soothing and steady from beneath the sturdy chest she was pressed against.

Were Jovan thinking rationally at the moment, she would have pulled away from the stranger without another thought. But she was far from sensible right now, not when a moment ago, she was riding with the wind, her feet bare on the grass, home, home, home the only word echoing inside the walls of her head.

Home. Didn't she feel at home there and then? Wasn't that all that mattered?

She already had half the mind to let her better senses take over when what few coherent thoughts that she had completely left her mind when she felt warm, soft lips descend on the skin of her neck.

Jovan expected herself to freeze, to panic, or to even scream at the sudden intimate contact, but all those impulses fell away into a haze as she simply stood in place, letting the stranger leave a trail of hot kisses down her neck. It sent sparks dancing beneath her skin and butterflies filling her stomach, her lips parted in budding pleasure. The arms around her waist tightened a miniscule, but she only felt secure in the stranger's almost possessive hold. There was no fear, no unease, as she succumbed and let her head fall against his shoulder.

Is this home? she wanted to ask as she felt the stranger reach up and tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear, and Jovan felt her lips fall into a small smile at the gentle gesture. Is this home? she wanted to continue wondering as she let her hand wander behind her head, but something told her that she already had the answer to her question.

And then she felt something cold, something vaguely familiar. She pressed her fingertips harder against the cool surface before she finally realized what it was — porcelain.

Jovan's eyes dropped to the hands clasped in front of her waist, and her gaze was immediately drawn to the black obsidian band on the stranger's right little finger.

Her heart skipped a beat as she finally fought against the strange hold on her and pulled away from the man. Turning, she was immediately met with a pair of chimeric eyes, one a warm amber and the other a brilliant green. A white half-mask sat innocently on the right side of his face.

"Jovan, is something wrong?" Erik asked.

When Jovan bolted upright from the bed, her chest was heaving in beat to her increased heart rate, and the faintest tremor had seized her body.

I am never sleeping again, was the first thought to enter her head as the last memory from her dream refused to leave the recesses of her mind, Erik's soft gaze still stuck at the back of her head—

"No!" Jovan then told herself, furiously shaking her head as she held her own intrusive thoughts at bay. This is stupid! What time was it even? How long had she been asleep? Jovan rubbed away the remnants of sleep from her eyes, reckoning that she was no longer in a proper state to return to her slumber, as she felt a familiar ache on her right side. Dropping her hands, she sat still for a good moment trying to remember just where exactly she had fallen asleep.

And then it finally dawned on her that the sheets around her were black, that this was most definitely not her bed at the pub, and there were absolutely no papers pinned to the far wall to her side in her room.

A single candle stood on a desk above which hung a few papers. Now wide awake, Jovan's eyes ran across sketches and light watercolor paintings of the opera house, of the ballet corps rehearsing, of a ship trapped in a storm, of Ayesha, of a crumbling angel statue, of... herself.

She was in Erik's room. Just perfect.

Jovan mumbled incoherently in rising irritation as she felt her neck and cheeks grow warm before she uncaringly threw the blanket away from her and jumped out of the bed as if staying there a second longer would burn her. In the dimly lit space, she thankfully found her boots at the foot of Erik's bed (the sodding Opera Ghost's bed!) and decided to put them on while making her way out of the room. No sir, she was not staying in there for a second longer just right after her stupid, stupid dream.

As she hopped around and finished slipping on her right boot, Jovan was finally steps away from Erik's bedroom when she finally decided to look for her very accommodating host. Her left foot entering her remaining boot, Jovan was about to shout Erik's name when suddenly crossing her line of vision was—

Erik himself. Without a shirt.

"Fuck's sake," Jovan muttered to herself, shutting her eyes tightly just as her left foot hit the ground a bit too forcefully.

Erik's eyes grew to the size of saucers the moment his eyes met Jovan's across the cavern of his home.

For some reason, the redhead had a murderous look on her face, and her unruly hair and half-untucked shirt only contributed to the rather threatening aura she was radiating. His sharp ears had picked up on a faint scuffling seconds ago, just as he was in the kitchen preparing some tea, and he had decided to immediately check if Jovan was the source. He was then greeted with the sight of Jovan stumbling away from the direction of his room, one foot raised and poised to enter her boot, when she suddenly closed her eyes and murmured something Erik couldn't pick up the second they made eye contact.

Only then did he realize his undressed state at that moment.

Without another word, Erik backtracked to the kitchen and snatched his stained shirt off the counter. He had spilled some tea on himself when Ayesha had dug her nails too hard into him while she was scratching up on his leg, begging for attention. Not that it hurt him, but it sure had caught him by surprise, hence the tea spilling into his shirt.

Jovan was tying up her hair with rather angry movements and scrunched eyebrows while sitting on the divan when Erik left his kitchen, now wearing his tea-stained shirt. He scratched the side of his neck, feeling the faint warmth radiating off himself, before he cleared his throat and caught Jovan's attention.

She lifted her eyes to him before arching a brow. "What?"

Erik arched a brow back. "What?"

Jovan huffed then grumpily said, "What time is it?"

He obediently took out his pocket watch from his trousers. "Eleven in the morning."

Once her hair was secured in rather messy-looking ponytail, Jovan stood up and gave Erik a once-over. At another time, he would have given admonished her with a dry remark for acting like a petulant child for no apparent reason or one that he could discern at the moment, but there was a far more pressing matter at hand that he needed to alert Jovan of.

"Jovan, the Vicomte Sauveterre was here this morning," he said.

The irritated look instantly fell from her face to be replaced with widened eyes. "Did he say anything of note?" Gone was the murderous air surrounding Jovan, but he wasn't too pleased with the alarm that took its place. As much as he didn't want to start her morning like this, Erik knew what her priorities were, and anything about Rémi was at the top of that list.

He ran a hand through his smoothed hair. "Only that once rehearsals resume for the new year, he'll do his best to attend everyday."

"That's not necessary." Jovan frowned as she began fixing her mess from last night. She took a pile of papers from the divan that she set atop two books on the small center table before her. "What was he doing here anyway?"

"Lèfevre and Antoinette were giving him a more thorough tour of the opera house as per your uncle's request. He had another man with him as well, someone named Boucher."

She gave a shake of her head. "Doesn't ring a bell to me. But no matter. We'll find out what Rémi's up to, one way or another. And whether he'll take his threats seriously."

Erik walked to his desk where he retrieved the purse of money that he had fetched from Box Five earlier in the morning. He handed it to Jovan. "Here. And you need not worry too much about watching the Vicomte. Focus on what you and Laurine discussed. Leave it to me to watch over your uncle."

As she took the purse from him, Erik's eyes were drawn to the small movement of her lips parting in surprise at his words. "Erik, are you... are you sure?"

He gave a scoff as he met her eyes. "I am. It's nothing new after all — skulking around in the shadows while spying on people is part of my repertoire as the Phantom of the Opera."

Erik's words had a lighthearted tone to them but they were true all the same. He was sure he'd have no trouble watching over his new patron while keeping an eye on rehearsals at the same time. The entire truth was that he even relished in the thought of spying on the vicomte for Jovan. Erik knew that he'd simply feel safer if he had Rémi within his sight, and if he could gather information that might assist Jovan.

No, he wouldn't mind doing this at all despite how much he would rather have the Vicomte Sauveterre dancing at the end of a rope. No, he would have to make that picture a reality some other time. After all, he doubted that Jovan would approve of him killing her uncle so soon.