Author's Note: Yes, people ― I'm still alive! This girl just finished her last year in high school and will be heading for college next in August! Three months should be more than enough for me to hopefully finish writing all the chapters in advance though. Also, I finally bought a copy of Gaston Leroux's book! Yay for me. For all of you though, thank you so much for bearing through the long wait! In return, here's one of the longer chapters I've written for this fic. Don't forget to drop a review!

( thirty-three )

KING AND ROOK

Her breathing was erratic as she opened the door to the coach and staggered out. She had the mind to pull her hood back up before she fully exited the coach. They hadn't moved from their spot before the opera house, and Jovan immediately rushed back to the steps of the Opéra Populaire, back into safe territory. Urging her trembling legs forward, she didn't dare to look back as she began climbing the steps.

The sound of the coach rolling away soon reached her ears, granting her a small semblance of relief. But it wasn't enough.

The doorman was understandably startled when Jovan stumbled back into the grand foyer. But she couldn't care less about his stunned reaction when all that mattered to her at the moment was the rising bile in her stomach. Her nausea threatened to overwhelm her. Her stomach heaved. She retched, but nothing came out, nothing could when she had not eaten anything since she woke up.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" It was the doorman, with a stupid question nevertheless.

Jovan gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. But of course the doorman didn't notice it, not when she still had her hood covering her head. Straightening up, Jovan then broke into a run deeper into the opera house, wondering if she had gone and done the right thing after everything that had just transpired. Would it be worth it? She didn't have the answer right now ― all she had were her tears.

No, she wasn't alright. She was the farthest thing from it.

He had his suspicions, but it was so, so much worse than he had thought.

Erik had listened that night before the new year as Jovan finally unraveled her past for him to see as plain as day. He had listened as, moments away from midnight, he finally learned of the tragedy that she hid behind her own mask, a mask that was not made of porcelain but of hardened skin, a brusque demeanor, and a volatile temper.

It made so much sense now, why she carried so much anger in her heart and why it manifested in terrible ways during her stay at the opera house. The punch with the stagehand, the outbursts with Elea, her refusal to be scared away by the Phantom himself, her recklessness... All the repressed fear, loathing, and rage after all those living in silence and under constant threat and danger...

But the horror of that realization was not to be found just in itself, but also in the understanding that Erik knew very well what it was like to be in her place. He empathized with her. He knew so well of the role of the victim, having been one when he was much younger. He was too familiar with the echoes of an abused past, the rage that was born from it and the constant shadow of fear. They were all horrible burdens on a person, weight that even Erik himself still had trouble carrying at times, and to know that Jovan had suffered just as he did...

Erik could not remember the last time he felt such an insurmountable rage.

What wrong had she ever done to deserve such atrocities committed against her? She was only a child when her own uncle began to give her unwanted and unsavory attention. She was the daughter of gifted aristocrats. She had fearlessly loved a horribly disfigured sibling during his short, tragic life. It was simply unfathomable. How could anyone, let alone someone of her own blood, find it in their heart to mistreat and abuse her as if she were anything less than a human?

He thought he had seen it all, the extent of how wicked humanity could be. But time had only passed to prove him severely wrong. No, Erik had thought. Man's depravity truly knew no bounds.

Rémi Sauveterre was living proof of that.

Erik had committed many atrocities in his life, but rape had never been and will never be one of them. He was indeed a mere man and had his own carnal needs, but he would never stoop so low as to force his self on someone just to satisfy his lust. He may lack adequate control when it came to his temper, but he prided himself on his abundance of self-control when it came to other matters such as this one. He was so much more than hunger inside him. Most of all, he knew that women were much more than mere objects of desire to be used and then discarded afterwards ― they were human, just like he was.

If Erik could recognize that, how come Jovan's own uncle couldn't?

These were all things that Erik had mulled over after he had dropped Jovan back at her dormitory and he had returned to his home on New Year's Eve. He had to take the time to completely and carefully process all that Jovan had revealed to him, until his own nausea almost engulfed him from the sheer horror of it all. He took his time until he fully comprehended her past and her trauma, and then the reason why she was hiding, and, finally, her anger and her fears.

Her fears then became his own.

It was then that Erik's horror reached new heights. Rémi Sauveterre was now the Opéra Populaire's new patron, a brand new nightmare for Jovan. He grew scared when the thought of Jovan being taken away by her uncle once more invaded his head. It filled him to the core with disgust and scorching anger. Erik had much hate to spare and he directed all that he had then at the man that had tormented Jovan for so long and so much. Damn the Vicomte ― both of them, Sauveterre and Collet ― for having to intrude upon the opera house that had become a safe haven for Jovan. Damn them along with the manager for daring to disturb the peace in his opera house.

Which was why, come the morning after New Year, he had resolved to do everything he could in his power to keep Jovan safe. He had then gone to the dormitories to talk to Jovan, only to arrive just in time to see the redhead leaving her shared room. Instead of confronting her then, he decided to stalk her through his passageways until she reached her destination, one that rather piqued Erik's curiosity. Jovan had gone to the manager's office that morning and had left herself in to wait for Monsieur Lefévre's arrival.

Erik then listened as Jovan had gone on to talk with the manager when he arrived. He listened as Lefévre had called her 'Comtesse' ― wait, what?

So, Jovan was truly the Comtesse Sauveterre. It had taken Erik a full moment before his mind fully processed the new revelation. Sure, he always had a feeling that Jovan was part of the nobility, something that was only proven when he learned the title of her uncle during the Masquerade announcement, but a comtesse? How was that even possible? Weren't men the only ones who were eligible to inherit titles? Unless Jovan was married... No. It just seemed unlikely and it sounded very wrong to Erik. He would just have to get the answer from Jovan herself.

But that wasn't the only startling thing that he had picked up from her conversation with Lefévre. Aside from how Rémi came to be the Populaire's new patron without the manager knowing beforehand, what had disconcerted Erik more was Jovan's decision to resign. Leave.

Leave? And go where?

Erik shortly received his answer when he then went to confront Jovan in her dormitory while she was packing up her belongings. And just when he thought that she couldn't grow anymore reckless, she decided that the best course of action was to return to the territory of her enemy, her uncle, her rapist. All because she didn't want the Opéra Populaire to suffer in her place.

But damn the opera house, Erik had thought then. Damn them all. How could this girl even think of doing such a thing when Erik himself would never, in a million lifetimes, go the same route she was going to take?

But then he realized that there was a stark difference between the two of them, one that stuck out like a beacon of light among the dark sea of their many shared similarities. Erik was selfish, something he could admit that on any day freely without even any measure of guilt, while Jovan was not selfish enough.

Still, there had to be other ways to go about the problem. Erik was sure that going to Rémi was just about the worst way to solve things, but Jovan just wouldn't listen. Good God, she really was just as stubborn as him, and it wasn't even funny at that point. She had even refused his help, something that he very rarely offered. It wasn't the last straw for him although Jovan's refusal sure didn't help to keep his temper in check and the sharp words from escaping his lips.

Erik would gladly help Jovan at the risk of everything else, even his home, but how could he help someone who didn't even want to help herself first?

It went downhill after that. Many biting words were exchanged, though there were more coming from his part, until Jovan became the first to snap.

They really didn't make for a pretty pair when they were both angry. He had even used her title to mock her as he went to leave. Erik was rarely one to regret his words and actions, but his last words to her were something that he started to feel deep remorse for as the day deepened into night.

Still, something prevented him from returning to the dormitories for the rest of the day. His wounded pride, perhaps? He just couldn't find it himself to see Jovan so soon after their row. As a result, Erik had resorted to sulking for the rest of the day. Everything that had transpired beginning the previous night finally began to take its toll on him, but he could only imagine how much worse it had to be for Jovan. He didn't want to move from where he sat, every bone in his body feeling as if they were made of lead. He felt so heavy. He didn't even want his music to distract him, not when it would surely keep Jovan out of his thoughts, and the idea didn't really appeal to him, he realized, because who else did Jovan have to worry about her? Nobody, Erik reckoned. Elea was worlds away while Antoinette had her own daughter and Christine to worry about, along with the choreography for the next opera.

It was by some miracle, however, that he finally found the strength to return to Jovan some time before dinner. He had to make sure, at least, that she was eating her meals, knowing how Jovan was prone to skipping them whether with or without proper reason.

Erik didn't know what to think or how to feel when it was Antoinette that he saw in the dormitory instead. She was all alone and she had been checking the drawers of Jovan's nightstand. The redhead was nowhere in sight.

It was easy to pull out a confession from the ballet headmistress after Erik had stepped through the two-way mirror. Jovan's uncle had arrived, and her decided course of action had been to meet his demand to see her.

Erik could not remember the last time he felt such a vile mixture of fear, anger, and dismay. Was she truly that reckless? But then Antoinette had calmed him, and that was when he noticed that all of Jovan's possessions were still in her room, save for her cloak.

What in God's name ever went on inside that girl's head?

His first instinct had been to climb to the rooftop. He obeyed it, and found himself surprised when he saw a black coach parked right in front of the opera house. Antoinette had described what the Vicomte Sauveterre's coach looked like, and her description had matched the coach standing still before the steps of the Opéra Populaire.

At the sight of it, Erik could feel the blood in his veins slowly turn to ice as time trickled by, every agonizing minute that passed leaving him continuously fighting the growing urge to rush downstairs and throw open the door of the coach and see for himself what was going on inside. No, he'd do his best to simply stay in place and spectate, even if it hurt him to do so. Only God knew what was going on inside the coach but Erik just couldn't afford to be reckless yet, not when he didn't know all the details of Jovan's plan yet.

At least everything was quiet, Erik attempted to comfort himself after the sun had vanished from sight in the distant horizon.

He saw Jovan finally exit the coach several moments later. A sharp exhale left him as he took note of how she almost stumbled on her way out as she hurriedly pulled the hood of her cloak back up. His heart began to race faster as she made her back up the steps leading the opera house, his sharp eyes not missing how unsteady her feet actually were as she entered the Opéra Populaire.

Erik didn't even think as he swiftly took his leave of the roof and found the passageway that would grant him the quickest way to Jovan's dormitory. He fled through the dark, as fast as his long, agile legs would take him, until he finally found himself in front of a dark curtain that shielded a two-way mirror. Deftly unlocking the entrance's mechanism, Erik slipped through the ajar mirror and was instantly greeted with the sight of Jovan perched on the edge of her bed, all alone and with her back turned to him.

Her figure was as still as statue. Her shoulders were stiff and she was silent as death as Erik made his way to her, their earlier fight long forgotten at the back of his mind. He had expected to see her crying, perhaps her body shaking with sobs even, but not this heavy silence that now filled the room. It had always worried him when Jovan's reactions were muted, when her lips were sealed and she gave little to no indications of how she felt or what turmoil was presently unfolding in her head, and this instance was no different as Erik found himself holding his breath while his curiosity raged to know what happened in the coach.

When he finally came to a stop on the spot right in front of her, his rage immediately flamed back to life at the very first thing that he noticed.

There was the smallest stream of blood on the left side of Jovan's face, blooming from a small tear on the skin of her cheek. The blood had began to dry, yet the redhead's face was still streaked wet, and only then did Erik's mind register that Jovan was indeed crying after all. His eyes left the cut to lock with her gaze, and the fury that gleamed in them left him stunned in their searing intensity.

Jovan was so very still as hot, angry tears continued to stream down her face. At her sides, her hands were balled into fists digging into the mattress of her bed, steadying her. The sight of her at the moment unnerved Erik.

"Jovan―" Erik began before he was sternly cut off.

"He wants me to come back," Jovan remarked, her tone quiet but severe.

A muscle in Erik's jaw tightened at her words. "You can't do that."

"And I won't."

Erik blinked in disbelief the moment her reply reached his ears. Did she truly say... Were his ears simply betraying him? But one look into Jovan's eyes and Erik saw nothing but steel resolve in their green hues. In her stare, he saw the Jovan that he truly knew ― not the girl from years ago that she had called a coward, but the woman that she had become, the woman who had refused to back down when she first met the feared Opera Ghost in the darkest of hallways.

He felt a surge of pride when he repeated her words inside his own head. His eyes didn't leave Jovan as he slowly went down on one knee. Erik was about to remove his right glove when he noticed the way Jovan warily eyed his movements. He immediately stopped and dropped his voice into a low, comforting whisper as the pieces began to fall into place.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Jovan."

Jovan gave a slow, single nod of her head. "I know."

It was only after hearing her response did Erik proceed to carefully remove his glove. Jovan's eyes remained on his right hand as he fetched a handkerchief from the pocket of his coat and used it to gently dab at her wounded cheek. She flinched at the first contact, something Erik recognized as a natural, instinctive response, before Jovan finally went still again, still enough for Erik to gently wipe away what he could of the blood and tears on her face.

He began to inspect the small cut once the blood was gone. It had obviously come from a slap from a hand that had a ring on it. How typical, Erik thought, as he felt his temper begin to rise once more at the image that came to his mind ― a monster laying his cruel hands on Jovan, one who had the same blood running in his veins as she did, no less.

"He did this," Erik grated out through clenched teeth before his eyes were drawn to the collar of Jovan's blouse. The fabric wasn't sitting snug against her skin as it should be. Instead, it had been obviously and carelessly pulled away from her neck, and a more furtive peek beneath the fabric showed the color red blooming on the skin of Jovan's neck.

Erik didn't realize that he had given a sharp exhale until Jovan reacted by pulling back the collar of her blouse.

"Don't start with me, Erik," she said as she rose to her feet. "If you're going to tell me that I should have fought back, just don't."

"I wasn't going to," Erik answered quietly, straightening up as he watched Jovan take off her cloak. No, he wasn't about to scold Jovan when he himself knew how paralyzing fear could be. How many times had he stood frozen to his spot, unable to fight back, in fear of the whip or the fists of his master when he was a boy? How many times had he surrendered in fright to the darkness of his own room when his mother deprived him even the smallest of candles, long before he learned to embrace the dark?

"You're not a coward, Jovan," the words then slip out of Erik's lips before he could stop them. Before him, Jovan dropped her cloak on her bed, her back turned to him. He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders and she drew in a deep breathe before turning to face him, all while he processed his own words and where they would eventually lead to.

"I'm sorry," Erik then finished as Jovan met his gaze. He was still very much not a fan of apologizing, but what he was was a man of his word. And he had told himself a long time ago that apologizing was just one of the things he was willing to learn for Jovan. And at the moment, he found himself not regretting that decision, not when after a long moment, the smallest of smiles finally graced the redhead's lips.

"Thank you, Erik."

Erik responded with a nod of his head, trying not to let all of his attention be stolen by the sudden flutter in his chest, before he resumed his usual cool and authoritative tone.

"So. What are you going to do next?"

Tomorrow. Nine in the morning.

It took every ounce of courage she had in her bones for Jovan to keep up the present facade she had. Standing at the very last steps of the Opéra Populaire, she presently wore a fresh pair of clothes, consisting of another high-collared blouse which she coupled with her best pair of slacks. The entirety of her outfit was hidden by the cloak she wore though, lest her unusual choice of attire drew unwanted attention to herself. It was the best set of clothes that she could bring herself to wear given the occasion though, when she was about to keep her word that she had given to her uncle ― to meet him at the time and place he had given her.

She had been standing at the same spot for half an hour now, but all that waiting finally bore fruit when a familiar black coach rolled into her line of sight. Jovan felt her stomach drop at the sight of it, the memory of last night instantly assaulting her focus and threatening to break her composure, but she did her best to push away the thought back into the deepest chambers of her mind. She sucked in several lungfuls of air to steady herself until the coach finally came to a stop right in front of her, and even then Jovan's heart continued to hammer painfully in her chest. It didn't stop until the coachman opened the door before her and it didn't stop until Jovan climbed inside the dark, cushioned space of the coach.

But the face that greeted her inside was the last person Jovan expected see.

"My, my," Laurine crooned. "I didn't know that trousers were the latest trend now."

Jovan's chest tightened upon seeing the face of Rémi's wife. Before she could stop herself, her vision clouded with red and she raised her hand.

Before it could make contact with Laurine's cheek however, Jovan's hand was stopped midair by the sudden grip of slender fingers wrapping around her wrist. Vaguely, Jovan's mind registered the coach rolling into motion.

"Don't forget your manners, young lady. That's no way to greet your aunt," Laurine remarked as she pulled Jovan's hand down while refusing to let go of her.

Jovan did her best to pull back her arm, but she found herself unable to put all her strength into it when she was still reeling from the shock of seeing Laurine. The blonde's grip on her was like a vise as well, so when Jovan failed to reclaim her hand, she redirected her anger into the next words she spat at Laurine.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came to fetch you, of course," was Laurine's infuriatingly vague and cool answer.

"Where is Rémi?" Jovan said irritably.

"He's busy dealing with your company."

"Let me go."

"I doubt Rémi will appreciate that now, don't you think? Also, I can't help but notice the distinct lack of baggage. Do you simply plan on buying a whole new wardrobe?"

Jovan's head began to spin at the nonsense that Laurine seemed to be spewing. Coupled with her confusion and heavy unease, Jovan's temper spiked from the frustration of not knowing what Rémi had in store for her that he even sent his wife of all people to fetch her. Whatever game this was, Jovan was not having any of it.

"No, Laurine," she answered acidly, gritting her teeth. "I'm not coming home."

"Oh? Good."

Jovan gave a stiff nod of her head. "Good. You can deliver that news to your husband then and let me go now," she replied, eyes glancing to her aunt's tight grip.

However, Laurine only tapered her eyes at the redhead and kept her fingers around Jovan's wrist. "I don't think so, Nathalie."

Damn this! Jovan was unable to prevent her emotions from taking control of her features, and face contorted into an expression of unabashed chagrin. How could she not when this wasn't the plan? In fact, the plan was already ruined the moment she saw Laurine instead of her uncle.

This wasn't the plan.

"Go ahead then. Throw every name that you can think of. Throw them all at me. I don't have to explain myself to you of all people, you who chose to stay blind even when the truth was glaring right in front of her. Go on. Hit me, curse me, throw me into the streets ― do it. Because you're never going to get another chance to do so."

The laugh that rolled out of Laurine's painted lips in response made Jovan flinch. The woman had the audacity to actually sound amused by Jovan's words, and it prompted her to once more try and free her hand from Laurine's grasp. Her efforts were fruitless.

"You're such a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Laurine's next words made Jovan stiffen as the blonde regarded her with an unreadable glint in her blue eyes. "At first, I thought that that must have been the reason why you caught his eye. Then I saw your mother."

Jovan fell limp in Laurine's grip at her next words. She felt her breath catch in her throat.

"You leave my mother out of this."

But Laurine played deaf to Jovan's words. "I never saw her in person now, no. I only saw her in that photograph that Rémi kept in one of the drawers of his desk. That's when I finally understood, after all those years. Those green eyes, those red locks... He saw your mother in you."

Jovan could not decipher what the sudden stab in her chest meant. It left her lungs empty of air for the briefest of moments as she slowly, cautiously let her mind drink in the words that left Laurine's lips. Disbelief pricked at her; how could it not when all of this felt too... fair to be real? The words, the realization, after all those years...

Laurine's fingers finally loosen around Jovan's wrist before they altogether relinquished their hold. "And when he couldn't have her, he tried to have you instead."

"You lie," Jovan weakly accused her, still quite unable to believe what was happening.

"I don't, Nathalie." Her tone suddenly soft, Laurine didn't make a move to stop Jovan this time when the redhead pulled her hand back. She cradled it against her chest, her fingers running over the reddening skin where Laurine had seized her, while Jovan could only stare at her aunt in shock. She wasn't even sure if the woman before her was her aunt, not when Laurine presently had the most genuine expression of concern on her face that Jovan had ever seen.

"I don't lie. I see the truth for what it is now," Laurine reassured her.

A rising tide of anger swelled within Jovan as her lower lip began to tremble. "Now? What about years ago?"

"Nathalie, I'm sorry―"

"Oh, bullshit, Laurine," Jovan spat venomously, her anger reaching its crescendo. "Whatever this is, stop it. God knows you'd do anything for your husband, even kiss the ground that his feet walk upon if he ever asked it of you. I should know ― I watched you as you chose to be blinded by his words and promises even when you saw him, with your own two eyes, forcing himself on me. I watched as you refused to believe that the man you adored with every fiber of your being was, in truth, every bit of the snake I tried telling you that he was; and all because you could not accept that you were wrong. Wrong after every single attempt to justify his actions, after every attempt to find wrong in me instead of him, after every denial your mind could think of. You'd always known, deep in your heart if even have one, that you were wrong about Rémi. And now here you are, telling me that you can finally see. But why should I believe you? How can I believe you to be telling the truth now when all you've done in the past is bury it?"

Her breathing escaped in short, heavy gasps after her tirade, ragged with the effort of pouring out years' worth of anger and misery. Jovan recalled having wanting to do this for as long as she could remember, and now that it was done, a surge of satisfaction shot through her veins. She couldn't help it, not when her suffering could have been significantly lessened by the woman before her if she so chose to help her back then. But Laurine didn't, and it brought Jovan a morbid sense of triumph to finally be able to slap her back, even if it was just through her words.

"But, Nathalie, it's not too late," was Laurine's timid reply after the passing of a long moment, sounding so hopeful that Jovan felt her heart clench in sympathy for the shortest of seconds. Even her usually smart blue eyes glinted with something else entirely, something that looked like regret.

"Is it not? You tell me, Laurine," Jovan countered evenly, feeling her rage cool down into a white heat that left her more able to breathe easier.

"Alright then," Laurine answered, her tone suddenly gaining an edge to it. "I'll prove it. Yes, I might have seen you on the eve of the Bal Masqué, but not a single word of our encounter slipped from my lips to Rémi's ears."

"Then how did he come to know that I was staying at the opera house?"

"He refused to disclose how to me. But I do have a feeling that he spotted you with his own two eyes."

But Jovan was not to be swayed yet. She arched a brow. "Try harder."

Chagrin flashed through Laurine's fair features for a split-second, but Jovan had a feeling that the vexation wasn't aimed at her. Of course, she couldn't be sure though and she would just rather not get so confident around Laurine yet. She watched with a calculating stare as the blonde's light eyes darted back and forth as she considered something behind her fleeting gaze.

She licked her lips before she spoke. "It'd be a lie to say that I'm doing this purely out of the kindness of my heart or the guilt on my shoulders ― take your pick. But in truth, I have bad blood to settle between my husband and I."

"You and Rémi?" Jovan inquired sharply. Just when she thought that she could let go of the disbelief curled up in her chest...

Laurine gave a bat of long lashes and just like that, her mask of cool indifference slipped back into place, back to the Laurine that Jovan was more used to ― poised, honey-tongued, and coy to match her soft curls of gold and eyes of crystal blue. "Yes, me and him. It had something to do with me being with child several months after you... did some soul-searching. And like the loving, doting husband that he was, he reacted with one shove too hard. But sometimes, that's all it really takes."

This new piece of information took its time sinking its teeth onto Jovan's trail of thought. Laurine had been with child. Had. Jovan could only stare at the woman opposite her and was unable to help the smallest amount of admiration stick itself to that brilliant and perfect mask of insouciance that Laurine had managed to keep on while divulging the loss of the child she had been carrying, a truth that must have been so heavy to bear for a woman who had once become so overcome with grief with the news of her barrenness that she tried to jump to her death.

Jovan blinked owlishly, not quite sure how to take in the information. Fortunately, she felt no amount of satisfaction at the news, lest she start questioning just how much of a conscience she truly had, but perhaps it was just too shocking to hear that Rémi had it in himself to hurt his own wife and consequently his unborn child...

Ah. But why was she even wondering about it? She shouldn't have been surprised, not after all the horrors he'd done to her first.

"You miscarried," Jovan's words came in a low whisper. "I... I'm sorry."

"Don't, darling." Laurine gave a small, half-hearted scoff. "Not unless you mean it. I don't want your pity, after all. I want your help."

"My help," the redhead echoed. "And how exactly do you want my help?"

"In any way possible," Laurine answered with a thin, humorless curve of her petal lips, her voice velvet but cool and piercing as ice. "The company, the estate. Those might be under your name but Rémi is the one truly in reign over them. Take those back. Everything. Everything that he took from you, take it all back and so much more. Let him know how it feels to be broken beneath the wheel, to be carved out hollow and empty, to be left like scraps for the dogs."

The quiet intensity that suffused each word left Jovan feeling out of her depth. She wanted to start a war, but how did one even start? How exactly was she supposed to make her brute of an uncle feel as she did during all those times that he had violated her? Had her pinned down and crushed beneath his weight and unable to make a single sound? During that hollowing moment when Laurine learned that she had lost the child in her womb because of him? How do you make a man who has known nothing but power all his life and who had done everything to claim it every chance he got feel even less than the mud beneath his boots? How did one make the predator feel like the prey?

Jovan found the answer staring back at her not a moment later. Staring at her menacingly but with perfect clarity.

Her eyes found Laurine's once more, and to see the same fire in her eyes mirrored in her aunt's blue ones was all Jovan needed to give her word.

"I will, then. I'll do just that," she replied unflinchingly.

Jovan watched as Laurine's flawless mask cracked in the slightest for her to give Jovan a grateful smile.

The blonde then rapped against the ceiling of the coach three times.

"Back to the Opéra Populaire then."

"But what will Rémi say when you return to him empty-handed?" Jovan asked more out of curiosity than actual concern when the last thing she wanted was to be in the ride home along with Laurine. Still, it worried her how her uncle might react when he learned that his wife went against his orders.

"Nothing worse than what you've heard before, I'm sure."

Jovan was unable to help the snort that escaped her. In the midst of it all, she felt a pang of sadness at the thought of what could have been. Had fate been much kinder, Jovan wondered how well she would have gotten along with her aunt.

It wasn't long before the coach rolled into the shadow of the towering Opéra Populaire. Jovan helped herself out and turned on her heel to take one last look at her new unexpected ally.

Laurine met her eyes with a firm stare. "You need to plan your return to Paris before anything else. Remember, you went away to travel the world. Quite the wayward child, but then you Sauveterres never stuck by the rules anyway."

Jovan gave a nod. "I'll think of something."

"Oh, I'm sure you will."

Jovan then pushed the door to the coach close, and the last glimpse she caught of Laurine was through the small window, a ghost of a smile on her painted lips.