This chapter earns a dubcon warning for blurry lines of consent.

Chapter 8: finish

Their first kiss had been soft against her mouth, his lips thin but pliable. He had touched her gently, and she had surged with hope that this night would not be as terrible as she had feared. Even two people who were nearly strangers could find a way to come together in the reality of marriage's wake.

But then the moment had turned sour, pooling dread in the pit of her stomach. His knee had rucked up between her thighs, pinning her in place by the skirt of her wrapper. The dark shape of his large body covered hers, although he did not settle his weight upon her. One of his hands held both of her wrists, the grip tight enough that she could not break free, his strength overwhelming.

When he rose up above her, she thought to flail, to try to break the hold on her wrists. She bucked beneath him, another sob wrenching from her throat, but he was as immoveable as stone. She heard herself babble another apology, and her words might as well have been silent for the effect they had. She felt his free hand rake down her side, his bony fingers gripping her hip before sliding up her ribs to cup her breast with his broad palm.

"Erik!" she cried, shocked at the sudden invasion. This was not at all how she wanted this night to go, to be taken against her will by her husband. What had changed between them?

He bent down, and she felt the scrape of sharp teeth along the curve of her throat. He had done this before, but earlier, it had felt more like a soft kiss, a caress of lips. Now, the action felt more like a threat, a warning before the true biting strike. The act of a predator encircling its prey.

Once, when she had been little, her father had insisted they press on upon horseback as they tried to reach the next town before night. They should have stopped and made camp, but Papa had been so sure that they were close enough to keep going. Soon after dark had fallen, howls had begun to permeate the chilly night air. Wolves grew close enough in the woods for Christine to see their glowing eyes. Her first instinct had been to kick her horse into a gallop, her own breaths coming out in panicked white lungfuls.

Papa had grabbed onto her reins to keep her close to him and slowed them both to a trot. "If we run, daughter mine, they will chase."

Eventually, the wolves had grown bored or realized they were too large of a target, and their gray shadows had disappeared back into the woods. It had taken a long time for Christine's heart to stop racing, but Papa had been right. Attempting to run would only have triggered the chase.

Erik's free hand tilted her head to the side, stretching her neck out further for the perusal of his teeth. How could human teeth feel so sharp? One more ounce of pressure, and she was certain he would draw blood. He was a wolf bent over his prey, and she the bird caught in his claws. He had only begun to act like this after she had tried to take off his mask…

Christine drew in a sharp breath. This was a man who created an illusion, a glamour, of no mask because he did not want anyone to even known he wore such a covering. He had allowed her to see his mask, even to touch it, and how had she reacted? She had tried to remove it! She had betrayed his trust, what little he had given her. Of course he was holding her hands prison; he did not want to give her any opportunity to betray him again.

She went limp, relaxing her muscles, opening her palms so they lay against the bedding. She had drawn up her knees in some defense against his intruding thigh between hers, but now she slowly lowered her legs to the bed, her ankles dangling off the edge.

Once she was certain that her body was no longer a mass of defensive muscles, she focused upon her breathing. In she dragged one breath, and out she let it slowly stream through her nose. Again, she breathed deeply, slowly, and only after she felt her racing heart began to slow did she add her husband's name within her sighs.

"Erik…" she breathed. "Erik…"

The fingers digging into her throat and forcing her head at an angle eased, giving her enough movement to bring her eyes around to try to see him. He rose above her, and their eyes met. She had always thought his eyes were the color of gold, but they were darker now, the molten color of a flame burning hot. His pupils were enormous.

"Erik," she whispered again.

He pushed words past clenched teeth. "I… I will let go of your wrists."

"I will leave them where they are," she promised.

He eased his fingers open and sat up even more. Christine tried not to cry out as blood rushed back into her hands, sending painful tingles shooting through her. Erik waited above her, seeming to give her time to adjust, and then he pulled her wrapper free of his knee.

"Roll over," he said.

Christine hitched a breath. He wanted her… he was going to… Her thoughts spun out of control, the last month churning as she tried to sort through her complicated feelings about the situation in which she currently found herself. If she refused, what would he do?

She hesitated a few more beats, but Erik did nothing more than hover in place. For another moment, she studied his face. They were so close that she could see the edges of his mask, his own pale skin ringing around the eyeholes, slightly drawn inward to match the frown upon his lips. He had his mouth clamped closed as though afraid to let something out if he relaxed, and she wished that he would simply kiss her again.

Whatever had first been between them had fled in the wake of her attempt to remove his mask, and so Christine rolled over. She kept her arms above her head as much as she could, in the position he had placed them. The silk of the bedding was soft beneath her cheek as she turned her head to the side. All she could see was Erik's white-gloved hand planted near her head.

She felt him shift on his knees until his hips were resting near hers instead of on top of her, his hand being replaced with an angular elbow. Perhaps she should have felt comforted by the removal of his knee between hers, but this position only allowed him freer access to her dressing gown. She felt him fist the thin material as though to wrench it up her legs, and she was called into sharp focus upon the fact that she wore little else beneath it than her stockings and drawers.

His hand froze – in indecision? – and then relaxed. She felt him smooth down her hem, and then his fingers were touching the ends of her hair, a gentle tugging upon her curls that made her shiver.

"Your hair is the color of the sun," he murmured.

She wet her lips. "Erik…"

He stroked her hair, then his hand traveled down her side, his fingertips brushing the side of her breast. "I will make you mine tonight, wife, but I will not harm you. You do believe this?"

Despite herself, she squirmed, unsure if she wanted more of that intimate touch or if she should shy away. "You seek my trust in you," she said. "Yet you will not trust me?"

He froze at that, and her heart surged with hope that he would allow her to roll back over, that he would press his lips to hers again, that she could hold him to her with her arms.

"Would that it was so truly simple," he said at last.

Christine's chest wrenched with a deep sob, and she turned her face to tourniquet any tears that might try to get free. He would not hurt her, he had said, and she truly believed that he would stop if she but said the word. Yet she did not want him to stop. She wanted this night from him for reasons she could not quite understand, and she would see it through in whatever way he needed from her.

His fingers delved deeper between her and the bedding, caressing the side of her breast, catching the peak of her nipple and drawing her thoughts back into focus. Something formed within her, a sensitivity she had not felt before. She wished he would linger longer there, but he moved on, his hand sliding down to her hip. Too quickly, he found the hem of her wrapper and pulled it to her waist, exposing her drawers and stockings. Even still covered as she was, she felt far too exposed to his intense golden gaze, and she knew with his hawk-like perception that he was taking in every curve of her body.

His hand roamed down her backside, his touch light but enough to map the rise of her shape. She held still as he dragged his fingers down one of her thighs, tickling every so slightly at the back of her knee as he found the silk bow there and untied the top of her stocking. His bare fingers met her sensitive skin, but the shock of cold momentarily distracted her from any embarrassment. His fingers were as cold as ice.

"You are so warm here," he said, long fingers wrapping around her calve. "Are you this warm everywhere else?"

Christine's cheeks lit up with a hot blush. Several different replies threaded through her mind, and none found their way to her tongue. When Erik began to trace his way back up her thigh, she pressed one of her hands to her mouth to stifle any cries. This was moving too fast, and as his cold fingers found the opening in her drawers, she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Please."

Please… please what? She was not sure what she wanted anymore – if she wanted him to stop, or to continue, or slow down, or get it over with. Her clothing shifted, and then the pad of his finger caressed the slit between her legs. The shock of intimacy made her gasp, the iciness of that finger an intruding jolt that made her tilt her hips in a way she had never before.

His voice spoke, low and curling around her ear like smoke, "Why, yes you are, dear Christine."

She shuddered. His finger glided up and down her folds, the movement turning slick. The coldness of that finger began to thaw against her warmth, letting her focus more upon the slow but determined exploration of her it sought. When it delved inside her, she braced herself for pain, but there was only a feeling of foreign intrusion, of a dull fullness that made her ache deep inside.

And then his finger was gone, and she heard the rustle of clothing behind her. Erik moved upon his knees, and she felt more of his weight settle against her back.

"Open for me, wife," he murmured in her ear.

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth, her teeth scraping against the soft flesh of her lips, and she did as he said, parting her legs enough that he could settle knees between them. Again, she felt the intimate press of him against her, this time a larger presence than before, still as cold as his finger had been. How could all of him be so cold? He had not removed any of his clothing, but the smooth glide of his skin on hers was unmistakable.

"Erik-"

He paused, barely within her. "Am I hurting you?"

He was not, and she shook her head. Without speaking further, he continued his press into her, unceasing until she felt fuller than before, stretched open deep within in a way she had never been before. A slight burn made her eyes water, but she could handle it, did not have to tell him to stop. He slid out almost entirely, then slid inside again, the burn increasing like a point on her heel rubbed too much. Twice more he penetrated her, and with the last, he gave a low groan and pulled free of her fully.

The aching feeling lingered within her as he readjusted his clothing and stepped off the bed. She curled her legs up, otherwise not moving, her lip now numb against her knuckle.

"Dear Christine," he said softly, "my brave wife."

Was that brave, what she had just done? She had submitted to her husband in the way a wife should, yet she had truthfully done little more than lay there. He stood behind her, out of her field of vision, his eyes burning into her. After this act, how could she still feel they were strangers?

She heard his footsteps go to the door. "I will take my leave," he said. "Good night."

She wanted to call him back, to at least rise up to look at him while he turned the handle. Maybe if he saw her face, he would stay. Maybe if he hesitated to leave, she could gather enough courage to push past whatever barrier was still between them.

Instead, she swallowed down her desires and lay still. The door opened and closed, and she knew she was alone.

Erik hovered only a moment outside of her door, long enough to hear the soft cries that began to spill out of his bride. He clenched his jaw, fisted his gloved hand, and forced himself away from her door. He made his legs move down the hallway to the recesses of his basement, his movements jerky but effective. Only once there did he halt and lean against the rough stone wall of his tomb. Monster, he thought. You will never be anything but.

He grasped his mask with his gloved hand and flung it toward his bed where it landed upon the mattress with a dull thud. He brought his bare hand to his face, realizing he had left his glove behind in her room, and held the first two fingers of his hand to the cavern that was his nose. Her scent wafted up, and relief nearly buckled his knees. He smelled no blood, which meant he had been careful enough with her.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his fingers clean lest he seem any viler of a creature than he already was.

Deliberately noticeable footfalls on the stairs made him spin away from the entrance to his chambers. "Leave me be, fledgling," he snarled.

Darius ignored him. His new heartbeat was loud in Erik's ears. Erik detested the sound, envied the sound, wanted to rip it out of his ribcage. Instead, he kept his bare face angled away from the other vampyre as Darius went to the bed and retrieved his mask.

"Bored of your bonded already?" Erik said snidely, snatching the mask from Darius's outstretched, offering hand. With his face covered again, he turned to confront his ward.

"I came to gather a few things I needed," Darius said, ignoring the jab. "Your threatening energy is seeping all throughout the house. You need to fight, and I have blood enough to let you."

Erik revealed his fangs, elongated as they were. He had held them back while he had been with Christine, but now they were engorged, longing to take the blood his new bride. Denied as they were, they thrummed with deadly want.

"I will rip you apart."

"You won't," Darius said, folding his arms casually.

Erik balled his hands into loose fists, his fingers angling into claws. He wanted to hurt with his hands as much as his fangs. Darius was right – his aura leaked out of him in waves of murderous intent. Any of their kind nearby would have sensed the need for a fight. Darius had known exactly what might happen when he stepped down here.

"I am not to be tested, fledgling. Not this night."

Darius's dark eyes softened. "I know what it is like, maestro, to have someone and want them desperately in a way you cannot have them. You cannot make her yours as a human. You cannot make her yours as a vampyre. You will tear yourself apart if you do not seek relief in some other way. Let me do this for you. Let me do this for Christine."

Erik snarled again, fangs lengthening to either side of his thin lips. "I would never hurt her."

"I know, maestro," Darius said. He removed his coat and draped it over the bench of the grand piano. Then he loosened the cravat at his neck and turned back, rolling up his shirtsleeves upon toned light brown arms. "Maybe you will find me more of a match than you think?"

Erik could feel his control loosening. He hated this part of himself most of all, the instincts to hunt, to kill, that rose unbidden within him. Darius was right, and perhaps that most of all enraged him tonight – he needed to release this energy one way or another.

"Unless you have been secretly training these past twenty years," Erik said, "I will be returning you to Lucas in need of a long draught. I hope he has blood enough left for you to heal."

Erik unfastened his cloak and let it fall to the floor. Then he removed his other glove and also let it fall. He did not bother with any other clothing. Despite Darius's bold words, there would be only one vampyre winning this fight tonight. Erik had already been a seasoned fighter before he had arrived in Mazandaran, and his years in the East had only taught him more ways to survive.

Darius widened his stance. "Don't go easy on me."

Erik replied by easing his tall body into his own fighter posture. Darius's lofty words were only for show. Of course, Erik would go easy on him, as he always did. Darius would still be alive come sunrise, after all… or at least as alive as a vampyre could be.

Christine awoke to a sudden burst of sunlight, which caused her to squint in pain. It was accompanied by the sound of curtains being flung open along their rods. She pulled an arm over her face with a groan and tried to bury herself back into the covers.

She heard a little gasp. "My apologies, madame!" said a young voice, more a bird-like squeak. The curtains flapped again, and the stream of light falling across her bed dimmed.

Christine blinked open her eyes and peeked above the blanket. A young woman stood across the room near the windows. She wore a simple working gown with an apron covering the front. Her blonde hair, far lighter than Christine's, was tied back in a messy bun of ringlet curls. Christine watched as the woman went back to tending the fire, which she soon coaxed into a roaring flame.

The young woman wiped her hands on her apron, then took a large jar and poured fresh water into the basin near the vanity. Then she came to stand near Christine's bed. Two spots of red appeared upon her pale cheeks.

"I am so sorry again, madame," she said, giving a graceful curtsy. "I should have thought better of the curtains."

Christine swallowed, mouth dry from sleep. "Who… who are you?"

"Meg Giry, at your service."

"Giry?" Christine relaxed a bit at the familiar name and rose upon an elbow. "Are you related to Madame Giry?"

The young gave an easy, friendly smile. "She's my mother."

"Oh!"

"How about I go fetch your tea tray, and we can chat more then."

"Tea sounds perfect."

It did. Christine's throat felt rough, as though she had been screaming in her sleep. She waited until Meg Giry had left the room before trying to sit up fully. Her body was sore, likely a result from her restless night of sleep, but she ached in new places too. She felt twinges of pain in the bones of her wrists, but she saw no marks upon them. During what had happened last night, he had been vigilant enough not to leave lasting damage.

Last night.

Christine was a bride no longer – she was a married woman, a madame with a husband, an estate, and a new life. Her father had gone to live at a home for the medical infirm, and she now lived here, in Erik's home, in her new home.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Slippers awaited her there, although she did not remember setting them out herself. She still wore her wrapper, but her stockings were loosened and hanging around her calves, so she straightened them before pulling on her slippers and standing. Walking over to the washbasin, she cupped the cool water and splashed her face.

A married woman looked back at her from the mirror. She examined her reflection more closely and saw a few red marks upon her neck – imprints of teeth. Her face flashed hot. Erik had not broken the skin, and doubtless the marks would fade by the end of the day, but the visible reminder of last night made her grab a knit blanket to wrap around her shoulders, hiding the spots.

A knock sounded upon the door. "It is me, madame," Meg Giry said.

"Come in," Christine replied.

Meg swung open the door with her foot and nudged it closed behind her. She carried a large tray laden with tea, fruit, and little pastries, which she set on a low table near the fireplace. Christine followed upon shaky legs and sat in one of the armchairs, thankful for the warmth on her face. Her hands shook as she tried to grasp the teapot.

"Oh, here, let me," Meg Giry said, gently taking the pot from her. "My mother and Monsieur Voclain worked out an agreement for me to come here each day and be your maidservant."

"I didn't know," Christine said.

"Maman isn't exactly known for her forthright communication," Meg said, tossing a wink. "It was my idea, actually. I could use a little extra coin before we move at the end of the year."

"Madame Giry said you are getting married."

"I am! Milk or sugar, madame?"

"Both, please. And call me Christine. I have never had a maid before, and we seem about the same age, after all."

"If you want when it is just us."

"I do." When Meg just stood there after making her a cup of tea, Christine gestured at the full tray. "Please sit and eat with me. I won't tell if you won't."

Meg flashed another wide smile and obliged, sitting in the other armchair. She piled three sugar cubes in her cup and poured far too much cream. "I am here from nine until two, and my main purpose is to see to any comforts you need. As I understand it, Monsieur Voclain has someone else clean the manor twice a month. He has also hired someone to send over your meals for lunch and dinner. But I can tidy your room for you, take your clothes to a cleaner, and run any errands you might need."

Christine took a sip of her tea and then frowned. "Someone will deliver my dinner? Am I not to eat with my husband then?"

"I'm afraid I am simply the messenger," Meg said, shrugging. "My mother said he works long hours. I did see a sealed envelope on your nightstand, but I didn't touch it."

Christine glanced over at the bed. Yes, there was the note as Meg had said. She turned back around and cupped her tea to warm her fingers. The fire crackled before them. She appreciated that she had someone sociable and her own age to talk to, but this was not at all how she had imagined her first day as a wife would unfold. Would she truly spend her days waking to an empty bed and sit and eat in a dining room alone?

After a while of silence, Meg set down her cup and stood. "How about I give you some time to wake?" she said, smoothing down her apron. "I will return later to collect the tray and help you dress."

"Thank you," Christine said softly.

The door opened and closed behind her, much like it had last night, leaving her alone once again. It was only after her tea had grown cold in her hands that she realized tears had coursed down her cheeks and already dried there.

I hope there are happier times for Christine ahead...