I hope you enjoy the longer chapter! This is a bit of a turning point for our couple. The plot will be picking up quickly from here. :) Thank you so much to everyone who reviews. You keep me going!

Chapter 9: let

Christine was not used to being alone, nor was she used to idleness. These two things combined were enough to stir up restlessness within her.

Once she had calmed, Meg had helped her dress in a light blue frock with black stripes upon the sleeves and down the front of the skirt's pleats. It was a lovely day gown, and one she had not chosen herself with Madame Giry – she had found a wardrobe full of gowns in her size.

Meg Giry was pleasant enough company. Christine followed her around in the morning hours, learning much about how the Girys had first became involved in the Palais Garnier. Meg gladly fed Christine's fascination with the opera house, spinning tale after tale of gossip that happened behind the curtain.

However, Meg had eventually left to run errands. When Christine had asked to join, Meg had let her down gently. "Monsieur Voclain is paying me handsomely to see to your every need," Meg said with a wink.

Christine wished she felt as light-hearted about her situation as Meg seemed. It was her first day as a pampered wife, and when Meg left, the empty estate seemed a daunting venture. She had hoped Erik's letter left at her bedside would reveal more of how she could entertain herself, but instead his words could have been written to anyone for all the emotion they carried.

Good morning, my dear Christine,

I hope you will find Mademoiselle Giry's employment agreeable. Allow her to complete any task for you as you wish. She will prepare your morning and midday meals. A chef I have hired will deliver your dinner each night. Please order whatever suits you.

You may explore any wings of the estate which are unlocked for your perusal. I beseech you to avoid attempting to open any locked doors as they belong to sections of the house that are being renovated. For your safety, stay within the boundaries. I believe you will find ample enough space to discover.

I shall return home promptly at 8:00, which is when we may then spend some time together.

Yours,

Erik

She had read the steady, sloping handwriting twice more, then tucked the letter into the nightstand beside her bed. Explore the boundaries of the estate, indeed.

When Meg left to complete her errands, Christine decided to follow the advice of Erik's letter and explore, beginning with the hallway outside her own room. Across the hall, she had found a beautifully built washroom complete with brass finishings, a luxury she had never had all to herself before.

The doors down the rest of that hallway on that side were locked, but next to her bedroom, she found a sitting room arranged with several comfortable chairs in a pale pink rose pattern. Supplies for knitting or croqueting were piled neatly atop table in one corner, and stationary donned a desk in the other. Shelves to either side of the small fireplace were stocked with French classics. She had been allowed little time in life for reading, and so she selected one promising novel and laid it upon the nightstand for later. Then, she returned and wrote her father a letter, keeping her tone light and assuring him that she was safe and happy. She hoped Meg would send it off for her.

The rest of the hallway on the same side of her bedroom was unlocked, but the rooms were empty save thick curtains and an errant piece of furniture here and there. From here, she had to cross into another part of the estate. This place seemed filled with a variety of spaces: winding staircases, long halls of mostly empty or locked rooms, or enormous white-stoned areas that echoed with her footfalls. She found the sitting room where Erik had played piano for her, and she lingered here fondly for a while.

In one section of the manor, Christine explored an area that seemed completely unfinished. The windows lining the staircase were blacked out with paint, something she only discovered when she tried to open the curtains to let in a little light. She traveled up two flights of stairs only to discover that the door at the top was firmly locked with multiple bolts.

"Locked more securely than the other rooms," she said aloud to herself.

She backtracked to the hallway door but paused there. Unlike the other tower staircases, this one also led downward.

A basement?

Christine laid a hand on the cool white stone of the tower. The stairs descended into darkness, but her curiosity won her over; it was the one place she had not yet explored. However, she was soon disappointed. Once she made her way down the stairs, keeping a careful hand on the wall, she met another door securely locked much like the one at the top of the spire.

Was this area also being renovated? Erik had said so of any locked doors in his letter. With a sigh, Christine returned to her wing of the estate and settled in to read the novel she had found.

Meg returned, but she merely stayed long enough to clean up after Christine's lunch, unpack the personal items she had purchased for Christine, and promise to mail the letter to Papa. Christine returned to her novel in front of the fire, pausing once again when the bell rang. It was a man in a stiff-looking suit who carried an enormous tray laden with covered dishes.

"Pardon me, Madame Voclain," he said, his voice deep. "Your dinner is served."

Eyes wide, Christine stepped aside and showed him to the nearby dining room. The man distributed the dishes, arranging them in some premade fashion with doilies, silverware, and even a tiny vase with two red roses.

He bowed low. "I am at your service, madame." He pulled out one of the chairs and waited for her to sit. She did so. "White or red?" he asked, seeking out two bottles of wine and showing them to her.

"Red," she said, not having a clue. She had drunk so little of the stuff that she did not know what was appropriate. The man nodded and poured her a glass. Then he proceeded to pull the cloches off each plate, revealing various rich dishes of meats, vegetables, and soups. There were at least two choices of each, arranged in a single portion for her. Then he straightened and stood off the side as though waiting should she need anything.

How awkward.

Christine supposed she should be grateful for the opportunity to dine on what looked like an expensive meal. However, she only felt immensely lonely. She would much preferred to have shared with meal with someone… especially her new husband.

She ate in silence, guessing wisely that her butler would not be up for conversation. When she was done, he covered the dirty dishes, cleaned up the table, and asked if she would like to keep the flowers. She did. She offered to tip him, which he refused, and soon she was alone again with little sign that he had ever been there.

The sun was beginning to set. Christine went back up to her room, belly full, drowsy from the two glasses of wine. She tried to read some more of her novel, but the warmth of the fire soon lured her to sleep.

Erik woke in the depths of his home, his senses probing him with the knowledge that he could safely go above. He lay still for a moment, listening to the stillness of the house above him. He could not hear Christine's presence, but her heart pumped with a persistent quietness that told him she was safe. Likewise, he sensed two other heartbeats: the slow thump of Darius's nearly-stirred heart and the quicker, livelier beat of his bonded human Lucas.

Joints popping as he stirred, Erik sat up and assessed the state of his body. Darius had learned much in the years they had sparred, but he still was little match to Erik's decades of fighting. Any injuries had already healed, no doubt aided by the draw upon Lucas's vein he had taken prior to marrying Christine. Darius would take another night to fully return to his strength, even with Lucas's blood.

As usual, he had rested fully clothed, but now he changed out of his rumpled suit into another of similar black color, this time opting for a waistcoat in dark gray with detailing in silver thread. He washed the horror that was his face, and freshened up his wasted, terrible body. And then he went in search of his new wife.

He found her in her bedroom, asleep, curled in a chair by a dying fire. A book lay askew at her feet, and he picked it up and set it soundlessly on the table beside her. Then he fetched a blanket and laid it across her as gently as he could.

Her lips parted with a gasp, and her eyes, so blue, opened wide and startled. He held up both hands, gloves a stark white in the dim light. "I woke you," he apologized.

Christine grasped the blanket in her lap, then blinked up at him. "Hello, Erik," she said, her little voice so soft, still half-asleep. "What time is it?"

"Just past eight."

At that, she sat up straighter. "I am so sorry! Have you been waiting for me?"

He could not admit to her that he had only just arose himself; healing his injuries had kept him unconscious longer than usual. "It is no matter. How was your first day?"

She hesitated a bit at this. Her eyes seemed to dim, but her tone was cheerful. "It was all right enough. Meg Giry was quite friendly. I enjoyed her company."

"I hope she did as she was told."

"I believe she did," Christine said, lips twitching in amusement. Then she looked down, long eyelashes fluttering against her suddenly flushed cheeks. "Would you sit with me awhile? Or did you need to eat dinner?"

Oh yes, he wished he could eat, to sink to his knees and draw from the strong vein pulsing in her dainty wrist. Last night flashed through his mind, memories of her warmth and softness. He needed a distraction, so he murmured an affirmative to her question and turned to stoke the fire.

"Tell me more about your day," he said.

She did, chattering about how she had explored the grounds. He paused once when she revealed the locked doors she had encountered, but they were only a passing mention, and so he went about fixing the fire and then eased himself into the armchair beside her.

Christine finished, picking nervously at the nail on her pinky finger. "How was your day?" she asked.

"I worked. I went much of my time rewriting pieces of music or replying to notes for the latest production on which I have been asked to give my artistic impression."

She perked up at that. "Over at the Palais Garnier?"

"Yes."

"That sounds fascinating."

"I suppose." He could spin enough of a story for her, thread details from the past with explanations of the present. He could half-lie to her, weave truth with fiction, create a persona of her husband that she might believe.

His throat closed. She looked at him with such innocence, even after the way he had treated her last night. Would she come to expect the same tonight? How long could he sit here night after night and lie to her?

He rose. "Forgive me, Christine. I feel ill."

"What is wrong?" she said, rising too. Her fine eyebrows were drawn together, genuine worry dotting her features. She was beautiful, and he needed to escape before he ruined everything.

"Perhaps something I ate," he said, moving to the door.

Gods help him, she grasped onto his sleeve. "What was it that you ate for dinner? I could fetch a doctor. Where is Darius? Maybe he could help too."

Too many questions. Would that he could answer them! No, my bride, it is the fact that I have not eaten today, and you seem far too delicious. A doctor cannot help me because I am quite dead already. Darius will be indisposed for at least another day because he let me rip him apart so that I did not rip you apart.

He had to get out.

Erik swung his arm, wrenching his sleeve from her fingers. "Good night, my dear," he said. "Perhaps tomorrow."

Yet another lie.

Christine woke again to Meg Giry pulling open the curtains, more gently this time and with kinder regard to her eyes and the sunlight. It had not taken long for them to fall into routine together, and now, on the fourth morning, Christine did not feel so guilty taking her time to rise while Meg saw to the fireplace and then to breakfast. The two of them ate together now, perhaps faux pas, but no one had to know except them.

She had not seen her husband since that evening he had taken ill.

If not for his daily letters, she might have contacted Dr. Martin to look in on him. However, Erik insisted he was merely recovering from some type of stomach sickness that he did not wish her to catch. This combined with an overabundant workload kept him away from her both day and night.

Darius had at least reappeared after that first day, but even he seemed to be avoiding her. He had always been so cheerful and willing to chat, and so his absence added to her increasing despair. Her new life was not at all what she had imagined it would be. She was a wife without a husband, a madame with nothing to do but wander her empty, expansive mansion.

At least Papa wrote to her daily. He had settled nicely into his new room, and the watchful eye of nurses meant he felt more comfortable than he had in months.

By the afternoon, Meg found her plucking at the piano on the second floor. "My chores are done. Is there anything else you need before I leave?"

"A way out of here." The words left Christine's mouth before she realized what she was saying. Once they were floating out there, she found she did not want to take them back.

Meg looked at her evenly. "Monsieur Voclain expressly told me that you must remain indoors."

"I believe the weather is not permitting an outdoor adventure anyway." Christine waited, held her breath, hoped the other woman was as daring as she thought.

Meg's pixie face broke out into a grin. "I have just the place."

Sometimes Darius drove Meg in the afternoons, but oftentimes, it was a rented stagecoach that would take her where she needed to go after work. Meg helped Christine dress in something more suitable to be seen in public: a crisp burgundy gown with long sleeves and a high neck. A cape with fur trim would keep her warm in the chilly autumn air, as would the muff for her hands. As quickly as possible, they were off, leaving via a side door that opened directly onto the street where the cab waited.

"Ready?" Meg said, tucking Christine's skirts into the cabin.

Christine gave an eager nod, stomach fluttering. She felt like she was doing something forbidden, even though she was simply a madame going on a stroll with her handmaiden. So why did it feel like she was breaking the rules? When she asked Meg where they were going, the other woman held a finger to her lips, her eyes alight with mischief.

They drove to a busier part of the city, Parisians heading to afternoon errands or teas. Christine tried to peer out the window to see their destination, but it was only after they emerged into a large courtyard that she saw the giant building decorated in glistening gold accents.

"The Palais Garnier!" Christine gasped. She latched onto Meg's hand, giving her a thankful squeeze. "It is marvelous in person!"

"Have you ever been?"

"No, never. Papa was never allowed to play near here, and of course we were never able to afford tickets." She was pricked with sudden worry. "What if my husband is working here today?"

"Then we shall keep from being seen," Meg said, grinning. "I grew up here, remember? There are plenty of places to watch from backstage."

The two women stepped from the carriage and made their way quickly up the expansive staircase of the opera house. Once inside, Meg took Christine's hand and tugged her through several sets of doors, not leaving her much time to gawk at the intricate décor or polished fancy walkways.

"This way," Meg said, breathing a quiet laugh.

Under different circumstances, Christine would have liked to become friends with the former ballerina. Meg had the kind of energy that Christine needed in her life. Her eyes twinkled with so much mirth, and she laughed easily at anything that suited her open humor. Christine had spent so much of her childhood on the road that she had never been given the opportunity to meet other girls near her own age.

Meg opened a side door, then wove a path through curtains and backstage props before gently pushing Christine forward. "Careful not to let maman see you," she whispered. "She would be so cross with me!"

Christine peered around the edge of the red curtain, letting her fingertips brush the soft velvet. A dozen ballerinas were arranged on stage in two straight rows. Madame Giry stood before them, counting out steps or correcting their figures. Christine could have watched them forever, simply enjoying the easy way they bent their lithe bodies or the music that wafted from the piano onstage. Meg found a costume and brought it so Christine could feel the beading, lace, and tulle.

This place had a spirit about it, a thing alive as much as any person. Perhaps she could bring Papa here once so he could share the experience with her, this time from the seats. She shifted on her feet from standing too long, but she did not want to leave just yet. She lost track of time, so entranced was she by the ballet dancers.

The curtains stirred, catching her attention, but neither of them was touching the heavy drapery. Beside her, Meg noticeably paled, and when Christine touched her hand, the woman's skin had grown clammy.

"What is it?" Christine whispered.

A cold breeze swept through the theater wings, a chill that caused the fine hairs on Christine's neck between bodice and chignon to stand on end. On the stage, a few of the ballerinas rubbed their arms, but they continued their practice lest Madame Giry thump that cane at them.

"Do you feel that?" Meg said, her voice barely audible. "Like we were suddenly standing outside."

"Maybe someone opened a door?"

Meg shook her head. "I heard stories when I was a little girl, of someone… something haunting this place. Any weird events stopped before I began dancing here, but the rumors continued."

"Every place has its superstitions," Christine said, but Meg's fear was rubbing off on her. Her heart began to race as the curtains swayed once again, the air around them growing even colder.

On stage, two of the ballerinas faulted in their steps. Madame Giry seemed to have notice the change in mood. She sent the whack of her cane echoing throughout the empty theater, making the girls jump.

"Go get water and change into your costumes for Act Three," she told the dancers. The girls scurried off, their relief evident. Then Madame Giry looked upward, her gaze hardening. "I warned you what would happen if you came here again."

To whom was her threat directed? Madame Giry looked as though she was alone on the stage. Christine tried to look through the slit in the curtain, but she could not see where Madame Giry's attention was focused.

"You have the audacity," Madame Giry continued, "to interrupt my lessons once again, despite the help I have given you these past few weeks, despite allowing you to involve my daughter in your scheme."

Christine glanced at Meg beside her. The other woman was paler still, eyes wide in her small face.

Madame Giry swung her gaze to the shadowed recesses of the theater wing. "Not only do you dare enter this theater again, you come full of rage. If you do not get yourself under control, someone is sure to notice."

Giry's words only intensified the feeling that had swirled around him. The ballet mistress was right – it was rage that had frozen their skin. The curtain whipped around them, and Christine held out her hands to keep it steady near her face so she could see. Beside her, Meg gasped in fright. A white mist began to swirl around their ankles, nipping like teeth of ice.

Christine recognized Erik immediately as he stepped out of the darkness, but she had never seen him like this before. His cloak snapped furiously around him, a black shape that reflected the anger that rolled of his tall form. His white mask glinted under his wide-brimmed hat, and he seemed more massive than before, his gloved hands two fists, his large body quivering with fury. His golden eyes blazed with fire.

When he spoke, his baritone voice echoed around them, the wave of it rumbling through her.

"Where is my wife?"

Madame Giry looked at him coolly, although she gripped her cane white-knuckled. "Lost her already, have you?"

Erik took a step toward her, the white mist seeping around him. "Where is my wife?" he repeated.

"Oh God," Meg mouthed at Christine's side. Christine turned her attention back to Erik. He snarled at Madame Giry, white teeth flashing. He had… fangs? Two of his front teeth appeared elongated, glistening menacingly.

"I have not seen your wife," Madame Giry replied.

"I traced her here," Erik growled. "Based on her trail, there is nowhere else she could be."

"When is the last time you saw her?"

Erik paused at that, but Christine already knew the answer. Despite the chilliness in the room, her face flushed hot with her own sort of anger. All she had wanted was to enjoy herself for a little while, and here he was, threatening people with his malice, baring his teeth like an animal. She would not put up with this behavior, not from her husband.

"What are you doing?" Meg hissed at her.

Christine stepped forward, sliding between the curtains to reveal herself in the stage lights. "Stop this at once," she said, clear voice ringing out, drawing the quick attention of Erik and the mistress.

Madame Giry gave her a shrewd look. "Learning tricks from him, I see."

Christine ignored her. If the madame wanted to take up the issue, she could find her daughter herself. She walked right up to Erik, going so close that her skirts brushed against the tips of his shoes. He blinked golden eyes at her, the anger in them flashing out at once. The mist began to loosen around their ankles. He seemed… taken aback by her sudden presence.

"Stop this ridiculous behavior," she said, placing her hands on her hips. She arched her head back to be able to glare up at him. This close, the fangs in his mouth were more apparent, but even though they seemed so very sharp, she felt no fear of him.

She continued, "How dare you march in here and scare everyone? You are acting like a child who has lost his plaything, Erik, and not the man I know you to be. There is no reason for you to be so angry, and certainly no reason for you to take it out on the people here."

All he could do was stare at her. She was his entire focus, and when she saw the mixture of relief and longing in his eyes, her annoyance softened. She placed a hand upon his chest, felt him grow as still as stone.

"No," she said, letting her tone soften. "You were afraid, weren't you?"

"I could not find you," he said, voice strained.

"I just wanted to see the Palais Garnier," she said. "I thought you might be here, and I was so tired of staying in that giant house and doing nothing. Now that you have calmed down, can we go home together?"

His shoulders sagged. She took his arm and tugged him gently in the direction from which he had emerged, and he took up the suggestion, leading them both away. Before they had fully left the theatre, she saw Meg step out and approach her mother, and both women watched them leave with wide eyes.

A half-hour ago, Erik had woken up and immediately felt the hollow absence of her presence in his home. It had been easy enough to find where she had gone, the stagecoach driver offering up the information he sought, but by the time he had reached the Palais Garnier, he had been too blinded by fear and rage to notice that she lurked mere meters away.

She had not taken her hand from his arm, her little fingers curled around his bicep as he led her through hollow walls and secret passages. She said nothing about how he knew where to go, and her silence frightened him most of all. While his little wife went with him voluntarily, he had no idea how to read the expression on her face.

They reached a small door that led outside, and here he paused. "I can hail a cab," he said, turning to her with the question.

She looked up at him. "How did you get here?"

He hesitated, but he was through with lying to her, done with hiding so many small parts of himself. "I walked. I can travel quite quickly when needed."

"Show me?"

So much lay beneath her question. Her round blue eyes seemed to plead with him. Show me, she had said. He would show her.

"May I pick you up?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

He bent and scooped her in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all, and to him, she was light as air, warm as the sunlight he craved, her golden curls tickling his exposed jawline. She curled one arm around his neck, careful not to dislodge his hat. And then they were off.

He ran quickly, still far slower than he could go at full strength, careful not to startle her too much. She tightened her grip on his neck, the only sign that she was alarmed by how fast the streets of Paris fled past them. When he had found her missing, all sorts of horrible thoughts had entered his mind. With Daroga still gone, Erik did not know how in danger they might be, and he could not lose anyone else… especially her.

She was secure in his arms, her fragile human body still thrumming with life. He had grown far too attached to his bride. Even though his heart, mercifully, remained a dead thing in his chest, he would have torn apart all of Paris to find her.

They arrived back at their estate. Darius paced in the courtyard, and he drew up as Erik halted outside the main doors, brow furrowed with worry.

"Christine!" he cried. Erik set her down and Darius embraced her. He stepped back just as quickly, embarrassed by his own show of emotion. How much this single human had affected the both of them!

"She is fine," Erik said.

Christine was still quiet, her lips pressed together thinly. The need to be alone with her rose like bile within him. He stretched out a hand to her, hoping.

"Will you come with me?" he asked. What if she refused him? He was uncertain what all she had seen back at the opera house, what all she had noticed. If she rejected him now… But he had to ask her permission. He needed, more than anything, for her to come with him willingly.

Her eyes seemed to take in every detail of him, and he resisted the urge to squirm. Then she placed her hand in his, a silent acquiescence. He nodded to Darius, and then Erik guided her into the house. She seemed to notice the moment he turned away from her wing of the estate and instead entered the spiral staircase with the two bolted doors. Her lips parted, and her eyes widened ever so slightly.

He turned to head down the steep steps. Christine followed, her small feet making their way slowly. He needed no light to see, but he lit a torch at the bottom of the stairs for her benefit, highlighting the door at the end with its many locks. He turned so his bulk blocked her view as the bolts gave way on their own, recognizing their master. He took up the torch and spread a hand toward her again, beseeching wordlessly.

She hesitated only a moment before putting her hand into his once more.

They descended, the spiral staircase winding downward into darkness before opening to his chambers. He left her at the bottom of the stairs as he made his way around the cavernous room, lighting lamps and creating a rare fire in the hearth near his bed. He knew the chill was pervasive here, and he did not want his wife to grow cold.

"Is this… your room?" she asked, eyes taking it all in.

"Yes," he said. He lit one last candlestick and settled it upon the baby grand piano. He had never anticipated bringing her here, and so he distracted himself by straightening the messy piles of sheet music scattered about.

A hand upon his arm stopped him. She had crossed into the room, and her scent filled the space, entwining her presence with his. "Leave it," she said. "I don't mind." She took a breath and blew it out. "I'm sorry for the things I said to you earlier. I should not have called you a child."

He took her hand from his arm and cupped it within both of his, smoothing his gloved thumbs across her knuckles. "I am the one who should be apologizing. I reacted badly to your absence."

"I understand why you did."

"You are not my plaything, Christine. I would never think of you as such an object."

"I know… but…" She hesitated, eyes bright. "I am your wife, Erik, but I- I do not feel like your wife. These past days have been lonely, and I… I feel as though you have been avoiding me."

He had, but he could not tell her why, so instead he bent and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. She flinched, and he let go of her hand at once.

"Christine?"

She seemed embarrassed by her reaction. "I am so sorry. I shouldn't have. Earlier… I saw earlier. Your teeth."

Ah, and so she had seen after all. He did not want to lie to her anymore, but there were so many things he could not tell her. He drew back his thin lips, knowing his fangs had shortened again. "I was angry earlier," he tried to explain. "Sometimes they show when I cannot keep my emotions in check."

"You were trying to frighten Madame Giry."

"Yes." He closed his mouth, spread his hands. "I would never hurt you, Christine."

He wanted her to say I know, but instead she folded her arms over herself protectively. "You have, Erik. You have left me alone, even after our first night together. I am alone in this giant house that isn't mine… I miss my father. Nothing is the same anymore, and I need… I need you there."

She pressed the heels of her palms to her face, and gods help him, her shoulders began to shake as she began to cry.

How had he managed to ruin everything so horribly? He had been so careful in his planning, providing for her whatever she had needed. He had dressed her, fed her, provided care for her father, given her a companion, and yet she still stood before him weeping.

She had flinched from him.

"You are afraid of me," he stated, the truth causing despair to surge within him. He sank to his knees before her and continued to crumple until he was sitting upon his heels, hands limp upon his thighs. Even bent this low, his head still came to her waist. He bowed his head, blocking the view of her with the brim of his hat, unable to withstand her tears.

She cried in silence, and then he heard rustling as she dabbed her face dry. He watched as her feet stepped closer to him, pausing just between the juts of his knees.

"I am not afraid of you, Erik," she whispered, voice clotted with tears. "Not in the way that you might think. I am not afraid of those fangs in your mouth or the speed in which you can run. I am afraid of the way you avoid me so that I do not discover these truths about yourself. I am afraid that you do not trust me."

He felt her grasp his hat and gently tug it from his head, setting it on the floor beside him. Then her soft fingers tucked under the sharpness of his chin, and with gentle pressure, careful not to disturb his mask, encouraged him to raise his hidden face to meet her gaze again. Her blue eyes were still wetly shimmering, but she looked at him openly.

"But I suppose I need to earn that trust," she said, thumb brushing along his jawline.

"And I yours," he said.

He quaked under her soft touch as she ran her fingertips along his throat, knowing how cold his skin must feel. He held still as she brushed her fingers through the stiff hair of his wig, terrified she might jostle his disguise but also terrified she might stop if he pulled away.

"Christine," he pleaded.

She stepped closer still, her skirts brushing against the tops of his thighs, bent, and lightly pressed her lips to his. That small gesture set his world aflame. Before he could stop himself, he growled low in his throat, wrapped his hands around her small waist, and tugged her atop his lap. Her gown billowed around them in silky burgundy waves, her thighs settling onto his. His fear spiked that he had lost control once again, but she only chuffed lightly at him, her arms wounding around his neck.

"Kiss me?" she whispered.

He did. He tilted his head, careful to keep the cold nose of his mask from bumping her, and slid his lips across hers, her warmth seeping into him. Heated by her kisses, his lips softened and gave way, parting to slant more forcefully across her plump lips. He splayed his spidery fingers across the span of her back to keep her close, and she fed him a quiet moan of appreciation that only bolstered his confidence.

They kissed and kissed, his wife content to savor him and he starving for any taste of her. He let his fingers delve into the strands of curls at the nape of her neck above the high collar of her bodice. One of her hands cupped the cheek of his mask, and his hand chased hers, covering her tiny hand lest she try to remove it. She did not, pressing a soft sigh into his mouth instead, her fingers skirting down to grasp the lapel of his jacket.

They did nothing more than kiss and explore atop clothing, but it was the most intimate moment he had ever had with another person. At one point, her hips canted against his, a movement she seemed not to notice, and he groaned at the sensation. His little bride, his wife, his Christine. How much he adored her. The power she held over him could be his downfall, and he did not care, would do whatever she asked of him.

I will do better, he thought, head spinning with the feel of her in his arms. I must. He would do anything to become worthy of her.

Anything at all.