I have the funniest reviewers around. You guys had me cracking up!
I knew the last chapter was going to make you guys LOATHE Raoul. Good.
To those Raoul fans out there, sorry, but he's in the dog house. He's not a great person in my story, primarily because if he was we'd have little to no conflict. Ha.
So, to make up for what we will from here after refer to as the "Raoul chapter," what follows is E/C goodness.
I also ask of you, my WONDERFUL readers, to read my addendum at the end of this chapter...and please reply in the review section...
-Nico
Erik handed the elderly carriage driver a large amount of gold coins concealed within a small cloth pouch.
"For your service," Erik explained. "And your silence."
The carriage driver peered into the small purse and smiled revealing several missing teeth.
"Thank you, Monsieur," he said in a crude accent.
Erik opened the carriage door.
Christine winced as she moved to exit, dizzy from loss of blood.
"Is she going to be alright?" The carriage driver asked. "Shall I bring a doctor?"
Erik considered that option for a moment. Both himself and Christine were wounded, but not mortally. He had patched himself up enough times to know how to ward off infection and illness.
Besides, the less attention he could bring to his gloomy mansion on the outskirts of Paris, the better.
"That will not be necessary," Erik replied finally.
He pulled Christine into his arms, lifting her small frame easily.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, too weak to try and stand on her own.
"Good day," Erik dismissed the driver, who nodded, too happy over his newly acquired fortune to stay.
Christine's eyes went wide as Erik carried her into his home.
He had told her where he was taking her once they had managed to commission the vagabond carriage driver.
The remainder of the carriage ride had been spent in silence; both Erik and Christine too exhausted and overwhelmed to speak.
Christine had replayed the last hour's events over and over in her mind.
She had wounded Raoul.
He would surely make her pay.
Her stomach rolled as she relived running through the maze of the Opera Populaire, her hand held tightly within Erik's who led the way with amazing speed, maneuvering the winding passageways from the chapel to daylight with the agility he acquired during his long stay within the theater.
"This...this is your home?" Christine asked, uncomfortable with the silence as Erik ascended an elaborate stone staircase.
"Yes," he replied, his voice soothing.
He brought her to his lavishly decorated library, a room he only entered for brief periods to retrieve a book, or more paper to scribble musical notes.
Even still, Christine could see several used brandy glasses scattered about the room.
He set her down gently on a red velvet chaise lounge, a gaudy piece of furniture but perfectly fitting the man in the mask.
Erik regarded her for a moment before moving to a cabinet.
"How do you feel," he asked, his back to her as he riffled through the cabinet's contents.
Christine considered his question.
She was cold from loss of blood, the evidence soaking the top of her dress.
She had possibly killed her ex-fiancé and ran off with that same man's sworn enemy.
She was reeling from the past few days' events.
But she was here.
With him.
And he was alive.
"Given the circumstances, I'm alright," she replied.
Erik turned to her. He had half expected her to break down again.
He did not expect to see her smiling upon his chaise lounge.
How beautiful she was, even now.
It stole his breath.
He cleared his throat and moved back over to her, the contents he had removed from his cabinet in his arms.
A white cloth, possibly an old shirt or napkin...silver scissors...a needle and thread...
And a carafe of amber liquid.
"Christine," Erik said, moving in front of her. "I fear what is about to happen will not be pleasant."
Christine nodded. Her wound would require stitching.
She had never had stitches before.
Fear crept into her heart.
Erik was pouring the amber liquid into a large, clean glass. "Brandy can be your savior, or your demon," he said, handing her the full glass. "I believe you will be ready to preach once you have felt its effects, in this situation."
Christine smiled.
She sniffed the liquid, grimacing at the pungent aroma.
She raised her eyes to Erik's. He nodded slowly, urging her to drink.
She took a deep breath, pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger, and took an enormous gulp.
For a few moments, she thought she might be ill.
Erik backed up a step.
Then, something wonderful happened.
The deep throb that had been radiating down Christine's injured arm subsided slightly.
Warmth crept into her veins.
She sighed, reveling in the sensation.
"More," Erik instructed.
Christine's second gulp, which nearly finished the glass, went down much easier. The miracle liquid still burned as it passed down her throat, but she felt indescribably better.
Erik took the glass from Christine's lethargic hands.
He could tell by the haze in her eyes that the alcohol had begun to work.
Now it was just a matter of removing her clothing.
He cleared his throat again, wondering if he should take a swig of the brandy as well, just to relax his jumping nerves.
He decided against it, realizing that for this task, he would prefer to have all of his senses alert.
Christine was looking up at him.
"I suppose..." she began, her voice slightly slurred, but not too noticeably. "I suppose I need to take off this dress."
Erik nodded slowly, relieved that she had realized what was necessary before he had to inform her.
"Alright," she said, surprised by her willingness, but knowing it had something to do with the liquor she had just drank.
On uneasy feet she stood, grateful that Erik was there to grasp her elbow when she wobbled.
She shot him a smile.
Why am I smiling so much? Christine scolded herself. After all that's happened, how can I possibly be smiling?
She moved to undo the buttons at the front of her dress.
And then realized they were in the back, a line of more than a dozen tiny pearl buttons.
They had already been undone once since she had first dressed in the gown...
by him.
Erik was staring at her, realizing slowly that there was no way Christine could reach the back of her intricately designed dress with the injury to her arm.
He moved behind her, trying to ignore the scent of roses wafting from her body.
She felt his fingers begin to work, unable to suppress a shudder as she felt his fingertips move slowly down her back.
The moment stretched to infinity.
When he finally undid the last button, they both remained where they stood.
Slowly, carefully, he eased the gown from her shoulders, pushing it from her body until it landed in a pool of silk and lace at her feet.
He would have been unable to control himself in the presence of Christine in only her thin undergarments had there not been so much blood.
"God in heaven," Christine breathed, looking down at the large crimson stains covering more than half of her once white-as-snow chemise. She raised her eyes to Erik nervously.
"I'm sure it is not as bad as it appears," he said, trying to mask the concern in his voice. Indeed, there was more blood than he had expected, but he was also aware of just how much a superficial wound could bleed.
He carefully lifted the short sleeve of her chemise to better observe the wound.
It was deep, requiring stitches for certain, but it was not as bad as he feared.
Gently, he touched the torn flesh, thankful that it still bled.
This would do much to stave off infection.
Christine winced at the touch.
Erik eased her back on the chaise, not looking forward to the task before him.
He threaded the needle quickly, trying not to catch a glimpse of her frightened eyes.
"This will hurt," he said bluntly. "But I will work quickly."
Erik set to his task, keeping with his word.
Christine watched as he gingerly repaired her skin. He head was bowed, but she could still see the level of concentration on his face.
How gentle he was, how attentive to her pain.
She smiled again.
Erik was impressed by her courage. Not one sound did she make, even though he was certain she was in pain.
When he finished, she let out the breath she had been holding.
Erik smirked as he caught the heavy, familiar scent of brandy on her breath.
He looked up at her as he cut the thread from the needle. "You will live," he diagnosed.
"What of you?" Christine asked, the liquor making her bolder than usual. She stood to face him; her hands went to his black jacket, locking eyes with him as she eased it off of his body.
Her breath caught at her own actions.
Erik's wound was much less severe. A moderate amount of blood could be seen on his sleeve, yet Christine assumed the gash would not require stitches.
Of course, she wouldn't know until he removed his shirt.
Erik's eyes never left hers as she slowly raised her shaking hands and began to work the buttons running down the front of his expensive shirt.
Her small fingers moved slowly. She wasn't certain if that was because of the alcohol or her nerves.
At the moment, it didn't seem to matter.
When she had undone the last button, she raised her eyes to his once more.
He stood still, the visible side of his face filled with a strange emotion Christine could not identify.
He was daring her to continue, she realized.
Slowly, as if moving through water, she placed both of her hands on his broad, somehow tan shoulders.
And gently pulled the torn and bloodied shirt from his body, keeping it in her hands.
She was unable to stop herself from drinking in the sight of his shirtless, muscular torso.
Christine moved slowly to better inspect his wound.
She touched his shoulder softly.
The sensation was almost too much for Erik.
"How deep," he asked through clenched teeth.
"It isn't terrible," she replied, her voice not above a whisper. "It will just need to be wrapped."
She ripped a length of cloth from the clean part of his shirt and made quick work of bandaging his muscular bicep.
When she finished, she allowed her fingertips to graze his arm.
"Thank you," Erik replied, his mouth close to her ear.
Christine once more stood before him.
How scandalous, she thought. The two of them here, he without a shirt and she in her thin undergarments.
He was looking at her still.
"Do you still fear me, Christine?" He asked, his voice husky.
Christine did not reply.
"Do you wish to run from me now, to leave me once again in my solitude?"
Tears were again forming in Christine's eyes.
She shook her head.
"Why, Erik," she whispered. "Why did you pretend to be dead?"
The question caught him off guard.
But the burning in her eyes made him answer honestly, damn the consequences.
"Because I was dead, Christine," he said, reaching for her hand and placing it on his bare chest. "I was dead here, without you...without your song...without your..."
"Love?" Christine interrupted softly.
Erik let his eyes slide closed and reached for her, bringing her small body closer to his own...
Okay everyone. Whoo. Cold shower time.Even for me, and I wrote it!
I'm going to ask your opinions. From here, do we jump to an "R" rated situation? Or would you all prefer a pg-13 continuation?
You have one more chapter to decide. The next chapter will not continue with this scene, I don't think.
-Nico