A/N: I changed my pen name, just to let everybody know. I am now…Bondaged Vampiresa! Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Eh-hem…200 reviews…it's a tough goal, but I think you guys can do it. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine to make it even to…I don't know, 75? That would have been lucky. Now it's one away from 150 reviews, twice what I hadn't even hoped to have. I'm in awe of your amazing reviewing skills.

P.P.S: I use French again. Sorry. Translation directly after the sentences..

P.P.S: This chapter is borderline "R." It's necessary for the plot, though. Please don't throw rotten vegetables at my head! Ducks


BRUTALITY


The chair could not be seen when one first entered the room. It would have been blocked from view by the large wooden frame of the door. Christine fell victim to this set-up. She turned around slowly, shadows falling across her face as she faced the blackness that seemed to consume the room.

"Monsieur…?"

It was not Monsieur LaFerve who sat in the throne-like armchair. The candle that sat on the table next to him cast long, sinister shadows across his face, his eyes strangely shiny, bright and intense.

"…Baron?" Her voice cracked slightly, her heart jumping to her throat. Christine knew immediately that she should not be there. The Baron stared at her, his hair hanging limply in his face, an empty bottle of whiskey lying on its side on the floor. His fingers trailed lazily over the glass, and a vague, eerie smile crossed his lips. Christine took an involuntary step back, looking into his bloodshot eyes. "Pardon me, Baron…I- I assumed Monsieur LaFerve would be in here." She put her hand on the knob. "I am sorry for intruding…"

"What was wr-wrong with using your oth'a name, Miss Daaé?" he asked, his eyes on her retreating back.

Christine turned back to him slowly, eyes forming two perfect O's in the darkness. "What did you say?" she murmured.

A grin sneaked its way onto his mouth. "Christine Daaé. Th-the Paris singer. The one who fell in love wit tha Opera Ghost."

Opening the door a crack, her eyes locked on the Baron, Christine felt her heart stop. "I…I don't have any idea as to what you're talking about, sir…" she whispered, the blood to her cheeks. She pressed her hands to her face, her knuckles turning an ashen white.

He lurched forward suddenly, up off the chair, and leaned heavily against the door. It slammed shut with a loud thud. "Don't play games with me, you whore!" he hissed, his skin darkening to a reddish-purple, his mannerisms heightening from drunken stupor to blind rage. "I have seen every theater troupe fr'm 'ere ta London! And I would stake ma life on tha fact that you're her!" He slapped a wide, callused hand across her face.

Christine, caught off guard, stumbled back a few feet, falling to the floor violently. Then he was on top of her. Before she had time to react, he took a handful of her hair, bringing her mass of brunette curls up to his face and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply. She raised her fist to him, bringing it down with everything she possessed. He grabbed her wrist just a few inches from his face and twisted it back, his hand at her throat. Christine flailed against his weight he pressed himself to her stomach, pushing her legs against him as a groan of effort flew from her mouth. She managed to pull herself away, and on her hands and knees, began to crawl away from the colossal man behind her. The Baron grasped her waist pulled her back to him. And that was when she felt the cold and metallic pressure of a pistol against her skin through the light silk of her blouse.

He cocked the gun, a hollow click filling the air.

Dead silence rang in the room for a moment, Christine's heavy, wavering gasps the only sound. "You make a sound…" the Baron muttered, his voice surprisingly strong in his drunkenness, "…I pull the trigger." She jerked herself away from him, and he jabbed her sharply in the back with the revolver. His piercing, forceful laughter echoed in her ears. "Don't you bah-lieve me, slut? Do you think me a coward?" Christine did not respond. "After we're through here, I'm sitting back in that chair, taking this…" He lifted the gun from the small of her back and waved it in front of her face. "…and…" The Baron brought the pistol up to his temple slowly, his bloodshot eyes wide and traveling in circles around her face. "So you see, ma dear, I got nothin' to fear."

As if to prove his point, he moved the barrel of the gun off her and pointed it at the ground no less than a few centimeters from her shoulder. There was a crack like a whip, an explosion of sound that echoed through the walls. Christine flinched, certain she had become deaf from the gunshot. The sound died away slowly, an eerie silence once again pealing through the room. She felt his hand slide up her thigh, shaking in his exhilaration, and grab her arm tightly. "I'm gonna die like the gentleman I was born to be," he murmured, his voice hushed in anticipation.

Christine could barely breathe. When the icy barrel of the revolver met soft spot beneath her jaw, she began to tremble uncontrollably, a moan escaping her lips. His scorching air tickled her ear, and she smelled whiskey and poison on his breath. She squirmed against him, trying to pull away in vain, but she received a sharp pain in the back of her neck as his knuckles dug into her. He pushed the gun harder against her neck.

'Erik…'

She would not allow herself to cry.


Madame Giry had never heard him play his violin before. She couldn't have; she could never have forgotten the chilling sound that echoed through the house. A tear slipped down her cheek as she listened to the haunting song, landing softly on her pillow. She lay in her bed, her room across the hall from the area Erik had wordlessly claimed as his music studio, and heard his deep, rich voice fill the air.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…

Lead me, save me from my solitude…"

She remembered her exact thoughts as she watched him above her, a look of horror drawn across her face. 'For God's sake, Erik, what are you doing? What could you ever hope to accomplish by doing this?' Madame Giry had wanted to go up there, to shake some sense into that man, to stop him before he lost everything. But she, like everyone else in the entire theater, had been caught beneath the Phantom of the Opera's magical trance. All eyes were locked on the two figures upon the catwalk, and they were all powerless to stop themselves.

"Say you want me with you here beside you…"

A sigh whisked past her lips, the tips of her auburn hair rustling gently against the breeze. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she let them fall… In her approaching slumber, she did not even notice the abrupt end to the music that filled the night…

"Erik."

He was only a shadow of the suave, debonair man he had been before. In the rain, sitting in the alleyway, a blanket drawn over his shoulders, he had appeared even more pathetic. But she had known it was him; she had known without any doubt in her mind…

The wind blew past him forcefully, the brown fabric covering him fluttering madly around his frame. He pulled it closer to him and turned away. She felt his shame radiating around him, like an aura. The raindrops fell into her eyes, and she blinked them away. "It's over, Erik. You can go home now." She took a few steps toward him. "They've forgotten."

"I have not." His voice was a hushed whisper, but there was still a trace of its lingering intensity. "I will never forget."

Madame Giry extended her hand out to him, hesitated, then brought it back to her side. "It's been a month, Erik. You must stop punishing your body for what happened." He did not respond. "You'll die out here."

He looked up at her, his face wet and exposed to the world. "Good," he replied hollowly.

She waited silently, not knowing what to say, then reached into her purse and brought out a small black bag. Handing the package to him, she stood next to him, watching as he opened it.

Erik pulled the mask from the shadowy depths of the sack. For a moment, he just stared at it, running his fingers over the familiar grooves and crevices of the porcelain. Slowly, he brought it to his face and placed it carefully over his cheek. He met her gaze, his mouth unwavering but his eyes shining in gratefulness. "There's more," she said simply.

His fingers passed over the small object, his eyes still locked on hers. He pulled his hand back and looked at the piece of metal that sat on his palm.

A key.

"Do you remember?"

"Yes."

"It's locked now. They will never think to look there again." She put her hand on his. "Time to go back."

When she awoke, she did not remember it as a dream; it was a distant recollection of eight years prior. Madame Giry sat up, her ears greeted with a chilling silence. No more music.


Cold.

He was cold.

But it was not like Erik's coldness. This was something within the depths…something darker… This man was cold to the core. Erik's had been a bluff to the world, feigning his aloof iciness, hiding a fiery soul. She was aware of it every time he laid his hands on her… How could his coldness be true if she felt as if she were on fire when his fingers met her skin?

This time, however…

Christine flinched at every touch, every caress, every stroke. She turned her head from him, refusing to look at the man above her. She hated him…hated him with every ounce of strength she possessed. His body assaulted hers, and a few times, she screamed out in pain and horror, sickened by the reality.

…and so she escaped.

His hand was pressing against her abdomen…no, it was Erik. In the vaults…and the warmth melted through her. She felt the heat through his gloves as his hand ran down her waist…his fingers took a hold of hers, and he brought them up to his face. Oh, Erik…

A dull ache pulsed between her legs…and each thrust amplified it by a hundred. Erik…it was their first time. In the dark, a single candle flickering across the room. She was no longer on the cold, wooden floor…she was on a bed, a magnificent bed of rose petals…

"La lutte relève seulement la sensation…" (Fighting only heightens the sensation.)

"My love is not for this…"

"Que cachez-vous, la prostituée ? Quel est votre secret?" (What are you hiding, whore? What is your secret?)

"…but for this…"

Thrust…after thrust… Christine bit her lip, watching the memories flee into the distance as she was thrown into the dim veracity. "No!" she shrieked, her eyes flying open, glassy and wide in the blackness. She watched as the corners of his lips twisted into a cruel, taunting smile, and the hatred within her ruptured. Christine pushed him away, out of her…the white knuckles of her fists collided with the hardened muscles of his broad chest, and he fell backwards, his nearly naked frame crashing solidly into the ground.

She looked into his eyes…eyes that burned with a drunken fire. Christine scrambled to her feet and made a dash for the door, only to be caught by the hair, his hands twisting around her russet locks. He spun her around, forcing her to face him as he pushed her against the wall with his body. His fingers closed around her neck, tighter and tighter… A blackness began to invade her sight, the shadows drawing circles around her eyes, her vision darkening…

His face loomed over her, his skin red, his grunts of vehemence and desire echoing in her ears. The crimson of his cheeks darkened…first to scarlet, then to a disquieting purple, deepening to an ashen blue. His eyes bulged, and she smiled at his agony.

The moon floated above her, just out of reach.


Something was wrong.

Perhaps it was an instinct. Or maybe it was a sign from God. Whatever it was, it frightened him. And Erik was not a man of fear. He had known the feeling few times in his life. His childhood had hardened him of useless emotions…he had been built upon anger and deceit. But somehow, these sensations had crept back into his heart. Jealousy…love…and fear.

The theater was nothing compared to the place of his younger years. He shook himself mentally and climbed the stairs. There was no time for reminiscence. He did not know where he was going, or what he would do when he got there…waltz into the room, take Christine by the hand, and explain calmly to the manager that it was her bedtime? He uttered a low laugh at the true idiocy of the notion, and he continued down the corridor.

A scream burst from somewhere directly above him, the voice all too familiar to Erik's ears.

Christine.

His feet carried him at a speed he did not know he could reach. The cloak around his neck flapped violently in a burst of black velvet behind him. Christine…Christine…Christine!

At the top of the next flight of stairs, he was met with a hallway of doors. Erik opened the first one violently: nothing. The second, the third, the fourth… 'Oh God, where are you?' a voice in his ear screamed distraughtly.

When he turned the knob of the next one, his desperate hope mounting, he saw nothing but darkness. Then, a rustle of fabric. And a low, rasping moan, followed by a grunt…and deep, guttural chokes. Erik took a step inside and his eyes fell upon two figures crushed against the wall in front of him…he would never forget that sight.

Christine.

Only she no longer looked anything like Christine; instead, she was a small, crumpled, utterly defeated creature, her hair limp and shimmering with sweat. Her lips were slack and blood red…and her eyes, glassy and unfocused.

Then, Erik's eyes turned to the animal on top of her, gripping her with such aggression and brutality. He was large, strong, bulking…an animal. And a hatred like nothing Erik had ever known boiled inside him…worse than the gypsy who had beat him every day of his childhood, worse than the crowd that spit on him and laughed at his face in scorn, worse than the mother who screamed at the sight of him and turned her eyes away in revulsion, worse than the Vicomte de Chagny who stole his one and only love from him.

Much worse.

In one, fluid movement, he ripped the cord from the drapes away and tied it…his Punjab lasso. How long had it been? His lips curled back into a snarl, eyes flashing, and he threw it around the man's neck, pulling viciously. Perspiration glistened on his upper lip as he yanked the man backwards, watching as his eyes protruded from his skull, his skin darkening to a deep plum color. The man's hands flew behind him, waving wildly, and his fingers connected with the side of Erik's cheek. The porcelain mask flew from his face, but in his furious rage, Erik did not notice. With a final wrench, Erik heard the sweet sound of the man's neck snapping in half, and his body collapsed to the floor in a heap.

Erik turned to Christine, his breathing heavy and labored. He saw her eyelids fall, drawn out and dramatic, before he reached down and pulled her into his arms. His fingers traced the long, darkened bruises around her neck, feeling the blood pulse beneath his skin. "Oh, Christine…" he murmured, tears streaming from his eyes. He hugged her to himself, kneeling on the ground, clutching her desperately. Erik laid his head against her breasts, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest against his temple. Wracking sobs echoed in his throat, his breath hot and heavy. He stood slowly, holding her body against himself.

He cast one final glance back at the dead man behind him, the lingering fury shining in his eyes. He felt no regret.

The tears ran silently down his cheek as he carried her home.


A/N:No! It's still not done!