Chapter Forty-two
He entered her with a single, almost brutal thrust and she cried out as her shoulders struck the wall.
It was never meant to be like this…yet, it didn't matter. He was a part of her now and she clung to him, surprised at how close she was to her own breaking point.
Was it his release or her own that seemed to shatter her entire body?
She forced herself to look at him, to see the storm of self-loathing in his dark green eyes.
"Erik," she gasped, "I'm not doing this for him…it's for you…for me."
Finally, he let her go. He did not move away from her, though, but stood with his forehead resting against the cool plaster wall.
She wanted to hold him and reassure him. But her legs weakened and, her back still pressed against the wainscoting, she slid down to the floor.
He forced himself to keep breathing, to open his eyes and see what he had done to her.
Her hair was tangled around her shoulder, her dress still pushed up to her waist. He could see the bruises already appeared on her bare thighs. He never realized how fragile she was.
He expected to see tears…that she did not cry frightened him.
The Nazis did not break me completely. They had only begun the destruction…now, I have completed it myself.
He heard her say his name, her voice so small and distant.
When she touched his hand, he let himself sink slowly to his knees beside her.
"Christine, forgive me."
He did not dare to say more, to reach out to her.
Then he felt her hands on his face, gently caressing the hideous, twisting scars from chin to temple. Her lips followed the same course as her hands and her fingers lost themselves in his hair.
Her kiss was his absolution and he could taste his own tears on her soft lips.
"Erik, Erik," she whispered against him, "there was never a day when I didn't think of you, that I didn't want you, that I didn't love you."
With a trembling hand, he reached out for his mask. It lay on the rug near them, but she caught his wrist and shook her head.
He let the mask drop and slipped his arms around her.
Carefully, he gathered her to him and carried her into his bedroom.
The torn pieces of her portrait were still scattered across the floor and he hoped she did not see them as he laid her down on his bed.
She smiled when he took her face in his hands.
And he kissed her, still needing to feel that forgiveness that she had already given him.