The Road Less Traveled
Getting Christine onto the train was easier than Erik expected. The midnight express was sparsely populated; there were very few who saw him carry his limp captive into the private coach he had purchased tickets for that day. If anyone thought it strange that a cloaked man, a black fedora obscuring his features, was toting an unconscious woman in the middle of the night, they did not show it. Perhaps they thought them wed and his bride had simply fallen asleep in the midnight hour. Oh, how sweet, they would whisper. What a gentleman.
Erik felt remorse for what he had done. But this was important; she had to see that he was sorry for what he had done to her and this was the only way. She refused to see him after their encounter at the Paris Opera. What else could he do but force her to see he was sorry, that he loved her?
I love her.
He did. Being away from her had not rid his mouth of the taste of her lips, nor his eyes from imagining she was everywhere he looked. He had thought of her, thought of her slick warmth encasing him, her hands scratching his back as he sucked the life from her lips. He dreamed of her often, dreamed that she was in his bed for a while. Then she would run off to her husband and he would wake. She was still there, everyday, haunting his every waking moment. Like a phantom, he thought wryly.
It was only fair that the gods had punished him by dealing him the same card he had given to Christine. He had enforced Christine's idolization of him, and the cost of that adulation had stripped him of his independence. There she was, singing, talking, crying, moaning his name and he could not rid her from his thoughts. To play God was to endure the penance once he was found out. He had paid dearly.
As the train began its slow chug toward Spain, he rubbed his temple, fatigue settling upon him like a damp blanket. He stripped himself of his cloak and fedora and checked that his wig was still in place. He was dressed as immaculately as ever and knew that he cut an imposing figure, mask or no. Under the cover of his dark veneer, he had anonymity as well as the respect of those few who saw him.
Three hours had passed and they were just east of Bordeaux. The train ride to Madrid was approximately ten hours long. He could only pray Christine would stay under until then.
He was drawn from his thoughts by a small groan. Erik cursed under his breath. When had prayer done any good for him anyway?
Christine was waking and he turned to see her press a hand to her head and gently flutter her eyelashes as consciousness claimed her. Realization dawned on her face as she tried to sit up. Erik was upon her instantly, closing a gloved hand around her mouth. His other hand wrested her left arm behind her back and he leaned in on her right arm so that she was unable to move it. She made a muffled sound of indignant resentment; Erik applied the smallest bit of pressure but it was enough to silence her.
Her eyes positively glowed with anger. She was furious, and her rage blazed out of her brown orbs with an intensity that surprised Erik. Wet and blinking, she stared at him, unrelenting in her absolute hatred for what he had done. Had Erik not placed a hand over her mouth, it was clear that she would not be cooing endearments in his ear. He thought she had never looked so beautiful.
He edged closer to her so that they were both reclined in close proximity on the seat. Erik face was inches from hers now. Christine's eyes flashed in annoyance at his closeness and Erik smiled the smile that infuriated Christine as well as endear her. That impish, arrogant grin Erik employed whenever he knew he had quarried his prey. A mouse in the grip of a lovesick cat. He was toying with her and it prickled Christine's skin with lusty anger that only he was able to elicit from her.
"Christine," he began slowly, "I will remove my hand if you promise not to scream."
Christine nodded vehemently, yearning for the chance to scream out for help.
"Do you promise, my love?" Erik asked, loosening his grip on her arm to grasp her hand lovingly, gently massaging her palm and thumbing her wrist. Christine twitched beneath his touch. Her furor was palpable; Erik felt it was as erotic as if she were lying nude under him, accepting his thrusts with glazed eyes and incoherent moans. He felt electric and knew what he had been missing all these months.
Christine practically reverberated under his touch but it was not from want of him, something she hoped Erik would misinterpret. She made her gaze soft and slackened her tight lips, subtly brushing them against his palm. She slid her tongue out and touched him almost imperceptibly. Erik's gaze widened and she knew he had felt it. Her hand bound around his and she leaned into him.
His hand left hers and traveled slowly up her arm with a light kiss of touch. He stared down at her neck, watching the pulse drum under her skin, looked down to her breasts, cupped aptly in her emerald velvet gown. It suited her hair and eyes. He put his hand in place of his eyes and he felt Christine's intake of breath through his gloved hand. He gently grasped the fullness of her breast. He was in control once more.
"Christine," his voice was husky, low. "I know you better than that."
He dropped his hand from her chest and groped behind him for something Christine could not see. Quickly, he retrieved a silk scarf and tied it around Christine's mouth, pressing his body against hers so she could not escape. Curses flew from her gagged lips and she flailed against him futilely. He pried her legs apart with his knees and sank down to his knees before her, making sure to keep a tight grip on her hands, which he clasped together at her lap. Her hair was mussed from the struggle and her eyes even more wild and furious than before. They glistened with tears – tears of hate, he recalled bitterly.
"I do not want to do this to you, but you give me no choice. Let me speak and then I will release you. You can do what you want afterward." She trembled slightly, but gave a curt nod despite her anger for him. He bore his eyes into hers and she stared back defiantly.
"I love you," he said simply. Disgusted, Christine turned her head from him, unable to look at him while he lied.
"Christine. Christine, look at me."
She looked back at him, hot tears threatening to spill from her eyes.
"You would not listen. You would not – you were always so stubborn, so foolish. I only wanted – " he stopped, surprised at his lack of eloquence. Her silent resentment unsteadied him, but he pressed on, determined to say what he needed.
"That night at the opera house," he tried again. She looked away briefly, shame coloring her features. "I kissed you and you were not unwilling. I kissed you while your husband was sitting in the audience below us, listening to my music."
So this was it, Christine thought. He wanted to gloat, the arrogant bastard.
"I do not say this out of ego, Christine." She was shocked. Did he know her thoughts now too? "I want to prove to you that you cannot deny me. You cannot deny what you feel for me and, no, it is not merely lust. You know that in your heart."
He shifted a little, noting that she had become more at ease, despite the look of wariness in her eyes.
"I do not expect you to love me. Not yet. I have done many terrible things to you that atonement alone is not enough. I can only beg your forgiveness each and every day of my life and even then it will not be enough." Christine snorted delicately.
"Yes, I know how I must sound," he smiled that smile and Christine relaxed a little more. "But you remain unconvinced." He got up then and sat beside her, his hands never leaving her wrists. He leaned closer, unsettling Christine. Her discomfort at his nearness was flagrant but Erik paid no heed. He fed off of everything she gave him.
"Do you want me?" His question, spoken in that low, lilting quality Christine had fallen in love with, made her stiffen. She simply stared.
"Nod yes or no. Do you want me … physically, sexually. DO you feel lust?"
Embarrassed, she flushed and gave him a look of disgust. How could he speak to her so inappropriately? It was lascivious, revolting … and a little exciting.
Inside, Christine was in turmoil. She had to answer him and to appease him would lead to her safety, yet she knew he could read a lie in her eyes should she deny him. There was no use in denying or lying; they were the same omission anyway. She nodded.
Erik received her answer without a flicker of acknowledgment in his brow.
"Do you think about me?"
Her answer came faster this time.
"When you think of me, are you guilty?"
Tears filled her eyes. She nodded.
"Does Raoul know the root of your guilt?"
She shook her head.
"Do you think of me when you make love to him?"
A tear, another yes.
"Does he touch you the way I do?"
No.
"Do you hate yourself because of what you feel for me?"
She could not look at him any longer. Fixing her gaze on the door, she nodded once more.
"Are you happy?"
She was not.
"Do you love me?"
She turned her head and met his eyes. They were hopeful but there was a steeliness there that had not been present the night she had run away from him with Raoul. Erik let go of her hands and untied her gag. He did not touch her, but waited patiently for her answer. Christine rubbed her lips absently and then folded her hands in her lap. She studied them as if they were the pyramids of Egypt. She glanced up at him and spoke honestly.
"I do not know."
He regarded her in thoughtful repose, his masked face betraying none of his emotions.
"Where are we going, Erik?" she asked softly.
We, he thought. "We are going to my home in Spain."
She was startled by his answer, but this was Erik. He was never static. "Why are you taking me there?"
"Because," he began smoothly, "I want your happiness."
"You cannot hold my salvation over my head to earn my love, Erik. When will you learn that?"
Her words baffled him and he was speechless for a moment. Finally he replied, "I know no other way." He took her hand and a deep breath. "You have no reason to trust me and I understand I've earned your anger. But I love you. I think of you and nothing absolves me of that. When we get to Spain, you are free to do as you like."
"Do you promise?" Christine asked, still unsure of his intentions.
He grinned and Christine relented. "You have my word," he replied, bringing her hand to his lips. Christine watched him rapturously, wonderingly.
He got to his feet and went to the door. Bewildered, Christine asked where he was going.
"To get us a meal of some kind. I wager you are quite hungry after your – sleep."
She looked at him knowingly and crossed her arms. Slightly embarrassed, Erik ran a hand through his hair. "Right. I will return."
Alone, Christine surveyed her surroundings. She was not surprised at its opulence; after all, Erik did enjoy the finer things in life. The coach was rather spacious and peppered with luxurious wood, fabric and décor. Christine frowned. She liked it. It was rather – well, it was rather beautiful.
She eyed the door suspiciously. She knew escape would be fruitless at this point; after all, where could she go on a moving train? What she did know was that she had to escape from him. His words had undone her and she had admitted that she was unsure if she loved him. Her heart was strong in the wake of his admission and she wanted desperately to obey it. But they were just words. She did not believe that he would let her leave once they had arrived.
But if he did?
She sighed. Why was everything with Erik so complex? He was unpredictable, wildly emotional, hard-headed and had an absolutely monstrous humor. He was stubborn and sarcastic and reclusive. He was warm one moment, with a delicate tenderness that could break her heart and enliven her soul; in the next moment, he was harsh and brutal, completely animalistic and ridiculously unreasonable. He was melodramatic, terribly hateful of others and very rarely laughed. She had all these reasons to dislike him, to simply bar him from her life forever. But he stayed in her thoughts, quietly eating away at her until she could be near him. No matter what she felt for him at that moment, having him near eased the troubled voice in her head. This unsettled her.
Was it possible they were soul mates? Christine had believed that Raoul was her soul mate, a silly girl's dream of a fanciful romantic iconicity. A little wiser, she believed her and Raoul were lovers, husband and wife, bound to each other for life. She belonged to him. So was it possible that her soul could belong to another?
The question of who she was aligned to plagued her to the point of madness. There was nothing worse than the unknown, this was true. She could not deny Erik held a part of her, more than just her body, which she had convinced herself of before. This was not five years ago, he was not her teacher. This was not even one year ago. Time went on and still the answer became more muddled.
But where did her happiness belong to? All her life, her happiness had been tied up with one man or another. She had also had the opera and her singing to bring her personal joy. Months away from Raoul had allowed her to discover more about herself and she had found many things she had not been able to express as a child. Her nightly introspective had not been all about Erik. It had also given her time to be alone to think about who she was, who she wanted to be. She wanted to be a whole woman, and the role of Vicomtess had stifled her as Erik's reign over her had controlled her. Being so wrapped up in idyllic love had not prepared her for reality. Erik re-entering her life had shaken her. Now that he loved her, would she change? Should she even give him the chance?
Erik returned with a tray that gave off the most intoxicating aroma: chicken, potatoes and carrots with a bottle of champagne. Immediately, Christine's mouth watered and she hesitantly abandoned her thoughts. No more could be done for now.
They ate in relative silence. Erik watched her eat, fascinated by the simple act. She was voracious, but was trying to act ladylike in his presence, which made him smile. She noticed him staring and asked "What?" between a mouthful of roast chicken.
"Nothing, you just – if you are hungry, eat. Do not put on airs for me, Vicomtess." He smirked and Christine rolled her eyes, taking a large bite out of the leg in response. He chuckled quietly, and resumed eating. Christine tried to hide her smile.
When they were finished, Christine could feel sleep creeping up upon her again. She had noticed Erik's own fatigue through stolen glances during dinner. He tried to stifle a yawn, but was unsuccessful. He loosened his collar and undid his cuff buttons. He removed his waistcoat and shoes.
"The sleeping area is in the adjoining room," he said, all of a sudden businesslike. "You can get undressed there if you like." Christine noticed that stubble had begun to accumulate on his face. The slight muss of his hair and lackadaisical undress was quite becoming, if unusual, on him. She did not notice the mask, only his eyes which always managed to entrance her. He looked good.
Christine nodded and exited quickly without saying goodnight. The room was not a room at all. It was simply a small space with a small closet and a twin size bed. It was quaint, regardless of its size. She undressed without her usual idleness and slipped under the covers. She turned down the candelabra on the nightstand beside her bed and sighed.
Despite her tiredness, she could not find sleep and tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Frustrated, she arose and tentatively opened the adjoining door to Erik's compartment. Peeking inside, she saw that he was not asleep but was staring out the window, his head resting in one hand. He was wearing a dressing gown. It was the same one she had bought him only a year ago. She coughed lightly and he turned around.
"I – I can't sleep," she said dumbly.
"Alright," Erik said, unsure of how to respond.
Shifting from foot to foot, she said in one breath, "Would you mind sleeping beside me? I find it hard to sleep by myself since …" she trailed off, unwilling to finish. She took a deep breath and blurted, "The baby." She did not add the other cause of her insomnia, which was the man before her.
Erik stood slowly and walked to the room without a word. He waited for Christine to climb in before approaching the bed. She was huddled underneath the covers, her eyes searching his. He stepped into the bed tentatively, shedding his robe as he went. Christine blushed at his nearly naked form, but said nothing. He turned and rummaged in the armoire for something Christine could not see. When he turned back, he relinquished a violet velvet scarf. Christine was about to ask him what he intended for the scarf, when he was upon her, gripping her wrists and thrusting them above her head.
"What are you –?"
"Trust is a tree, Christine. It takes time to grow."
His simply profundity sounded ridiculous to her ears and she gave him a scowl in return.
"A tree, Erik? Could you not come up with a better metaphor than that?"
He chuckled at her derisive tone and placed a hand on her abdomen. "I never claimed to be Confucius."
She smiled despite herself. Biting her lip, she became suddenly aware of his hand on her body. Coughing slightly, she turned away, sure that her cheeks were a maddening shade of pink.
"Please do not touch me, Erik," she said coldly.
Furor gripped Erik. Before he could stop himself, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. With his other hand, he trailed a pattern up her belly to her breast in a sickeningly slow ascent. Looking into her eyes, he watched them grow wide and glassy in pleasure and listened as her breath caught. He moved closer to her lips, which were now parted invitingly, all the while glaring hotly into her wet eyes.
"Please, don't," she quavered. She was lying and Erik laughed under his breath.
"Say it again," he said huskily, caressing her nipple through the thin fabric of her silk sheath. She arched upwards, a slight moan escaping her lips.
"Please," she finished, her eyes rolling upward.
"Yes?" he asked, kissing the corner of her mouth softly, making her skin tingle.
Meeting his gaze, she replied flatly and not without a shudder, "Please stop."
Kissing her neck and feeling her body jerk beneath his, he chuckled into her soft flesh.
"As you wish, Vicomtess." Turning away from her abruptly, he faced the other wall, praying for his erection to fade away.
Suddenly lost without his contact, Christine felt empty. She curled her legs closer to her body, hoping to fill the void. Suddenly, she felt foolish for quelling his advances.
You are married, she reminded herself. Forcing her eyes shut, she made herself picture his handsome figure in her mind, his smile lighting up her memory. Still, the memory of Raoul was not enough to cure her of the reality of the man in her present.
Christine drifted off shortly thereafter, but sometime in the night she had wedged herself into Erik's arms. Erik did not mind.