Authors Note: Hope you like this chapter.
Chapter 10
He let out a gruff growl.
They're still prancing about? He thought angrily as he stared down at the plaza.
A malicious annoyance rose quickly in the Phantom as he once again caught sight of the officers on the street. The phantom had been observing these policiers as they prowled around the plaza for a good part of the evening. From the cold shadows of Opera House roof he watched as they went on interrogating passers by, shoving a particular piece of paper onto their faces.
He had not seen so many Parisian Police officers right on the streets before. And the phantom did not need to ask why they were there.
He had his speculations…
Manon Moreau was guilty of something far more wicked than thievery.
The sun was setting at an unusually swift pace. It took only minutes for the shadows of night to steal into every hollow of Paris. Yet, even in the increasing cold, the officers continued to lurk about.
As The Phantom hid in the shadows his trail of thought wandered to the past days.
Moreau was beginning to improve. The wound was healing, and though she was still unusually pale, bits color had returned to her cheeks. He couldn't explain the odd satisfaction he felt when he thought of her increasing health.
Silence was still all that they held in common so far. A few words could not help but be exchanged, but Moreau was still reluctant to speak, and the Phantom was still disinclined to converse.
Nevertheless, the Phantom could tell, it was in silence that they both felt most comfortable.
He returned to Moreau's room shortly after.
To his surprise, he found her standing up, arm against the wall to support her, and slowly walking across the room. She was still in her thin undergarments, and her feet were bare on the cold wooden floor. Her hair was tousled, and her face was pale, but her eyes were bright, filled with some merry sentiment.
When she caught sight of him emerging from the shadows, the merriment fled and was filled with some hesitant expression. As he stepped closer, she backed up against the wall, using it so support her. Moreau looked away, expecting some reprimand.
"You are not fit walk mademoiselle." Said his cold tone.
"I'm walking, aren't I?"
"But soon you will find yourself in the same position as before. On the floor."
"I assure you, I will be fine. I believe that if I can just regain my attire, I will be on my way, and out of your hair." She continued.
"Once I am dressed, all I need is directions to the way out of the opera house… If we are still in the opera house."
"Yes, we are indeed still in the opera house."
"Wonderful"
"And I am sure the officers who are currently lurking outside will be very eager to see you."
Moreau looked at him sharply. His eyes were wide set in sardonic innocence, lips curved into a wily smirk.
"They have been searching all day, for something, or someone. The Parisian police have found it their right to upset all who pass their way, and inform them of what they have been searching for. Whoever that might be…"
Moreau now looked distressed. Her eyes were filled with some unbelieving significance and she looked at him, then away at the floor. She was suddenly pale, and she lid down the wall a bit. The Phantom believed she would have slid all the way to the floor if he had not caught her by the arm and gently lead her back to the bed.
As she sat down in all her anguish and avoided his eye, she did not notice her shift had slipped lightly from her shoulder. He would have looked away, but the soft curve her shoulder held him. Smooth pale skin covered her neck, shoulders, luminous by the dim candle light. His eyes traveled across her neck, then to her shoulder and then farther down to the soft curves of her breasts, still covered by her shift… the Phantom forcedly turned his head to look away, eyes settling upon anything he could find. He vehemently probed the building desire to be gone, halfheartedly not wanting it so subside.
But the ache did not last long. Moreau drew the shift back up, and over her shoulder, still in a state of uncertainty.
The phantom looked at her again,
"It is you who they are looking for, are they not, mademoiselle?" he asked grimly.
She did not answer.
"I will find out sooner or later." The phantom said, taking a seat on the chair beside the bed.
"And when you do, I will find myself cast upon on the streets again. So I might as well leave now."
The Phantom reached out, and grasped her wrist. Manon's first instinct was to draw back, but his grip was firm. She felt his fingers travel to her palm and then clasp her hand.
"As long as you wish, you may stay here. No one will find you." He said in a deep voice. His eyes were stern behind his mask. But they were also sincere.
Manon looked at him incredulously, lips parted.
"Why are you being so kind to me, monsieur?" She asked honestly.
"Perhaps because I am a fugitive myself,"
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