A/N - Sorry about the long wait for this chapter. The work week was very busy and frustrating. But I managed to write a longer chapter for you! I hope this caters to those who desire more E/C, those who desire the angst, and those who desire. . .ahhh. . .be patient, smoochies will come in the future. I know Christine is a bit fearful these days. But she's still trying to figure out what she's feeling. She's never been in love or had someone love her, so she's a little scared about that.

Chapter 12

She felt the shadows of the house engulf her. Day turned to night and all of the windows drew back their light. Only she remained. She stood in front of the window she had been gazing out, like an ethereal being, with a delicate nightgown trailing behind her in a gentle breeze. She noticed the absence of light. Watched as it fled the long hallway she now found herself in.

The faintest of sounds drew her attention from the window. Deep in the heart of the shadows, something moved. Darkness seemed to follow it as it advanced towards her. A sting on her cheeks forced her hand to her face. She ran her knuckles across the skin, feeling the wetness of tears upon her pale features.

Why do I cry? What was I watching beyond the window?

He was closer now. She could feel it. Every muscle in her body poised. The flesh on the back of her neck rose in goose bumps as she felt the stir of air. The wind caught the train of her gown, sending it fluttering in the air, like the aura of a spirit.

She suddenly stiffened when she felt the presence so close and she dared not move, for fear of provoking it. But as she felt a hand drift up to her cheek, hovering over the skin, she drew in a ragged breath and turned to glance up at the one who stood near her. His face was masked in darkness. The hand finally brushed the remnant of her tears from her cheek with a gentle stroke. Fingers lingered on her skin, stroking the flesh which such tenderness, that she felt her eyes flutter shut. A curved finger continued to stroke her cheek, moving along her jaw and finally rising up beneath her chin. A thumb moved across her parted lips.

"Why do you cry?" a voice asked.

That voice! She felt her soul melt at the very sound. Felt all of her rational thought flee her body and leave only the basest of emotions. The fear that had once haunted her steps, haunted her dreams, and even haunted her waking thoughts was suddenly gone. Something more foreign, more dark, filled every sense.

Another hand drifted down and caught hers. She remained motionless, paralyzed, as the hand drew hers up slowly. It rose across her breast, and ended its journey at the exposed flesh of her throat. Never once did those fingers touch her, but she could have sworn that it was another's hand that drew across her skin, and not her own.

"Why do you not sing as you were meant to?" the voice was low and feral, but at the same time, so utterly captivating in its beauty.

She felt her hand guided down to the top of her nightgown where it stopped. "You do not sing from your heart. Why do you hide it from the world? From me?"

Another tear slipped from her eyes as they gazed vacantly ahead. She felt the hand at her shoulder gently turning her from the darkened window. Now, all she could see was the dark presence before her. She could smell the musk of cologne, feel the warmth emanating from the body before her, and did not resist when she was drawn towards it. First one arm, and then another circled her body and drew her closer. Her face pressed against the solid muscle of a shoulder. And as she sighed, feeling the pain leaving her mind, a hand drifted to her head and stroked her hair.

The dream was ended just as quickly as it had begun. It left the dreamer crying out into the early morning and writhing with pain as she clutched the blanket that covered her form.

"Don't go!" she cried out.

Christine opened her eyes quickly. They were clouded with tears, and she fought desperately to blink them back. The room was still dark and she could not see anything, save the dying fire.

"No," she choked back bitterly, as she realized it had been a dream.

She felt a weight on the couch suddenly, sinking down the plush cushions beside her body. A hand touched her forehead.

"Christine," she heard a gentle voice. That voice! A sob wracked her body as she realized. Oh how she longed to be back in the embrace of the dream. As much as she did not want to admit it to herself, her body ached to be held by that faceless entity of her dreams and nightmares. The same entity, she now realized, who sat beside her and regarded her with a calculating gaze.

"It was a nightmare," she heard him say. "Do you have them often?"

She could not answer. She could not give away her darkest secret. He would know. As soon as she spoke, he would know! His hand was at her arm, holding her firmly but gently as she tried to rise. Through the thin material of her robe and nightgown, she could feel his touch. It was not as cold as death, as it had felt before. Now it burned the skin beneath. Burned like it did in her dreams.

"Why are you trembling again?" he asked, his voice changing to a tone of suspicion.

"I-I have to go," she cried out, pushing her body up on the couch. But she found herself sitting uncomfortably close to him now, not realizing where he had been sitting.

"Morning has not even broken yet, do you want to return to your room?" he asked softly.

She nodded furiously, knowing that he could see her response, even in the darkness of his room.

"You will not make it far by yourself. I don't want you tripping in the hall and injuring your wrist any further."

"But I want to go back," she replied, her voice unusually urgent.

She heard him sigh in the dark and suddenly felt him sweep her up into his arms. A mournful cry left her lips as he pulled her tightly against him. She was afraid and she did not know why. In her mind, she tried to come up with a reason. She did not fear that he would harm her. His anger was easily provoked, but there was no anger in his arms now. She did not fear the darkness of the house, for in his arms, she felt safer then she could ever remember. Neither did she fear a monster from a dream. I fear the feelings that rise within me when he is near. I do not know them. How could I? I am scarcely a woman. I fear the way he looks at me. I cannot describe it, only as a starving wolf would look upon a lamb.

Her hand was beginning to tighten on the lapels of his jacket. He saw the fisted, white-knuckled hand in the darkness.

"You need not be frightened, Christine," he said softly.

She knew she could not bear his voice for much longer. It was so tender and rough at the same time. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest. She felt as though she would die from his voice. That she would drown in its depths. Christine buried her face in the folds of his jacket, her fist never loosening.

The embrace of sleep began to pull at her body again. Dream had never fully released her. It had only enhanced the longings that had been planted in her mind. He felt her breath through the layers of fabric at his chest. Nearly there, he repeated to himself countless times.

As he lowered her body back into the soft sheets of her bed, he felt his arms begin to tremble. The slip of her hair across the exposed skin at his throat nearly undid him. Now he watched as her body settled into the bed, a hand still clutching his suit with desperation. He forced himself to unlatch it from his lapel, laying it gently at her side as he brought the other hand up over her body and bent over to examine the damage he had caused earlier. Erik stroked the bandage, watching as she winced softly in her fragile sleep. He lifted the wrist gently to his lips and hesitated for a moment, watching as her eyes fluttered in a restless sleep. But he could not deny himself this one small pleasure and pressed a soft kiss to her hand. His lips did not want to leave the soft skin. But he forced himself away, fighting back the bitter emotions that welled inside.

As her body began to still, her lips parted in dream and she murmured the words that drove him from the room in agony. "I am dying. . .from you."

She sat alone at breakfast, her hair piled loosely behind her head, with a faraway expression in her eyes. Snow was beginning to fall again beyond the large windows of the parlor. Something about it seemed to call out to her. She licked her lips, having finished the buttery croissant upon her plate. Where does he get this food from? I have never once seen him cook. Of course, I have never spent much time beyond my room and the library.

Christine gazed down at her gown and noticed the crumbs, brushing them off with her hands. As she did so, she admired the beauty of the gown she had chosen today. It was a soft, pale blue gown with lovely green embroidery along the neckline and the sleeves. The fine needlework stretched out a pattern of leaves and delicate flowers. The gown gathered in the back like most fashionable dresses of the city and hung down in a modest cascade of fabric.

A presence at the door suddenly broke her train of thought. She whirled around in her chair but found nothing. She could have sworn that she had heard a shuffle at the door, seen a shadow fall across the floor, or heard a sigh uttered.

She rose, brushing off the last of the crumbs from her skirts, before lifting the plates from the table and carrying them to the kitchen. But as she strode down the hallway, she nearly collided with a solid frame that suddenly appeared before her. Christine looked up quickly and nearly gasped. Erik stood before her like a specter of the ancient house.

"You. . .scared me," she said breathlessly.

"I seem to have that effect," he replied bitterly. He seized the plates from her hands.

"What are you. . ."

"You need not to do that. You are my guest," he interrupted, turning towards the kitchen and walking away. The lines of his back seemed tense.

"Thank you," she said quietly as he retreated.

She stood there for a moment in the hall, unsure of what to do, and feeling very much like a fool. Finally, her gaze drifted up to the tall, curtained windows and a frown tugged at her lips. The snow had been so lovely. Christine reached up and tugged back the heavy drapes, forcing the shadows back and allowing the blinding white light of the winter afternoon to invade the darkened halls. She continued her task, moving methodically down the hall and disturbing the solemn nature of the windows. When she was finished, she looked down the long hall with a sense of satisfaction and smiled faintly.

The afternoon was spent in the library. There was nothing else to do besides read. Christine had pulled several interesting books from the shelves and retreated to the tiny sitting room. She was not there long before she knew he was there, standing in the doorway. Glancing up, she watched him as he stared at her. What could he possibly be thinking? Why does he say nothing? Finally, he moved from his position at the far doorway and seated himself at the desk, just beyond her sitting room. She could see him hunched over a stack of papers and ledgers, completely immersed in his work. She continued to glance up at him as he worked, finding that her attention on the book had long since strayed.

He stirred after several minutes but did not turn to face her.

"What are you reading?" he asked, never turning his head.

She stiffened for a moment, pulling her attention back to the novel lying on her lap. What was I reading?

"A History of Persia," she responded, reading the title quickly from the book.

There was a long pause before he rose from his desk and stood in her doorway, watching her carefully as she shuffled through the pages, trying to avoid his eyes.

"Does it interest you?" he asked.

"What?"

"Persia."

"I have never traveled very far beyond my own home. Only when I was small did my father take me with him from Sweden to settle in this country. But I have seen very little of the world since," she explained, her gaze drifting to one of the windows beside her small couch. "I love to read about places I have never been. I could not imagine what a place like Persia is like."

"I have seen the lush courts of the royal family in Persia," he said, his voice suddenly drifting in an unexpected way.

Christine glanced up at him, wonder filling her large brown eyes. "You have been to Persia?"

"Yes," he said, almost bitterly.

"What was it like?" she asked with all of the expectancy of a child.

He leaned heavily against the doorframe. She found his gaze was no longer fixed upon her. Instead, it had drifted far beyond the confines of the room to a place she could not pinpoint.

"There was much beauty in its sunsets, when hues of rose and orange filled the sky and stretched for miles beyond all human reason. The scent of incense filled the air. The gardens were more lush and exotic then you can possibly imagine. Seas of rippling golden sand spread across its deserts." His words seemed to flow from a source that she had not seen before. The description had been so breathtaking, that she felt a wave of emotion swell within her. She longed to see what he had seen. To smell the sweet spices, to touch the lush flowers of a royal garden, but most of all, to behold a sunset unlike any other.

He glanced down at her, noticing the look of wonder spreading across her delicate features. How he longed to run his hand along the gentle curve of her cheek! To brush back the curl that hung down from her chiffon. He watched the flicker of an eyelash upon her cheek as she lowered her gaze for a moment. But he suddenly remembered more then he cared to. He remembered a past when his hands had been soaked with the blood of countless people. There had been so much more to his tale he dared not share.

"But the beauty of Persia was tainted by the barbarism of its leaders. There were no ethics in their courts as there are here. Young girls such as yourself, or younger, were forced into a life of servitude for the shah's pleasure," he explained, his eyes pulling away from hers again.

There was silence between them again, as Christine absorbed the horror of his statements. With question in her eyes, she finally broke the stillness.

"Why did you leave?"

He turned his heavy gaze towards her again, and she nearly flinched under the agony of it. There was a pain in his eyes that she had never seen before. A regret. A torment.

"Christine, there are things that you are not ready to hear. Perhaps one day. . ."

She sat there quietly, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and she gazed away from him with a troubled look in her eyes. He could be so evasive sometimes. When she thought she had tapped into a hidden side of him, he would quickly rise up and shut out her gaze from that secret. Where else on this earth has he been, she wondered. What countless secrets lie behind those haunted eyes?

"Where else have you been?" she asked innocently.

He looked at her with affection and seemed to smile faintly. "I have seen the steppes of Russia, the cathedrals of Italy, and even the temples in New Delhi."

"I wish I could visit those places," she mused, her voice strangely at peace.

"Perhaps someday you will," he said softly.

She looked up at him and met his gaze for a moment. There was something different in his eyes that she had never seen so naked before. It was not sadness but more of a longing. His eyes no longer burned as they always did. There was softness in his expression, a fondness that warmed his stern, coldly handsome features not hidden by the barrier of the mask. If he had never been cruel and cold, if she had known only this gentle nature that seemed to appear only on the rarest of occasions, she could have sworn that he was like any other gentleman. But there was a look to his eyes that she often noticed. They were such beautiful eyes, but they held more grief and horror in them than one could possibly gather in a lifetime. When she saw this look about him, she was suddenly reminded how very young she was. She had seen very little, accomplished very little, and beside this stoic, unearthly man, she felt strangely vulnerable.

He suddenly rose from the seat beside her. She had not even noticed him sit down. Her tutor, her mentor, and her maestro extended a hand to her and she immediately felt strangely compelled to follow the gesture.

"Come," he said, his voice almost ringing with unrestrained emotion, "we will resume our lesson."

When they had reached the music room, Christine stood in her usual position and waited for him to sit at the piano. But he did not follow the routine. Instead, he stood behind her. She knew, even without looking, that he was there. Every nerve of her body could sense it. He was not moving. But she could feel his eyes burning into her. She thought she could hear the sound of his breathing and felt her eyes flutter closed when his voice finally broke the unbearable silence.

"Sing me a song of your father's," he said.

She was about to turn her head in question, but he quickly stopped her. "No, don't turn around. Stay where you are."

"Could I not sing one we have practiced before?"

"No," he said abruptly. "I want to hear something you are familiar with. I want to hear you sing as you did with your father."

She glanced down with a troubled expression on her face.

"Please," he added. How could she deny that voice? She felt every word surge through her and enthrall her very soul. She would do anything for that voice.

And so she felt her eyes close as a familiar song began to rise up within her, from a place where it had remained locked since her early childhood. She remembered first hearing it in the night when she had woken from a nightmare. The simple lullaby soon became one of her favorites. And when her father began to coax her to sing, she sang the song herself, much to his delight.

Lips parted, a shaky breath was heard, and then the song flowed.

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee

All through the night

Guardian angels God will send thee

All through the night

Soft the drowsy hours are creeping

Hill and dale in slumber sleeping

I my loving vigil keeping

All through the night

While the moon her watch is keeping

All through the night

While the weary world is sleeping

All through the night

O'er thy spirit gently stealing

Visions of delight revealing

Breathes a pure and holy feeling

All through the night

Though I roam a minstrel lonely

All through the night

My true harp shall praise sing only

All through the night

Love's young dream, alas, is over

Yet my strains of love shall hover

Near the presence of my lover

All through the night

Hark, a solemn bell is ringing

Clear through the night

Thou, my love, art heavenward winging

Home through the night

Earthly dust from off thee shaken

Soul immortal shalt thou awaken

With thy last dim journey taken

Home through the night

The song ended and there was only silence. A single tear streaked down her face and she looked ahead with glassy eyes. Never had the song sounded more beautiful. Of course, she was only a child when she had last sung it. But now, under her tutor's instruction, her voice soared to such clear heights. She felt a silent sob wrack her body. But as she knew she was still under his scrutiny, she remained rigid and tense, waiting for his response.

He did not say anything. Why does he not speak? Can't he see how this pains me? She felt something at her hand and glanced down to find his hand enfolding hers from behind. His fingers hesitantly, and then more assuredly, entwined themselves with hers. She felt his breath at the back of her neck and stiffened. His other hand rose to her face. She turned her head gently and regarded him out of the corner of her eye as he stroked away the tear with his finger. She could almost feel him right behind her. He stood so close and yet kept a space of separation. The warmth of his body began to pervade her senses. The normally subtle smell of his cologne was nearly intoxicating, and she suddenly longed to step backwards into his embrace. To feel his arms surround her. She longed to press her tear stained face against his shoulder. To feel him gently stroke her hair. To feel his hand cup her face.

Her breaths ran ragged and uneven know. He could feel her hand tighten and a shudder run through her body. I have moved too quickly. She still fears me, he silently berated himself.

"You sang with more feeling then you ever have before," he whispered beside her ear.

Her eyes closed in agony. Agony at his voice which had the power to control her soul. She did not know what she wanted. She suddenly felt so incomplete. Something within her was empty and she knew she would die without it. This was how he killed her, day after day, night after night. His voice tortured her. It reminded her that something was missing. Something she could not put a name to.

Uncharacteristically warm hands slipped away from her hand and cheek and left her cold. She shook where she stood. Not from fear. Not from faintness. She shook because she suddenly realized that she needed the presence of this man behind her. She would die without him. As she turned, unrestrained, to look upon his face, she gasped at the candid desire so blatantly displayed in his eyes. Never had she been looked upon in such a way by a man, and it scared her.

Look how she shrinks from me like fallen prey! Do I frighten her that much? Oh God, she has not even seen my face. His hands felt cold again as they dropped by his side. There she stood like a frightened child, her large glistening eyes looking to him for guidance. To say something.

Must I say it? Must I break this horrible silence, she cried inwardly.

"I sing only for you," she cried out, her delicate voice breaking. It was almost an accusation. As though she had pent up the statement for years and had finally expressed it with the accumulated rage and agony.

He watched her as she shook with emotion and finally fled from the room. What does this mean? Oh God, what new torture is this, he cried inwardly with fury rising up within his heart.

She retreated to the safety of her own room. Only then, did her heart begin to slow. Only then, did her breaths shallow. Only then, could she remember his touch and not feel ashamed.

Kat097 - Sorry about the lack of smoochies in this chapter. Fear not, they will occur eventually. Must build up suspense and tension.

tink20 - I really love Kelly Clarkson's new CD. I never thought I'd say that about such a blatant pop icon from American Idol. But there is so much emotion and anst to her music, that I feel it fits right in with the story. I was also considering incorporating Because Of You into this.