Oh, how I love her voice.

His thoughts were entirely consumed by the sound of it, by the musical shape of it. He let himself float upon her song, basking in every perfect note.

Then, she touched him, and his stomach clenched. Her touch was gentle and loving, not at all what he expected. There was so much unexpected kindness and comfort in her hands.

Her song and her touch wove a canopy of solace about him, one so great that, at first, he didn't even realize what she had done. Then he felt it. Cool air touched his face—the right side of his face. A million voices began screaming in his head, and all were yelling the same word: No.

By sheer instinct, he slapped his hand hard over his deformity and jerked away from her. She couldn't be allowed to see his face. He forbade it! But it was too late. The mask, by Christine's own hand, was off and lay beyond his reach.

Why? Why did she have to curse herself with this, the sight of his rotting flesh? Why did she have to know what made him more corpse than human?

A knife of betrayal buried itself inside his gut and twisted. The pain was immense, and it spilled out in anger, like a torn wineskin. He lashed out at a candelabrum, knocking it to the ground and extinguishing its flames.

"Damn you! You little prying Pandora!" he roared. "You little demon! This is what you wanted to see?"

He used both hands to wrench a heavy cloth from a full-length mirror and glared at his reflection. For a sliver of time, his face was revealed, but he had no wish to let the details of it sink into his soul, and he covered his right side once more with hand.

He whipped around to Christine, who lay huddled on the stone floor amongst scattered musical score. Her fearful eyes tracked his every move, and icy self-loathing ripped through him. He had knocked her to the floor, and he had put that fear into her. Whatever spell he might have woven around her last night was now torn to shreds with the violent claws of his wrath. There was no going back now.

"Curse you! You little lying Delilah! You little viper! Now you cannot ever be free. Damn you…" Rage and unspent tears choked his voice as he turned and pushed over another candle holder. "Curse you…" The words and his anger tapered off together.

If he thought he possessed a soul, he would have said the very depths of it ached. No demon such as himself, however, could lay claim to a soul, and so he forced his pain to reside in physical locations, like his pounding head and tension-ridden shoulders.

Words, cynical and self-mocking, came out as a song that was mangled by the thickness in his throat. He cradled his face in his palm and walked along the stony edge of the grotto, watching Christine's tears trickle down her face. "Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even dare to look or bear to think of me, this…loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell but secretly yearns for heaven secretly, secretly…Christine…"

He could see the panic in Christine's eyes, could sense dread coming off her in time to the thuds of his heartbeat. If only he could replace that panic and dread inside her with love and trust. He vowed to himself that he would never again allow her to see his face. He would rather die before that mistake was repeated.

He let his eyes leave Christine and fall upon the mannequin and wedding dress before him. He had such hopes for them, such beautiful hopes. She had to be his. Without her love, he would not survive. Somehow, he had to prove to her that he needed her more than anything in the world. Then, and only then, could those beautiful hopes could be fulfilled.

He sang again, his voice clearer as he settled himself on the steps that led to his bed chamber. "Fear can turn to love; you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, this…repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly…oh, Christine."

He was spent, utterly and completely. Even with it pressed against his face, he could still feel the tremors in his hand. He drew a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, and then stretched his hand out in Christine's direction. She seemed to sense his need, and relinquished the mask without hesitation. For that, he was so incredibly grateful.

In a practiced move, he replaced his hand with the mask, and rose from the step. He stood over her, barely able to bring himself to look at her huddled form. This was the woman who had caressed him so lovingly just minutes before. He remembered the bliss he felt beneath her hand, remembered the aching pleasure she had brought him simply by touching his face. If she knew the power she had over him, she would have no reason to cower on the floor.

But she has every reason to cower, a sinister voice whispered. You have shown her your wrath and your face.

He clenched his jaw at the voice, ignoring it for the moment. After he saw Christine safe, he would torture himself with memories of the tears he had placed in her eyes and on her cheeks. For now, he had other duties.

He held a hand out to help Christine rise from the floor. It was all he had to offer her.

"Come, we must return," he said, swallowing the contemptible quaver he still heard in his voice. "Those two fools who run my theatre will be missing you."