Chapter 18

The request couldn't have been more shocking, and he openly stared down at her. She had not more than a handful of moments ago railed against him for doing just that, and now the fickle creature asked him for more?

Damned changeable natures.

"Pourquoi?"

Ang smiled shyly, biting at the lower corner of her lip. "Because you haven't. Not really. Not when you weren't trying to trick me into something else. I- I want to hear you sing for pleasure, not gain." Her expression was so open and honest, and he knew he would move mountains to have her gaze upon him like that every moment of every day.

His lips parted to speak, but a thought came to him that gave him pause. A twinkle sparked in his eyes. "En Français, mon ange."

Ang scowled, her nose wrinkling in a grimace.

Her response was so endearing, so quintessentially her that he almost recanted his request. But before he could, she obediently answered, "Please, you sing? For me?"

"Do you trust me?" he tested her, curious to know if she would continue to please him by using his French rather than her usual crass American.

His angel's gaze skipped back and forth between his eyes as she puzzled out the correct response, still in his preferred language, and he couldn't help but be proud of her progress. "...Should I trust you?"

His lips stretched in an odd, unfamiliar way, what most would call a grin, he supposed. "Probably not."

It took a beat or two as her brain unknotted his words and picked the correct translation, and he saw the exact moment that it did because she gave him an obvious side-eye, then lifted her head high, her jaw set, shoulders squared, delicate brows arched just so as her eyes locked with his in unspoken challenge.

"Then prove yourself wrong. Sing for me, and do not use it for your own gain. Trust me." Her hand reached up and gently held the side of his face, mask and skin against her palm. "S'il vous plait?"

The weight of that dare settled heavily on his shoulders and he swallowed the lump that lodged itself deep in his throat. She may as well have thrown a gauntlet at his feet. The fingertips that had played up and down her spine like the keys of a piano stilled. Heat flooded his cheeks behind the plaster of his false face and he was, for once, thankful for the mask that sheltered him from view. His insides squirmed and the awkwardness of that heavy silence ignited his flight response, but he fought it.

And failed.

Every curse, every beating, every horrid thing that had tried to kill him in the past as a result of his trusting other people came crashing down around him. The warmth in his eyes turned to ice and he shoved her bodily away from him. Her balance upset, she toppled to the ground with a soft cry.

"Erik!" she called after him, a desperation lacing her tone as his name flew from her tongue.

"You ask too much, mademoiselle," he called back, and before she could utter another word of protest, he was gone.

What in the actual hell?

Ang stared at his retreating back, dumbstruck and mentally flailing. She couldn't have been more shocked if he had vanished in a puff of mist before her eyes like a ghost. For all his crowing that hid a cowardly nature, he could very well have been a specter. Maybe that was why he got his nickname.

"You're an idiot," she muttered to herself, hating that hot tears streaked down her face. Reaching for her crutches, she pushed herself up and trudged back toward her room. As she walked, she was only aware of the recent scene that replayed itself again and again in her mind, and she arrived at the foot of her bed without any recollection of actually walking there.

Her gaze swept across the room, borrowed without actual permission, like a squatter who long overstayed her welcome. Granted, part of the time, Erik acted as if he really wanted her there.

Like today.

She smiled before she even gave her lips permission to, and she quickly smothered it. It was just a fluke, some weird in-the-moment reaction to too many strong emotions coming from both of them simultaneously. Or something like that. With a frustrated groan, she rolled her eyes, shook her head, and hobbled to the side of the bed. With a small hop, she released both crutches and flopped onto the mattress, bouncing just slightly as her body settled.

Now what? She couldn't stay here, not when Erik's attitude and mood was as changeable as the winter weather in the northwest, warm and pleasant one moment then stormy and ice cold the next. This was worse than walking on egg shells... hell, she felt like she was traipsing across a minefield more often than not. It was exhausting! She never knew if she was going to meet the real Erik or the monster he professed himself to be. His temper revealed a cruel, abusive side she hadn't known existed... Or perhaps she hadn't wanted to believe it existed.

Not to mention the fact that this was all utterly impossible.

Ang wanted to go home. As much as her existence had been downright lame in its dreary, day-to-day duplication, she longed for it now. She wanted to walk without having to rely on stupid two hundred year old crutches that hurt her arms and ribs. She wanted her own clothing, with real underwear, and jeans, and comfortable shoes again. She wanted hot running water.

She wanted her theater back. She ached to work on the catwalk again, to hang the lights, to exchange light-hearted banter with the giant Scotsman, or to share the rare coffee with Stitch, the theater's costumer. She wanted something familiar, something reliable, something she knew she could do and do well.

And that was when she sat bolt upright, hit with a most obvious revelation.

She was in a theater!

Well, below one, but still! She would just make her way topside again, figure out how the ins and outs of the theater above – the Opera Garnier he'd called it – and offer her services in whatever way they'd take her. Granted, everything she knew was technologically light years ahead of them, but that didn't mean she wasn't perfectly capable of learning how an old fashioned theater operated. While she might not be able to help run the pulley system, as she was likely much too light to counter balance the weights and flies, Stitch had taught her enough to hold her own with a needle and thread. Thank God she'd never taken to using a sewing machine.

With her mind made up and her heart feeling lighter than it had in months, she dressed herself in something nicer than the shift she'd tossed on that morning. If she was going to convince anyone to give her a job, she'd better look the part. She wouldn't have need of a cloak indoors, but she could use it as a bundle and take a couple dresses and underthings with her.

As her mind ticked off each necessary item, her eyes traveled across the interior of the room. What else? She hated to take anything that didn't belong to her, but she wasn't left with much other choice. She debated returning the small ladies watch Erik had given her weeks prior, but on second thought, it was a gift. He was bound to be angry about her leaving even though she knew it was what he wanted, but returning a gift would make him absolutely livid.

And everyone knew what happened when the Opera Ghost saw red. How many times could she provoke his ire before he killed her in a fit of rage? Was he that rash?

It was safer not to stick around and find out.

Less than an hour later, she was ready to go. The crutches were picked up, her clothing bundle slung over one shoulder, and she surveyed the clean and neatened room from the doorway. Everything was as tidy as she could make it; surely he'd approve of that.

Ang turned to go, but a sudden idea gave her pause, and she glanced back over her shoulder at the books standing proudly on one shelf, the ones she'd read and reread so many times. Heading back to them, her fingertips caressed the spines before selecting Hugo's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame". It was in French, not English, but she knew the book well, and understood enough French now to be able to skim through and pick out the place she wanted: where Esmeralda kisses the hunchback on the cheek. The book was set lovingly atop the pillow, left opened to that exact passage.

Content with the order of things and determined to make a life for herself in Paris until she could figure out a way to get back to her real home, she quietly crept from the room, descended the stone steps, and made her way down a hall she knew would lead away from the lair of the Phantom of the Opera.