Christine awoke to something brushing against her cheek, a subtle yet insistent presence she tried to bat away with limp fingers. When the sensation did not cease, however, she cracked open her eyes to see that she was quite alone. At first, she did not understand, but as she lifted her head and peered across the room, she saw that the balcony doors had been left open. Running a hand over her face, she breathed deeply, her eyes slipping shut again as she now welcomed the cool air against her skin. She wondered why that air would feel so soothing when spring had not fully arrived yet, and by all accounts it was not warm outside. It only took a single glance downwards, however, to discover the answer. Even in the darkness, the brilliant white of her wedding gown still managed to gleam back up at her and almost mocked her in its constrictive nature.

Had she slept in this? Her hands poked and prodded the material as she rose to her feet, her torso aching to be freed from the corset it was bound in. Never again would she sleep in such an uncomfortable way. It did prompt her, however, to consider why she would do such a thing in the first place. But as she peered over her shoulder at the empty bed, she knew that this was not her doing.

Her fingers sought out the ties on her dress and began to remove it, pushing the fine material off her shoulders and down her arms. Her bodice and skirts pooled around her ankles and when she reached around to unlace her corset, she felt the slight scrape of her ring against the supports. The reminder that she was now married made her pause in her work, a tremor running down her arms that had nothing to do with the cold in the room.

As she continued to undress, the corset lightly dropping to the floor, she thought of the peculiarity of this wedding night. This was not how it was meant to be, was it? She had never heard of a bride sleeping alone before, and this thought only left her feeling a little unwanted. Certainly, she had been apprehensive about what was to come, but to know that her husband did not even want to sleep beside her dampened her spirits and cut at whatever courage had surged through her earlier that day.

Sitting down on the sheets, she unpinned her hair with unmerciful tugs and leaned over to place the pins on the bedside table. A sigh left her as she straightened her back and rolled her shoulders, leaning her head back so that her muscles could loosen. Her hands soon reached for her garters before she turned her attention to her stockings. Half clouded in sleep, her movements were still lazy and languid, but as more of her skin was revealed to the night air, she found herself incomprehensibly warm. Her eyes closed. A heavy blush had flooded her face, the heat spreading across her body as she was met with the impromptu image of her husband's hands in place of hers, rolling down her stockings, teasing her, his fingers accidentally brushing against her bare legs.

Startled by her sudden thoughts, she all but threw her stockings to the floor and gripped the edge of the mattress to maintain control. Nervous anticipation—this was the name she gave to her lapse in proper thought.

Her brow furrowed and as the cold washed over her body, a soft groan left her mouth. With only her imagination, she sat on her bed—their marital bed—alone, and suppressed a sinful shiver when the night air gently blew against the crotch-slit in her drawers.

Coming to her senses, she quickly rose and closed the doors, resting her head against the glass to give her heart time to calm its nervous beating. She would not be made the fool on her wedding night.

With courage in her steps, she removed her finals layers and donned her loose shift and dressing gown before venturing down the stairs in search of her husband.

The glow from an oil lamp guided her in the otherwise darkened household and indicated that he was still in the parlour. As quietly as she was able, she crept towards the open door, ever mindful of the creaking floorboards, and stood by the threshold looking in.

Sprawled across the settee was Erik, and Christine stared at him in amazement. The small seat was much too short to host the full length of his limbs, and yet there he was, lying awkwardly yet soundly across it as though it was a bed. She did not linger on the thought that he preferred the idea of discomfort to sleeping beside her, however, and she began to walk towards him.

It was only when she chose to kneel beside the settee that she realised that he was in fact awake. His wide eyes stared at her from behind the mask, but he did not move to accommodate her or even to show his awareness of her presence. Yet, she could tell from the quick rise and fall of his chest that he knew she was there.

"Christine," he said at last, a slight trace of nerves in his tone. "Why are you not sleeping?"

Suddenly embarrassed, she cast her eyes to the floor. "Regardless of what you may think, sleeping in a wedding gown is not very comfortable."

"Oh, do forgive me," he stated in a breathy stutter. "I-I did not see any other way without waking you up and I did not wish to disturb your rest." Here, Christine looked up at him and gently laid her hand on his, showing him her forgiveness in the simplest way. Her touch drew his gaze to it, and his lips parted as her fingers began to stroke the back of his hand. Those strokes were slow and thoughtful and he was momentarily reminded of his rosining from earlier that night. Tearing his eyes away from their hands, he looked up at her curiously and struggled to swallow when he saw that her lips, too, were parted. It took all the strength he possessed not to withdraw his hand. "Is there anything you need?"

"Yes," she whispered, emboldened by his response to her touch, for no longer did she doubt his want to be near her. "I want my husband by my side."

His head tilted, reminding Christine of a small dog. "I am by your side, my dear," he said plainly.

"That is not exactly what I meant," she said, giving him an endearing smile before her expression became sober once more. "This cannot be comfortable to sleep on, I imagine," she murmured, her unspoken words stirring something within him, a terrible bout of shameful want that, despite its power, only made him wish to remain where he was.

"No, Christine," he told her, sitting up and threading his fingers together. The brief flicker of hurt across her face as she withdrew her discarded hand made him huff regretfully, but he did not apologise.

"A bride should not sleep alone," she responded without feeling, keeping her gaze lowered.

He smiled gently and lifted her chin up, his thumb sliding back and forth against her jaw before he had the sense to stop himself. "But would you not rather sleep alone?"

Grabbing his hand, she lowered it from her face and stared at him in a fit of slight exasperation. "I want my husband by my side," she repeated before rising to her feet defiantly.

He looked up at her, towering above him, his hands on his knees as he cleared his head of his doubts, choosing to believe her wishes, to believe that she knew her own mind. Shakily, he also stood, a fleeting moment of victory shining on her face before he watched her leave the room, her hand tracing the width of the open door as she passed through.

That door remained open as he himself stepped over the threshold. Nothing else seemed to matter then besides Christine. All he saw was Christine. Her unkempt hair curling down her back, the movement of her dressing gown against her legs, the allure of her face as she turned to glance over her shoulder at him. The look in her dark eyes made him tremble.

She entered her bedchamber first, walking confidently until the sound of the door closing made her spin around. Her breath caught as Erik began to walk towards her, coming to stand close to her, but not close enough.

A hefty silence hung about the room as they stood, unmoving, sharing shy glances in torrid anticipation. Their breath mingled in the night air, their bodies taut as neither dared to move or speak.

Erik's wistful eyes gleamed as he drank in his wife's flushed appearance. His wife. His living wife. After endless nights of pitiful dreaming, here she stood before him.

As his hands reached out to gingerly touch her cheek, his fingers shook, a primal urge to seize her face, to claim her as his own, rousing within him. It was a foreign feeling and Erik fought with all his might to contain it, to understand it, and to not frighten either of them with his lack of sense.

A rosiness bloomed on her cheeks where he touched her and he asked, his sonorous voice low and wanting, "Do you blush for me?"

With a light sigh, her breath landed softly upon his skin, warming it—a mere prelude to what was to come—and she stepped even closer to him, their chests almost touching with every inhale. Her eyes found his at the same time her hands reached for the ties on her dressing gown. Erik frowned, his will weakening before he glanced down and watched as she untied the string at an agonisingly slow pace. The occasional brush of her knuckles on his stomach as she worked was maddening and he could not withhold the gasp that escaped him when she slipped the gown from her shoulders. His body froze. He was so close to her, so close that he felt the material skim against his hand as it tumbled to the floor.

His fingers flexed as his eyes slipped shut, his admiration for this wife growing by the second. How could one be so coy, yet at the same time be inexplicably enthralling to the senses? He had to wonder. Were their thoughts of the same mind? He had reasoned that the idea of their union would disgust her, and yet his little songbird was transforming into a siren right before his eyes—and what a delightful metamorphosis it was.

When she began to lean towards him, however, her presence became overpowering and he tore himself away to the other side of the room, briefly registering her crumpled wedding dress on the ground as he moved to place the bed between them. Frustrated, he looked at her before running a hand though his hair and sitting down on the edge of the mattress. The wall in front of him was bare, plain, boring, and precisely the sedative he needed to relax and process the idea of Christine wanting him in return.

Christine, on the other hand, was perplexed to his abrupt coldness. She had no doubt now that he thought he was trying to save her from being in a full marriage. How absurd, she thought, and yet the knowledge of her effect on him continued to intrigue her.

Before he could speak one word of protest, she bravely crawled onto the bed behind him. Rising on her knees, she leaned into his back, draping herself over him, her hands brazenly splaying across his chest, her lips quivering at his ear.

With only her sheer muslin shift on, he could feel the outline of her womanly form, her round curves pressing against him and oh, how he ached for her!

"I never expected you to be a wife to me in... in that manner," he whispered, tensing under her touch. "Do not feel as though you are obligated to be so."

Involuntarily, she stiffened and, hurt, slid away from him. "Is obligation the only reason you think I would...?"

He sighed, pulling at his cuff in agitation. "What other reason could there be?" he asked, not allowing himself the courage to hope.

"You proclaim that you are a man, with feelings that any other man would have. I accept that. Why, then, can you not accept that a woman could feel the same way?" As she stared at his back, she knew her words would not have fallen so clearly and eloquently from her mouth had his eyes been fixed upon her. "Is it wrong for a woman to want a man?"

He did not react to her question beyond straightening his back for it was as if her words had struck him like the brand of a whip. Staring at the wall, he again gripped his knees and answered, "It is, when I am the man."

"Then I am not like other women."

"No," he agreed with a laugh, "you most certainly are not."

Her hands soon returned to his shoulders, tentatively, as though expecting a reproach of some sort, but was surprised when he did not push her away. When he groaned in his ultimate surrender to her, rolling his shoulders and lolling his head back until it rested in the crook of her neck, she leaned into him, her fingers coaxing his body to slump against her.

Breathing him in, Christine closed her eyes and felt her heart race as he relaxed. Moments before, when she had pressed herself against him, she hadn't thought, for if she had, she would not have had the spirit to act. But now there was no escaping their intimate positioning—his fingers reaching behind him to touch whatever part of her that he could, his breath on her neck, his shoulder blades against her breasts.

A tingle ran through her as she felt him, her hands sliding down his chest before she had the sense to stop them. It was as if she was no longer in control of her body, and an ulterior force was now possessing her, controlling her, urging her limbs to move and her pulse to throb.

She did not even realise she had begun to fiddle with the buttons on his shirt until his hands shot up to grab hers. Quickly removing her hands from him, he sat up, turning slightly to look at her with an expression of fear in his eyes. That look, that startling look, shook Christine to her very core. He looked like a stag in the line of fire.

"Don't. Please, don't," he uttered, leaning forward on the bed with one of his hands outstretched towards her face. "It is not something I want to worry about, or have you worry about," he told her, his fingertips grazing her cheek. "Not tonight. I beg of you. Not tonight."

She held his hand to her face. "What must I do to have you trust me?"

"Is it not that," he told her, shaking his head. "I... I do not want you to... see me."

A warmth spread throughout her body, branding her skin with a vibrant red of embarrassment. But the more she thought about it, the more the implications behind his request began to show. She had seen his face, had seen the scars he bore on his arms, and now she knew of the torturous procedures he had endured, the instruments that had ensured his loyalty, but had twisted him into something almost irreversible. Did the extent of this run deeper than she had first thought? Was there even a part of his body that had been left untouched by cruelty? She shuddered to think on it.

"If is not a matter of trust," she continued, cradling his hand, "then may I ask something of you? May I... remove your mask?"

Only a moment passed before he unexpectedly nodded, but as he made no move to remove it himself, Christine realised the significance of such a gesture. For the first time, he was allowing her to remove his mask. Her hands shook as she reached for the garment and settled it behind her on the bedside table.

An overwhelming amount of gratitude filled her as she turned back to look at him to see that there was not a single trace of regret or concern on his face. She smiled when her lips shyly sought out his own, thanking him, letting him know how much the gesture meant to her.

He kissed her back timidly, his hands holding her face before carefully threading themselves through her hair, gliding across the back of her head to her neck and travelling lower still. She clutched his upper arms as his lips began to trace her jaw, skimming down her throat, kissing her skin and drawing soft sighs whenever he lingered.

As her fingers found the back of his neck, holding him in place, Erik groaned, the sound feeling wickedly wonderful against her chest. His hands cupped her cheeks as he once again brought his mouth back to hers, kissing her with such reverent intensity that she nearly toppled backwards. Were it not for one of his hands straying from her face and sliding down her neck, she was certain she would have fallen away from him. And that was the very last thing she wanted to do.

His fingers trailed down her chest, over the side of one breast, teasingly, before continuing a path of intrigue down to her waist. She had not realised how much she had craved his touch until he began to gently tug at the bottom of her shift, the rubbing of cotton against her legs making her wish for the material to disappear entirely.

Erik seemed to understand this, timid as he was, and he began to draw the shift up her thighs, the cool air landing on her freshly exposed skin in delirious shivers. She moved slightly to allow him to remove the article completely and once it had joined the rest of her clothing on the floor, Erik turned to look at his bride.

Frozen in her sitting position, Christine resisted the urge to cover herself. With nothing to shield her body from view, she felt quite exposed, and yet a terrible thrill shot through her as she noted their stark difference in attire. Was it sinful to feel emboldened by her bareness? But as she finally brought her gaze up to his face, she frowned, witnessing the anxious tremors in his features.

It was absurd, Erik thought, to feel like a boy again in her presence, rather than the man that he was. Yet, at first, he could not bring himself to look at her properly, not even when she did lower her arms from her chest. If there was a God, He surely must have been testing him, Erik decided.

"E-Erik," she said as he stared at the folded blanket at the bottom of the bed.

Each second that ticked by was torturous and Christine began to feel more and more self-conscious. Finally, he looked back at her, his eyes locked with hers. "I'm sorry," was all he said.

Swallowing her nerves, she made the impulsive decision to reach for his hands, holding them firmly as she asked, "D-Do you truly trust me?"

When he nodded, she bravely guided his hands to her waist, the feeling of skin pressed against skin too exhilarating to comprehend. Erik, too, was lost to the heady sensation, but aside from the heaving of his chest, he did not react to her boldness. For a time, he merely left his hands near her ribcage, feeling her intimately breathe in and out, but even his will was not as strong as he originally thought.

His hands were edging over her body before he knew what was happening. Though she was slender in poise and finger, her torso and legs were not, and they filled his hands with their supple warmth. Her skin was not as smooth as he had always thought it to be, but to him it still felt more intoxicating than any silken fabric he had touched in his lifetime. She was resplendent, she was glorious, and she was not at all what he had imagined. Loathe to admit it, but helpless to resist the thought, Erik had painted her in his mind over time. There she would stand, a coy woman with flirtatious eyes, a Renaissance beauty with billowing hair, draped in the veil of her own innocence. But as his eyes were filled with the sight of her true beauty, her true self, he was overcome.

Empowered by her trust, he lowered his head to her chest as his hands settled on her hips. He was too focused on lavishing kiss upon kiss on her that he did not notice the subtle way in which she shifted under his touch, the way her hips buckled and gyrated against the bed. Her movements were only brought to a frantic stop when the wetness of his mouth found the swell of her bosom.

Her mouth fell open and a soft exhale of breath teased the top of his head. Her hand trembled as it found its way to his hair, threading her fingers deep within his thin strands. Lost to his lover's kiss upon her breast, she closed her eyes, arching as she felt the shy, exploratory brush of his tongue. A gentle whimper left her lips and her head tilted backwards, her chest softly heaving, craving another touch.

Hands, so callous upon another's skin, now shook as they slid up and down over feminine curves and arousing dips, drawing sighs and causing the quickening of breath to reach his ears. And when his mouth left her breast suddenly, the air felt harsh and unpleasant against her damp skin. Where was that warmth—his warmth—that she needed from him now? Coldness began to flood her body until she managed to roll her head forward and cast a glance down at the man before her. His fingers had stilled at her hips and yet he did not register her eyes on him. No, his own gaze was directed at something much lower, darker, and hidden between her quivering legs. Instinctively, she flushed and brought her knees together until his hands slid down her thighs to rest lightly on those knees.

Erik looked at her then, his eyes hazy and his stare impenetrable, and Christine found herself palpitating under the weight of it. Now was her chance, she thought, to push him away, to deny him, and by God would he have allowed her such a power over him. With one word, she could silence him, force him from the room with a cruel hand. But she was not a cruel mistress, nor was she one of the many who had mistreated him—she was not his mother—and she would not deny him her love now.

Biting her lip anxiously, Christine drew him closer with one hand, kissing him slowly as she repositioned her legs, one on either side of him. At the first brush of her bare skin against his side, Erik froze, pulling back slightly only to look down at their intimate arrangement with a mixture of fear and intrigue. Holding the woman he loved in all her vulnerability, having her limbs entwined with his, seeing her craving eyes, her swollen lips—He had never felt more like a man than he did at that moment. It terrified him more than anything else ever had. But it was when she began to lean backwards, deftly pulling him with her, that he finally succumbed to her allure.

Hovering over her, still, he awaited Christine's next move with trembling anticipation. But she did not move, merely stared up at him with an expression that swiftly clouded his judgements and his doubts.

When his hands began to map her body, her feet pressed into the mattress and her hips rose off the bed as a subtle yet noticeable throbbing began to stir within her. She knew nothing of how to soothe this gentle burn, but knew that something had be done about it, and so it was instinct that drove her to push forward once again, to none too gracefully surge her hips up to meet Erik's.

Strangled gasps left their mouths at the same time, hot pants that filled the otherwise chilled air. Breathing heavily, they both shifted to stare at one another, curiosity and fear of the unknown alight in their eyes. A want to dive off the precipice they were both teetering on the edge of was an all-consuming thought that sent their hearts thrumming. And each beat, each throbbing pulse, reverberated off their bodies like plucked strings.

Fingertips half-heartedly ran down her flushed cheek as he looked down at her intently, his mouth open and his brow furrowed in an expression of intangible emotion. "Please," he rasped, his voice shaking with an unbridled desire that shocked Christine's sensibilities.

She, too, frowned until she saw his gaze sweep across her bare body and, demurely, she nodded her head, giving him the permission he sought. His hands immediately pressed against her skin, more firmly this time, his coldness doing wonders to the flames shooting through her blood.

"May I touch you?" he asked timidly, neither his hands, nor his gaze leaving her body.

"But... y-you are," she whispered, lifting her head from the pillow.

"N-No," he said, looking up at her suddenly. "May I... touch you?"

Dazedly, she watched as his hands skimmed across her sides and over the edge of her breasts before travelling down to pause just below her hips. A terrifying thrill ran through her as his fingers traced the area around the part of her that had never been touched. "Oh," she whispered, the word barely distinguishable within the harsh breath she exhaled, but she nodded in her delirium all the same.

"I have never touched a woman before," he murmured into her neck.

Like the handling of an antique violin, he delicately stroked her well-crafted curves before running his lips down her neck and body, gently plucking strings that echoed off her in a series of delirious cries. He was struck by her desirous song, his hands stilling against her body, before trailing lower to stroke her most sensitive area. He had never known her to produce such unrestrained notes as she did then. Her cries were broken and hoarse, something akin to a slow whine, and Erik thought them the most beautiful sounds he had ever heard.

He felt her, her heart, her pulse that shook her body with every beat, and that was when he understood. The flaws in her otherwise perfect voice rang out with one final cry and teased his ears with such clarity that tears sprung to his eyes. She was not perfect, far from it, she was laden with imperfections, both seen and unseen... just as he was.

He watched as her chest heaved and her eyes opened and closed lazily, as though they could not decide whether she was more awake or tired—her breaths came sharp and fast, a startling aftermath of her first release.

Erik was nearly frozen when she blindly groped for his shoulder, bringing his face close to hers as her fingers weakly held him there.

Her lips then flirted with his, kissing them once before tracing the shape of them with her own. His skin tingled with the sensation of her sweet breath and he whimpered as she whispered huskily, "Erik... Erik, min älskling..." He looked up at her, his ears yearning to hear his name spoken that way again. "Min kärlek... My husband." And at this, he shuddered, bowing his head once more to her pale neck.

All at once, he could feel every outline, every curve of her body pressed against him, calling to him, and he gasped into her hair, feeling almost suffocated. "Christine," he gasped, tensing as he held his weight and his damp fingers away from her. "I... I can't... I can't..."

Expecting vicious words or a backlash of some kind, he was stunned to feel her hand against the back of his head, softly stroking his hair in a repetitive, soothing motion. He felt her cheek rest against him as she nodded, murmuring, "It's all right, it's all right."

Immediately, guilt and an overwhelming urge to hit himself came over him. How could he have ever thought ill of his beloved? But her arms around his shuddering figure brought such security to him that he began to relax into her hold. His weight slumped, half on top of her, half beside her, and he nestled into her body, his head pillowed against her breast, their hands entwining as their eyes shut and they succumbed to their own drowsiness.

Erik had never allowed himself the luxury of falling asleep in such a vulnerable position, but as he recalled Christine's words from some weeks ago, he knew now that they were true: when he was with her, he was truly safe.

"I love you," was the soft whisper that reached his ears before he fell into a deep sleep.

o0o

It was still dark when they were each stirred from their slumber, but were too content in their state of rest to move to lay side by side. Enraptured when he felt her awaken, he propped himself up on one elbow and looked into her vibrant eyes. She stroked his mangled cheeks before craning her neck up to kiss him. Her lips were slow, attentive, but ardent in their languid touches, and it was not long before she became aware of her bareness beneath him. Erik soon pulled away, following her eyes down to her body before gradually lowering his lips to the skin between her breasts. The trapped heat between their bodies had covered the little valley in a thin layer of sweat and he kissed it diligently, savouring the way she arched towards him, her hands grasping at his shoulders.

When he lifted his head, they held each other's gaze, eyes dark, mouths parted, and allowed a strange merging of pleasure and discomfort to carry them through the night.