Chapter Four

Once more, Christine slept as Erik watched. They'd arrived just after sunrise, and the station was just opening. Erik had purchased two tickets to Stockholm, pretending that Christine was his wife and they were vacationing. The clerk had taken issue with his mask, apparently, for he suspiciously had questioned the whereabouts of their luggage. Erik had smoothly interjected that they were sent separately and were already en route to Sweden. The man seemed to accept this response and had arranged two tickets to Sweden via a comfortable sleeper cab, one bed, though this mattered not, since Erik could not have slept if he wished to.

The train left at 8 o'clock. Erik had stiffly persuaded Christine to take a bit of breakfast, as she hadn't even in over twenty four hours and was looking a bit ashen. She'd grudgingly agreed and to his surprise downed two pieces of toast with marmalade, three strips of bacon, and scrambled eggs along with a goblet of orange juice. All the while she'd glance up intermittently, each time her eyes saying something different. First, "you insufferable bastard," then, "what do you suppose we shall do upon reaching Sweden?" and then, halfway through her meal, "Why on earth aren't you eating anything, instead just sitting here watching me make a pig of myself? Surely you must be starved as well."

He cleared his throat. "I do not eat often, and certainly not in the presence of others."

She looked positively irked at his easy ability to read her thoughts. She said nothing for a while, taking a few more overly dainty bites of her toast. "Foolishness. A man ought to eat. It's necessary, after all."

She spoke to him as she would any other man she was in casual acquaintance with, albeit coldly, but this time with no lacing of utmost respect or tinge of fear. Such a heartless deed had finally humanized him in her eyes, degraded him. To her, he was nothing more than a cold beast of a man, though with a damnably beautiful mind and voice. That she could never deny.

"I am not like other men," he said quietly, a ray of hope shining through at her different, equal tone, and the fact that she spoke to him at all.

"Yes," she replied glacially. "I have seen that. Please excuse me." And she rose from her seat, leaving Erik's hopes to crash back to earth.

And after a bit, he'd followed her path from the dining cab back to their own, where he found her retired upon the bed, though whether she was asleep or not, he could not tell.

He was angry with himself. Or perhaps even a bit angry with her, for no longer fearing him. He was a formidable specimen, to be sure. Well over six feet tall, usually dressed in all black, with an impressive intellect to boot, Erik was the sort to command the attention of each person in a room, if he so desired. And what was more, he knew it. This was not even to mention his mask, which covered the majority of his face, leaving no open chink into his emotions or thoughts. He intimidated grown men.

Now he could not frighten this slight bit of a girl? Christine was of average height, and of slender build. Much smaller than he himself. One would think, intrinsically, she would fear him. Why, suddenly, did Christine treat him as if he were less than she?

Of course, he could not say he did not deserve it, not in the slightest. It simply surprised him that she had grown the backbone and acquired the gumption to treat him in this manner. Even before she'd seen his face she had treated him with careful respect and tact. Even in all her patronization and lies, she had still feared him. And now? Nothing.

The killing had changed them both, it seemed. Somehow, his horrible crime had placed them on an equal plane. She no longer saw him as omnipotent after seeing him commit an awful crime. He was nothing more than a common criminal to her. He no longer saw her as a meek mouse, not with the way she'd regarded him.

Christine had always been an interesting puzzle to him. She was strong, willful, and independent, yet at the same time, always a child to him, always yearning for guidance. A walking paradox. It had intrigued him, and still did. As much as he hated himself for it, one glance at her sleeping form upon the bed, and lust roared to life within him, but beneath the lust dwelled a respectful layer of awe, and respect, and love.

Love, spat his conscience. You've no right to love her. You've ruined her, fool. Protect her. Nothing more.

He knew in his heart, this voice was correct.

Protect her...nothing more. She will never forgive you...

...nor should she.