A/N: Hello, all. Yay for keeping promises. Just a brief note. I will be leaving for an extended vacation tomorrow; therefore, I'm not certain when I will have access to the Internet again. However, rest assured that the second I do find access, I will update this story. Please enjoy.

Chapter Ten

They both froze, Erik with the wine glass halfway from the table to his lips. Had he imagined what he'd just heard, or had he simply heard her wrong? From the corner of his eye he observed her expression in hopes of it giving him some hint as to the reality. Her eyes were wide and glued on his face, or the mask, rather. She was tense, her hands clamped on the table and her chest barely moving, as if she held her breath. As soon as she felt his gaze she torn hers away.

So, she had asked him that.

He'd never imagined she would summon the courage to ask him that, or even consider it. What was worse, in his surprise, he had no idea how to respond. He wasn't even quite certain of the answer.

Surely, he had loved her before. His mind was clouded, his heart was confused, but in some twisted way, he had loved her very deeply. After he'd killed the vicomte, his emotions, amazingly, had become secondary to hers. For the first time in his life, he'd lived unselfishly, always wondering how Christine felt, or how what he did would affect her. Did he appreciate her for teaching him to live this way? Of course. Did he love her for it? If someone like him was capable of love, which he was beginning to see he was, then yes, he did love her for it.

What she'd taught him was invaluable. Through her, he'd learned that he could unselfishly care for another human being, never with any expectations nor malice, only a quiet eagerness to please her as best he could. Because of her, he'd learned he had a heart, that he was not simply an unfeeling mass of flesh and sinew, but that he was indeed meant to love, and perhaps even be loved. How could he not love her when she'd given him such precious knowledge?

But...was he in love with her? He knew this was what she truly wanted to know.

He considered. He had tried his best never to think of her in that way over the past months, trying his best only to see her in a platonic light. Subsequently, so long smothered, his ardor for her, although not unfamiliar, seemed far too embarrassing to speak of, especially to her. It was an odd sensation, as before, he could have told her of his love for hours on end. But now, he had leaned good grace, tact...he'd learned that no matter how much he wailed of his passion and cried of his love, it would never make her see him in that way. He'd learned that neither he nor anyone else could ever gain love through pity, nor through control, either.

And now, after he'd told himself these things numerous times, she was asking him to tell her of it once more? She wanted to hear it? Why?

"Why do you want to know?" he asked finally.

There was a pregnant pause.

"It's the only thing you haven't spoken of," she said quietly, withdrawing from him, as his refusal to answer had surprised her.

"It is in the past. That is why."

"Not to me. I cannot stop wondering. I am wise enough now to appreciate it a bit better. Please, Erik."

He could never deny anything she asked, and what was more, she'd likely realized that by now.

He considered once more. When he'd looked at Christine before, every molecule in his body had seemed to warm, his heart had filled with gladness, followed by the bitter taste of jealousy. Jealousy, and the knowledge that no matter how kind, or harsh he was to her, it would all be in vain, for she would never be his. He knew she belonged to the world of light.

And now? He looked at her, truly looked at her. He noticed every small detail about her face; how she was gently biting her bottom lip in apprehension, how blue, wide and clear her eyes were, how a few golden tresses had escaped from her loose chignon. The longer he looked, the more warmth he felt, the more joyous. He waited for the sting of jealousy to taint him, but there was none, and somehow within his heart he knew that even had the vicomte still been alive, even had they been wed, he would look at her and feel the very same way.

His eyes filled with tears as the realization hit him. He loved her now, he truly and fully did. Like a child playing with a brand new toy, seeing how well it worked, Erik began testing his own gift. He imagined that Christine had left him, married another and started a family of her own, never giving him a second thought. It hurt him, to be true, but he also found, miraculously, that he felt no hypothetical need to obliterate this family of hers, not even to contact her and remind her that he existed, disturbing her peace. He found that he only wished her the happiest she could be.

Again he imagined that he and Christine would live together until the end of his days, enjoying a full though platonic relationship to the end. Christine would never see him as a potential lover, though he would continue loving her endlessly. He found he could imagine little else that was sweeter. It was all he could ever dream of.

"Yes, Christine," he whispered. "I do love you. Very much so."

Christine fought not to let her expression change, but somehow she knew her eyes had softened, and perhaps even glistened with tears. She had not expected to feel much, whatever his answer would be, but to her surprise she felt a sense of pride within her...no, more than that. A sense of relief, of contentment.

She turned away as if she'd been slapped. How could she be glad that another man loved her when he was the man who'd killed Raoul?

Oh, dear Raoul, he must be turning in his grave!

Erik immediately stiffened. He rose sharply from the table, and Christine turned involuntarily toward him. By now, silent tears were streaming down her cheeks, which only served to further enrage him.

"Don't ask for the truth, dear, if you cannot handle it," he spat hideously.

She too rose from the table. "Erik," she whimpered, "you don't understand..."

"Then make me!"

"I can't...only know that I don't cry because you love me...I hope I haven't made you feel as if your love is a horrible thing." She paled at the realization. "Oh, Erik," she cried, scrambling to stand before him, "I didn't mean that at all. Any woman who would turn your love away is a fool."

Her words spilled from her lips before she even had a moment to phrase them eloquently, before she'd checked them for tact and honor for Raoul.

He scoffed. "Then you must be a fool."

"I was, Erik," she whispered.

It took them both a moment to realize the weight of her words, but they did in the very same instant, and in that instant, their gazes met, and they simply stared into each other's eyes for moment, or perhaps for an eternity. In that amount of time, all unanswered questions were answered, all unspoken words were spoken. And suddenly, staring was not enough. They grasped for each other with ravenous hunger neither knew the other was feeling, and never let go.

That night nothing mattered, not that he'd killed Raoul, not that she'd been planning to run away and not even say goodbye, not that they were never meant to be together. Perhaps this was what made them need each other so. All that mattered was that they loved one another, consequences be damned.

Though as Erik carried her up the stairs, somewhere in Christine's deep subconscious, she knew she'd regret it all eventually. But she couldn't care; all reason left her when his hideous, misshapen lips met her perfect ones.