Your Chains Are Still Mine
Some sexiness ahead. Youngsters beware!
xxx
"As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words."
-William Shakespeare
New Year's Eve- 1870
The crisp black soldier's costume Raoul wore made him look older somehow, remote and serious. He was a very handsome man, even compared to the sensual dark looks of his brother Philippe, who was dressed as a priest, complete with high stock and rosary. His grey eyes flashed with irreverent humor at his younger brother's censorious glare and Christine couldn't help but giggle at his rakish wink. Philippe's charm was irresistible.
Christine saw how women's eyes looked and held as he strode, more like a man of action than a man of the cloth. His broad shoulders were soon lost in the surge of gaily dressed aristocracy. Neither of the de Chagny brothers wore masks—Raoul out of consideration for Christine's history with masked men and Philippe out of his usual contempt for authority.
The colors of this year's masquerade were gold, silver, black and white, but Christine bucked tradition and dressed in the perfect confection of pink roses that Raoul had chosen for her. She smoothed the rose-hued silk, Raoul's diamond engagement ring twinkling fiercely on her fourth finger. His warm hand engulfed her arm above her elbow and squeezed gently.
Her fiancé.
Warm love washed over her, as gentle and sustaining as sunlight. Raoul, a good man, a man of position and wealth with a heart of gold. He shone so bright among the twittering flock of Parisian high society, all the more precious for his rarity. Tonight, among the glitter of the Bal Masque on the arm of her white knight, Christine resolved that she would not think of him. She sneered inwardly. Fat chance of that at a masquerade ball, where the favored mask of the evening was half black and half white.
"Would you care to dance?" Raoul's lips brushed the shell of her ear as he leaned close to whisper over the din of music and the dull roar of chattering voices.
Christine cast out her hearing for the measure of the music. A waltz.
"I would love to." She beamed at him, her heart softening at his sunny smile in return. Christine glided onto the floor on Raoul's arm as the night's champagne slipped into her blood, making her warm and giddy. The Opera glowed with color and laughter. Three months of Elysian peace, as the managers called it.
Three months.
This was supposed to be a celebration. Why did the laughter grate and the barbed glances sink deep? Over Raoul's strong shoulder, she glimpsed Madame Giry, beautiful and severe in a tailored gown of ebony satin. The sight of the one who had been her anchor and guide for most of her life loosened the knot of tension in Christine's belly. She yanked away her gaze from the Persian, who stood next to her, sipping champagne from a flute, garbed in the extravagant turban and tunic of his home country. He wore it far better than Piangi, who looked like a bloated caricature of a sultan, Christine thought uncharitably. She couldn't think of anything that reminded her of . . . she stumbled a little, but quickly regained her footing.
"Christine? Are you all right, my dear? You look pale." Raoul was the picture of loving concern, blue eyes as guileless as summer skies. Christine grasped for a plausible lie and spoke without faltering. She had become very good at hiding her true feelings in the long months of a barren autumn.
"I'm fine, Raoul. The champagne's just made me a little dizzy, that's all."
"Then you should sit down," he replied firmly.
Raoul's arm draped gracefully across her bare shoulders. He gently steered her off the dance floor to the row of velvet chairs along the wall. Christine sank awkwardly into its embrace, hampered as she was by the full layers of petticoat and overskirt. It was on her tongue to placate Raoul, but he stopped her by the simple expedient of pressing his lips to hers. Startled and pleased, Christine relaxed into the kiss. Pleasure bloomed in a slow, graceful unfurling of crimson petals. There was no darkness or savagery in it and Christine floated through the soft, tranquil air of his kiss. Dreamy-eyed when he pulled away, Christine was gratified to see he was no less affected.
"Stay here. I'll fetch you some punch," he whispered huskily. Christine started to say that the punch from the Populaire's kitchens probably contained more alcohol than the champagne, but Raoul had already darted off, lost amid the tangle of chiffon and the dazzle of gold.
She sat back, content to watch the milling couples. She saw Meg in her white swan costume whirling in the arms of a dark older gentleman, whom Christine recognized as the wealthy Baron de Castelot-Barbezac and patron of the Opera before Raoul. As they swept past, she heard the music of Meg's laugh at something the baron said. joy mingled with relief swept through Christine at the sight. After Buquet's attack, she had feared that Meg might never again be whole. It was good to see her enjoying herself. Christine bit her lip. There had been a time where she could catch Meg between dances and pry out the juicy details of her about the dapper baron. How had they drifted apart? So many things had changed since that dreadful night of the Il Muto premiere.
As her mood, buoyed by the sort of forced cheerfulness that had carried her during the months following her father's death, now began to sink towards depression, Christine struggled to her feet. She cast a glance around for Raoul; she felt bereft without his presence. The water was so deep and dark around her, dragging her under . . . oh Raoul, she couldn't swim!
Christine exhaled a heavy breath. Even now, on a night of beauty and happiness, she couldn't see fit to feel anything but wilted depression and the hot coppery taste of betrayal.
"Ah, Miss Daae!" Firmin's brash voice broke into her morose musings and Christine mustered an expression of banal politeness.
"Monsieur Firmin, good evening," she murmured, bobbing a quick curtsey in greeting. The manager was well into his cups, his cheeks flushed and brow dewed with perspiration. He made a clumsy attempt at a courtly leg and very nearly fell on his face, the golden horns of his ram costume wobbling on their precarious perch. Christine buried her grin in her cupped palm, stepping back as he regained his faculties.
"This is quite a grand spectacle, isn't it, Miss Daae?" Firmin slurred, gesturing toward the dancers pirouetting along the grand marble staircase.
"It is," she replied, feverishly thinking of ways to politely extricate herself from this conversation.
"It's such a relief now that that blasted Phantom is gone. Oh, pardon me, my dear. I forget that he is your teacher." That welter of anger and sorrow and betrayal rose up again, and Christine repressed the desire to clout Firmin across the face for reminding her of what she was trying to desperately to forget.
"Not any longer. He severed our acquaintance," she said, a little sharply. A fugitive gleam of speculation entered Firmin's liquor-glazed eyes.
"Is that so? I am very sorry, my dear," he drawled.
His eyes darted low to ogle her cleavage, his thick tongue darting out to wet his lips. Christine suddenly felt very exposed and somehow filthy. A prickle of warning slicked her skin like dirty ice.
"It's quite all right," she breathed, her stays suddenly very tight, "I should go, Raoul will be looking for me." She moved to step past him, but he blocked her path. How had he edged her into an alcove without her noticing?
"Ah yes, the good patron. You moved on quickly, didn't you, you little minx?" Firmin chuckled at his own joke. His hand attached to her arm like a limpet, his callused thumb stroking the crease of her elbow.
"Please let go," she whispered. Firmin waggled a finger in her face.
"No, no, I don't think so, Christine. Since you're so generous with your favors, maybe you would give me a taste, hmm?"
His dark head darted in as if to kiss her, and Christine acted quite without thinking. She watched the arch of her hand as it flew and struck him across the face, so hard that little pins and needles stung her palm. The golden horns, already wobbling, lurched at this fresh assault and dangled absurdly off Firmin's round head. Christine stifled hysteric giggles. Any vestiges of hilarity faded as Firmin's grip tightened to brutal proportions on her arm, yanking her close, his black eyes glowed with the promise of retribution.
"You little bitch!" he growled, lifting his hand to strike her.
"Think very carefully before you act, Monsieur."
Cruel hope lanced her heart at the sound of that unbearably beautiful voice. Both Christine and Firmin turned toward the voice and a gasp flew from Christine's lips. He had dressed for the ball. Amid the muted pallet of gold, silver, black, and white, he stood out in startling bloody scarlet.
"Erik!" she breathed.
Those glacial blue eyes, glowering from kohl-rimmed sockets in a grotesque death's head mask, flicked over her in curt dismissal before fastening with blistering intensity on Firmin. A knife-thin smile touched Erik's full mouth, eloquent with poisoned courtesy.
"Is it your habit to solicit sexual favors from those in your employ, Monsieur? I'm sure the authorities would be quite interested to hear that, especially in light of recent events. Mademoiselle Adele's commission has been resigned in consideration of her . . . delicate condition, has it not?" Beneath the wine's flush, Firmin paled. His hand dropped, hanging limply at his side.
"Ah, that's not necessary, Monsieur. I was just um, ah . . ." Firmin scuttled past Erik, the end of his sentence left to dangle.
Christine quickly dismissed the entire Firmin interlude, latching hungrily onto the crimson god standing before her. Garbed in a blood red coat in the military style with gold stitching, tight embroidered leggings, high black boots buffed to a mirror shine, with a sword at his side, he looked . . . magnificent. Something clicked in her head. The Red Death. Humph. It suited Erik's macabre sense of humor. Her erstwhile teacher was looking at her as intently as she him.
Gooseflesh stippled her skin under his intense scrutiny. The skin that had gone clammy under Firmin's gaze now bloomed with heat under Erik's, welcoming the intimate touch of his eyes. Christine kneaded her arm where Firmin had grabbed her. Raoul's ring flashed and Erik's eyes fixed upon it. An absurd surge of guilt washed over her, and stiff pride as it ebbed. She didn't owe him anything! The same ruthless look he'd given Firmin entered his eyes.
"I have written a new opera that Firmin will have no choice but to air. You will be the lead." The words were cold, inanimate things, all the more hideous spoken in that terribly rich voice. The realization of their shared dream, garbed in a nonchalant comment. Damn his unfathomable moods!
"What is it called?" she said stupidly. A small, bitter twist to his mouth.
"Don Juan Triumphant."
Christine reeled under the words. Don Juan? The music he refused to let her touch, or even see, because it was dangerous? Was this an act of trust or punishment? Punishment, she decided, judging from his stiff manner and scowling face. Holy Virgin, he was so beautiful and terrifying behind that mask! Erik gestured toward the ballroom behind him, that same hypnotizing, graceful gesture that had her so mesmerized when she first met him face to face.
"May I have this dance?"
Christine watched from miles away as her voice floated through clenched teeth and stiff lips.
"Yes."
The air of unreality that Erik clothed himself in trapped her in its web and together they floated onto the floor. He was the only thing real and solid; the rest was a blur of ghostly faces, specters in an eternal ball. He could twist the world to suit himself; the Opera bowed to his whim. Now, it trembled in wake of the anger pouring off him in waves.
His body's heat blazed through the red cloth of his costume, the leather of his gloves was supple and butter soft. Erik's lean arms were solid, but unlike Raoul, Christine did not feel safe in his embrace. No, with his eyes blazing, he looked like a wolf regarding the tender morsel of a fluffy sheep. Christine, a dancer since the age of seven, was now unaccountably clumsy, though Erik never misstepped. He must have seen the question in her eyes, for a grim smile touched his lips.
"I watched and learned the forms. I have never had an occasion to warrant a dance partner." The bitterness in his voice yawned like an open wound. A warm cloud of his spicy scent rose up to embrace her, as intoxicating as champagne. Christine worried her lower lip with her teeth.
Where was Raoul?
"I see that congratulations are in order, my dear. You must be overjoyed." There was the faintest savage underlining of the last word, an echo of mockery. Christine's chin jutted defiantly, fingernails digging into the thick fabric covering his forearms.
"You left." Christine shot back, his cool tone blowing on the embers of her own anger.
Erik stopped abruptly, in the middle of the dance floor, his grip hard and tight around her. Every lean inch of him was pressed against her, not the slightest bit muted by the yards of fabric between them. She hoped he wouldn't notice her trembling.
The cocoon of dreamy abstraction was beginning to wear off. Christine was only too aware of the watching eyes behind the masks, the whispers. A quick glance out of the tail of her eye saw the Persian, Madame and Meg staring open-mouthed. Erik's voice insinuated its silken tendrils into heart and soul. The soft mouth was contorted with fury.
"Yes, I left. I left because your fiancé wanted me arrested! You seemed happy enough in his company—especially with his tongue down your throat!"
Arrested? An errant sting of betrayal from Raoul floated through her mind before the full intent of his words struck. When it did, her anger crackled and blazed.
"How dare you!" she whispered fiercely. Erik glanced aside and seeing their audience, grasped her hand.
"Come with me."
XXX
A stumbling oaf struck him from behind, sending Christine's punch in an elegant arc across a hapless reveler's silver costume. Raoul let out a string of very bad language and hastily apologized to the soaked young lady, setting the now empty glass on a passing waiter's tray. A limp wedge of lemon clung to her bosom and Raoul bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh.
"My apologies, Madame," he murmured, pulling the handkerchief from up his sleeve and offering it to her.
He turned to face the one who bumped him. Philippe sat sprawled in a lounge chair, La Sorelli draped across his lap. Chastising words rose in his throat, but he stifled them. The Comte de Chagny would embarrass himself however he pleased.
"Ah, Raoul! Good evening, my gallant compatriot. Have you any sins that need confessing?" his brother slurred, already well on his way to drunkenness. Raoul tried not to notice the crimson smudges of lipstick marring the pristine white stock of the priest's costume he wore.
Heat rose in Raoul's cheeks.
"None that I would confess to you, you drunken sot!" Raoul jibed. Philippe laughed, twining a lock of La Sorelli's chestnut brown hair around his finger.
"You just missed him; André came staggering through here babbling about a ghost. He said the Opera Ghost had returned that he left the score of an opera on his desk. Funny thing is, all the bolts have been changed twice. This Erik is a very interesting fellow." Raoul's blood ran cold.
"Christine!" he breathed and began to dash off.
"Raoul!" Philippe shouted after him. Raoul skidded to a stop, turning to look. For once, all traces of humor or mockery were gone from Philippe's face. He looked so much like their father that Raoul's posture straightened unconsciously.
"Fetch your sword, little brother. You're going to need it."
XXX
Erik's heart was pounding. He didn't know if it was anger or fear or lust that spurred its fevered pace. Perhaps it was a mix of all three, or the residue of bloodlust. He would never forget the sight of Firmin's pudgy hand lifted to strike Christine, or the burn of diamond's fire on her finger. His hand tightened around her wrist and he dragged her the remaining steps down the hall and into the musty darkness of a storage room.
He slammed the door shut. The flimsy wooden thing bounced off its jamb and creaked open a crack in sullen defiance. The ribbon of yellow light from the hall illuminated a narrow strip of Christine's hair and cheek, her fist clenched in a handful of pink silk.
A formless flood of emotion rushed through him—too pure for him to name.
Too violent for love, too deep for lust.
Perhaps it was this instinct that urged him to grasp and cling, to possess her in whatever way he could. Erik moved without thinking, without speaking. His boots made deliberate thuds as he closed the distance between them.
The kiss was a savage thing of parted lips and thrusting tongue, his hands plunging deep into the silky fall of her hair. The pins fell to the floor like tiny hailstones. Christine stiffened in protest, whimpered into his mouth, her small hands shoving at his chest. Erik muscled her back, pinning her against the wall. He slanted his mouth across hers, sweet pleasure and gloating triumph swelling when he felt her soften. God, he could do this forever, lost in the warm, moist pleasure of Christine's lips and tongue and breath. But alas, his lungs screamed for air and he pulled back, lost in the dark pools of her eyes.
Desire roared through his body, a deep, throbbing ache pounding in time with his heartbeat. His skin felt thin and hot, only a lean membrane containing violent, contradictory emotions. Christine's hand floated up and brushed the mask. Erik stiffened, retreating into instinctive mistrust and anger. He grasped both wrists together and pinned them above her head. It satisfied a primal impulse to have her stretched out, immobile under his power.
Then her lips sought his and he was lost. This silent assent released whatever bound him and he broke the kiss to swear savagely.
"E—Erik?" Christine whispered.
She looked too young and innocent, the cloud of her dress as fragile as a bridal gown. Erik flinched away from such a thought. Chaining her wrists within the grip of one hand, Erik bit the middle finger of his glove, pulling his hand free. The black leather glove fluttered to the floor to join her hairpins—and his dignity.
"I must touch you or die." His voice was raw with need.
Erik's lips crushed hers, tongue plunging into the warm cavern of her mouth, mimicking a yearning he dared not indulge. His free hand grazed the warm column of her throat, relishing the incensed throb of her heart and the small helpless sound that vibrated against the sensitive pads of his fingertips. So soft . . . so warm . . . white velvet livid with heat.
His questing hand dipped lower, cupping the ripe fullness of her breast. A cry vibrated against his lips. Wild greed burned in his belly. He wanted more! Erik grasped the silk of her bodice and yanked down. Her breasts popped free from the scooped neckline of her gown. That sliver of light illuminated the perfect white curve of her breast, adorned with its dusky pink nipple.
Perfection. A painful cramp of arousal clawed at his innards, his leggings constricting.
Gently, reverently, he touched the soft curve, the ripe under swell, the firm nipple. A shudder raced through her body, breaking the kiss. The sound of their frantic, mingled panting was harsh in the stale silence. Wallowing in the secrets of her flesh eased the ache and made it worse.
Erik rested his cheek briefly against hers, relishing the warmth and softness of her, then dropped a trail of soft kisses along her throat, working unerringly lower . . . the firm bud of her nipple held a faint sweet tang, different from the soft, salty dew of sweat glistening on her skin. Erik lost himself in suckling and nuzzling and licking, lavishing careful attention on both breasts. Her whimpers and stifled screams were music to his ears. Erik paused his labors, peering up the narrow valley between her breasts.
"Look at me, Christine. See who has you." her eyes remained clenched tight.
"Look at me!" he snarled.
Christine's eyes flew open, kohl-stained tears running down her cheeks. Those beautiful brown eyes, dark and limpid. One tear glistened like a diamond in her lashes. Diamond. Like the ring. That thought shattered the illusion of mutual passion Erik had deluded himself into believing. No, perhaps that was unfair. He held her body, at least, in his possession. Her voice and her body were irrevocably his. But not her heart. Not her soul, or her life. A lover, maybe, but never a wife. There was a time when pleasure in her body would have been enough. Now Erik grasped for a more elusive prize.
He dragged his tongue over one nipple, then the other, feeling the long, delicious shiver race through her, watching her teeth clamp on her lower lip to stifle her cries. A small voice marveled in her reaction to him. For so long he considered himself diseased, tainted, unfit for even the simplest of human contact. Now, this magnificent creature was writhing in his arms at the pleasure he had given her.
So beautiful.
Erik thrust one knee between her thighs, and scrabbled through the yards of skirt and petticoat for the slender length of her leg. At last, warm flesh. Gloating power buoyed him as he listened to the increasing tempo of her breathing, watching her heaving bosom as his warm, bare hand slid up her calf, the back of her knee, her thigh. When he found the tight curls shielding her sex, he stopped. The smile that touched his lips held an edge of malice.
"What would your fiancé think, Christine, if he found you with my hand between your legs?" he murmured, cupping her sex.
A low, animal groan left his lips. Tight, wiry curls gave way to hot, silken flesh, the evidence of her arousal wet and slick. Erik wagged his head, clucking in disapproval.
"Naughty girl," he rasped.
The pain and humiliation that twisted her face did something in his chest, but he shoved away any gentler sentiment of love. No, this is what she wanted. A quick fuck in the closet while her husband went to fetch her coat. How pathetic that he would take any scrap she would give him.
"Erik, please. I didn't mean to-"
Erik cut off any sweet lies she would tell—and he would undoubtedly believe, sop that he was—with a marauding kiss. It took him a moment to realize the hiccupping motions she made were sobs. Regret pierced him and his touch softened. Erik explored the terrain of her most private flesh, making love to her with tender circling strokes of that pearl of flesh at the apex of her sex. Christine writhed and bucked against him, struggling mindlessly toward the promise of release.
"Easy, love. I'll take care of you. Trust me. Oh God, Christine," Erik groaned against her mouth.
Their eyes locked and Erik saw the instant ecstasy overtook her, felt it in the wild spasms of her body. It seemed to last forever, long, shuddering tremors that left her limp and exhausted.
Christine would have fallen, had he not caught her about the waist. Erik pressed his face against the crook of her neck and shoulder, not brave enough to meet her gaze. He couldn't even understand himself. One minute he wanted to punish her for choosing the boy, the next he begged for her trust as she climaxed all over his hand. His body had some very urgent desires at the moment, but he ignored them. This was too perfect, breathing in the scent of her skin and the faint savor of perfume, tasting the salt of her sweat. Freed from his grip, her soft hands stroked his hair, his shoulders, his back, soothing him even after he had been such a perfect beast.
Erik didn't know how long they stood that way, clinging to each other, unable to speak and break the tenuous peace between them.
"I love you, Erik." He flinched as if she'd shot him. He crushed the betraying surge of joy under his boot heel. Erik pulled back, glaring down at her.
"Don't," he choked, "Don't say things you don't mean."
Hurt flashed across her face, more tears sliding down her cheeks. How many tears had she shed because of him? Erik recalled vividly when he had left her the first time upon realizing the truth of his indecent affections. Shaking hands clutched the gown, dragging it over her breasts. The diamond ring winked on her finger.
"H—How can you say such cruel things? Is loving me so terrible?" Erik folded his arms over his chest, the dense, earthy scent of her pleasure wafting up from his hand.
"Once again, my dear, I am the pupil and you the master in the art of cruelty," he snapped, ignoring the latter part of her question. Yes, he wanted to shout, loving you is a destiny of pain!
"What do you mean?" her voice was clogged with tears. That endearing furrow to her brow nearly made him smile. God, how he cherished her! Erik expelled a breath through his nose in irritation. How could she not know?
"It doesn't matter. If you cannot even remember what monumental action would have torn me from your side, then we have nothing more to speak of."
God help him, he had to be harsh. When she touched his hair, he was seconds away from falling on his knees and begging for her to love him forever. Erik knew he would perform any degrading manner of groveling to keep her, subject himself to servitude more binding than his slavery under Javert. Where was his dignity? His pride? They would sustain him longer than the fickle affections of an adolescent girl. It was blind self-preservation. He took a step toward the door when a small hand grasped a handful of his crimson cape.
"I'm not letting you go!" she said, with a pugnacious thrust of her chin. She looked like a kitten that pounced on a tiger's tail. Erik laughed. He made a dismissive flick with his hand.
"Run along, Christine. Run along to Prince Prospero. When his fumbling attempts at pleasing you fall short, I will gladly step in to perform at your request."
Sex. Pleasure. Those he would give with alacrity. He could not offer his heart on a silver platter again. No. He wouldn't survive it.
Christine remained rooted in place, her eyes pleading holes. Erik yanked open the door, blinking at the sudden rush of golden lamplight. Christine squinted, her hand shielding her eyes. Heart and belly both ached at the sight of her. Her hair a glorious snarl, flushed, tearstained, lips puffed and red, pink gown in disarray, she looked like a woman who had been thoroughly had. A vicious pleasure filled him at the thought of de Chagny finding her this way.
Mine, boy. In a way she can never be yours! She's mine!
"So . . . so you don't love me anymore, Erik?"
The words were quiet and soft, so like a child that Erik weakened under a sudden flooding of tenderness. This poor child. He had twisted and broken her into a semblance of himself, in an attempt to make her heart beat in time with his. Now the poor girl thought she loved him when he gave her body pleasure. The scathing words that would definitively push her away died on his tongue. Erik heaved a sigh.
"I will love you until the day I die. You're twisted up in my heart and soul, Christine Daae and I don't know whether to bless or curse you for it."
Snapping his cape close to his body, he shouldered his way out the door.
xxxxxx
A/N: What do you think? Sexy, angsty Erik is my favorite.
More up soon!