Well, so far you've all been very good sports about Erik's... rash decision making. He and I both thank you for it! I think it's important for us all to remember that there's nothing... normal... about our dear Erik (no matter how much he'd like to pretend!) so with that is going to come the bumps and challenges of his... unique approach to doing things.

Anyway, one quick side note. If you guys see typos, as always, please feel free to point them out directly. I do what I can (as do my pre-readers and Beta) but we're all capable of error (well, except for Erik. He's never made a mistake a day in his life.), and so if something sticks out at you and you feel so inclined, just let me know and I will fix it!

But enough of that. Onward!

XV

The tendrils of fear licked at her heart as soon as the door was shut and she faced the shadowy bedroom once more. She hurried over to the bedside table and fiddled with the lamp, but no matter how she looked or touched or nudged, there did not seem to be a knob of any kind that would turn it on.

She barely contained her whimper.

She had never much cared for the dark.

Her papa had said her imagination was too vivid, that as soon as a single wisp of some terror made its way into her mind, she couldn't get it out again. He would laugh and tease in order to soothe her, opening cupboards and closet doors with all the dutiful care of a loving parent. Yet even with his demonstrations that there was in fact nothing horrible lurking in the darkness, Christine would beg for a small light to be left on, lest she worry that some creature would rise from underneath her bed and latch on to any extended appendages.

And to her embarrassment, this had continued well into her adolescent years.

But then there was no papa to frighten away her ghosts, and she had become well practiced in moving quickly from switch to lamp, a trail of light in her wake.

Yet in Erik's world he seemed to control even illumination, and that did little to soothe her already frayed nerves.

At the very least he had turned on the light within the bathroom, which did add a certain brightness to the bedroom as she searched through the wardrobe for something appropriate.

She wanted to be covered. She wanted something that was not in the least bit alluring. But as she looked through the clothing so carefully placed on wooden hangers, she realized that while all quite different in terms of distinct articles, they all were so very soft to the touch. And while Christine would have loved to have continued running her hands along the fine fabrics, a knot of dread formed in her stomach as she pictured Erik's desire to do the same, only with her in them.

She found a long skirt and sweater that she would not ordinarily have put together, but when combined with a pair of thick fuzzy socks she discovered within a drawer, she decided it was suitable enough.

When she opened the adjacent drawer, to her horror she found all manner of underthings, ranging in style and fabric, some intricate lace while others the most delicate of cottons, all pretty and most assuredly alluring.

Christine would have liked to shut the drawer and ignore it forever, but she was not about to go without—the very idea was too mortifying for words.

Christine grabbed the plainest set she could find and swiftly entered the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. She didn't know if she believed him about his ability to undo locks—although perhaps his capacity for stalking her while still incarcerated indicated that she should—but it made her feel better to latch it all the same.

The bath was large—much wider and deeper than any she had seen in the apartments she'd lived in growing up. She frowned, realizing that this probably meant that Erik used this bathroom as well, and the tub was designed to suit his extraordinary frame.

She wouldn't think about that now. She would tend to her more immediate needs and then go back out, bravely and calmly, to discuss what was to be done.

He had seemed so sweet before. All shy smiles and gentlemanly gestures, and she wished that her imagined view of his character had not been so cruelly shattered.

But it was, and there was no ignoring that.

Christine didn't dare make use of the bathtub, but instead ran hot water and found a washcloth, keeping her nightgown on as she hastily scrubbed at her skin. She was reminded of the testimony of Miss Jammes about the man peeping in at her, and while she had immediately dismissed it before, in light of recent discoveries it seemed prudent to be cautious—no matter how much she wished that it wasn't true.

She was grateful for the socks as a reprieve against the cold tile of the floor, and she tugged them up high upon her calves to warm as much of her as possible. The skirt she donned before even removing her nightgown, just in case there were any peering eyes where there most assuredly should not have been. The bra and new panties followed, and to her added embarrassment she found them both to fit remarkably.

Lastly she donned the sweater, and she was certain that it was made of the same sort of material as Erik's own suit—cashmere maybe?

She couldn't help running her finger over the sleeve for a moment, marveling at its suppleness.

At last satisfied that she was decently covered, she reentered the bedroom and contemplated whether or not to venture out into the living area once more. At least she was alone here, her safety temporarily assured, but yet there seemed to be little purpose in hiding. He likely had the key, and if he wished to demand her company he could easily do so.

And Boo was out there…

With a deep breath she pushed open the door, only to stop short as her silky friend brushed passed her with a mew of displeasure that she had shut him out in the first place.

"I would have granted him entrance, but I thought you would be offended that I opened the door without your express permission."

She jumped, not having noticed him seated upon a large leather chair and evidently waiting for her emergence.

Christine glanced behind her only to see Boo prowling about the bedroom, inspecting and rubbing against different items in turn.

"I don't have many doors at home. I guess he isn't used to anything separating us."

That was not exactly true, as the door to the bathroom in her apartment was obviously utilized, his little black paws often coming under the door in a desperate plea for entrance.

"Then I suppose I must fashion a mechanism to allow him freedom throughout the house." He said this quite calmly, his eyes darting about the room in an assessing manner.

And while she might have been endeared to the notion that he was so willing to make changes to his home to accommodate Boo, it was yet another reminder that his intentions were for them both to remain here for an indeterminate amount of time.

She shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what she should do now. Erik sat stiffly in his chair, a large tome balanced on the arm.

"I didn't mean to interrupt if you were reading." Christine started inching back through the door in case he was upset by her intrusion, but he waved his hand indifferently.

"Nonsense. I have had a lifetime to read in solitude. I did not bring you here to lock you away in your bedchamber."

Christine swallowed. "That's… good."

Erik's mouth formed a thin line. "Quite. Now, can I interest you in breakfast? I shall presume that your barren cupboards are a result of a lack of funds and not a distaste for food in general."

She blushed. She did not know why she should be embarrassed, but the reminder that she was incapable of providing for herself in a way that would ensure her cupboards were always fully stocked—somehow it stung when coming from this man.

"I was perfectly all right. I never went hungry…"

That was a blatant falsehood, but from the way Erik looked at her, there was nothing successful about her deception.

"Indeed. So then you preferred to eat inadequate meals of your own accord. Perhaps we should revisit the issue of whether or not you would do yourself harm."

Indignation welled within her, the words escaping before she could consider the hurt they might cause. "You are far skinnier than me, so I hardly think you're one to make accusations!"

His lips pursed and his eyes darkened, and before she was even consciously aware of doing so, she took another step backward.

But his rage did not come, only a huffed breath as he rose from his seat. "Perhaps you are right, although I can assure you, if you were subjected to prison food I doubt you would be interested in their offerings."

Christine flinched, the reminder of where he had spent the last few months an unexpected pinch at her heart. "I'm sorry. Of course you would not be interested in eating there. Especially not when they…" she forced herself to stop speaking lest she say something even more upsetting.

Yet Erik took a step forward, his expression inscrutable. "Oh? And what did they do?"

She bit her lip, trying hastily to determine if he was angry with her for her thoughtlessness. "The bruises," she murmured, almost wishing he could not hear her.

For whether or not she had been mistaken in regards to the charges against him, the bruises that had littered his exposed flesh were real—evidence that he had suffered and was worthy of at least some modicum of compassion.

"Ah yes, a symbol of humanity's goodwill." His head cocked to the side. "Did they trouble you? Surely they did not make my visage even worse."

She gaped at him. "Of course it did!"

It was the wrong thing to say, for this time he flinched away from her, his shoulders hunching as he stared down at the ground. "I see."

His devastation was clear, and despite everything he had done, or might have done, she felt awful immediately.

"No, please, that's not what I meant. I didn't like to see you hurt!"

He glanced at her, and for the first time she saw a glimpse of the shy man she had first smiled at in the courtroom. His eyes were full of distrust, the pain in them so clear. "You did not?" His eyes narrowed. "Would you still not? After what I have done?"

She sighed and glanced about the house she had yet to truly explore. "You mean because you kidnapped me?"

He nodded haltingly, almost as if he was suppressing his desire to argue with her.

"Erik… this wasn't all right. Drugging me, bringing me here…" If possible, he seemed to shrink into himself even further, and that strange pang within her heart throbbed yet again. "But that doesn't mean I want you to suffer—that I'd want you to be abused."

He hummed, and seemed unconvinced at her answer.

"Couldn't you have…"

She kicked herself for yet again entering into a conversation she was unprepared to have, especially not when Erik seemed to be disappearing before her very eyes the longer they spoke.

But Erik was curious and he braved glancing at her again. "Couldn't I what?"

She swallowed. "Have defended yourself." She scrambled to drop the subject as he stared at her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't judge. I'm certain if someone tried to hurt me I wouldn't know what to do."

He barked a laugh, a harsh and incredulous sound that made her nervous. "Firstly, I can assure you that you will never be put in a position where you would be harmed in such a manner—not by anyone. And secondly, it was not from lack of skill that I was hurt, but from lack of will. Sometimes it does not seem worth the energy to even ward off the blows."

Christine couldn't even imagine such a thing. The implication that it happened so frequently—that he had simply given up hope of his life being free of such beatings—hung thickly between them.

"What changed?" she asked quietly, remembering how the wounds had faded as the trial progressed.

His shoulders straightened and he stood up taller. And this time when he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze nearly took her breath away. "I met you."

It was not what she expected. Perhaps that he had finally had enough and stood up against his tormenters. Or maybe that he had reported the abuse to a prison guard or the warden and they had put a stop to it. But she never thought that simply her acknowledgement of him, that merely her looking at him, had changed something.

"I… I don't know what to say."

Truly she didn't. Not when the very prospect frightened her, for it likely meant he had grown attached to her.

And how did she explain that over the course of the trial, she had determined to begin living as well?

But Erik shook his head. "You need not say anything. I promised you food and have delayed it too long already. Come with me."

They passed through another hallway, and she tried not to wonder what was held behind the closed doors.

Other girls?

Yet even as she thought it, the way he looked at her, the notion felt wrong.

This experience had made her doubt her instincts about him, but maybe it was all right to cling to some of the most fundamental ones… at least until he proved them wrong.

At the end of the hall they turned right, and without even a flick of his hand, the darkened room was filled with light.

Finally it occurred to her. "Are they on motion sensors?"

Erik went to the refrigerator without turning to her. "In a manner of speaking."

Well. That was not very helpful.

Especially when it gave her no further indication of how to make the bedroom lamps cooperate.

"I admit my own failure to ascertain your preferred breakfasting items, so you shall have to provide some measure of direction."

She wondered if that failure stemmed from a lack of surveillance on his part, or from her own meager offerings when it came to her morning meal.

With some bemusement she guessed it to be the latter.

"I don't really know."

He turned to her, his expression mildly horrified. "You mean to say that you do not remember what it is like to eat breakfast?"

She blushed, for that certainly wasn't true.

Breakfast with her papa had been a staple growing up. Before she left for school and he hurried off to work, they would take the time to eat together. Some mornings they would talk, or he would help her with a particularly troublesome assignment, other times they would divvy up parts of the newspaper, him with Fine Arts and her pouring over the funny pages.

Lunches were had at school, and frequently he would miss dinner if rehearsals went late, but breakfast was a sacred thing between them.

And ever since he had died, she had typically spurned the breakfast ritual, preferring to make a cup of tea and eat on her way somewhere—or perhaps even forego the meal altogether.

"Can I just… look and see what you have?"

He grimaced at that but relented, stepping away from the fridge and allowing her to peruse its contents.

She had forgotten what a full refrigerator looked like.

Most things were sealed, most things looking newly purchased, and she briefly wondered if he had bought things just for her—only to then kick herself as she remembered he had only just been released from lockup.

When had she become so self-centered?

There were eggs and bundles of carefully packed meats in white paper that could potentially hold bacon… but even the thought of making something so similar to what she shared with her papa—especially with her captor, turned her stomach.

"What do you usually have?"

That seemed safe enough. If she made it so that he was forced to make the decisions, at least she could absolve herself with the knowledge that she was merely following his lead.

And then promptly felt guilty for not having the courage to take responsibility for herself. Her papa would not mind. She had never pretended that he would approve the way she had pushed away something so important to them.

Just as he would have been so cross with her the way she had ignored her music so completely—at least until recently.

Erik's lip curled slightly in distaste. "Perhaps we have something in common, for I am not one to indulge in a morning repast."

Her stomach chose that moment to clutch painfully, and it finally occurred to her to ask how long she had slept—how long he had made her sleep.

"It's been more than one night that I've been here, hasn't it."

It was a statement and not a question.

The way she had felt when she first awoke was more than simply coming out of a drugged stupor, but was much more like a terrible fog from sleeping far, far too long. Her body ached slightly as her muscles remembered what it was to move freely, and again that trickle of fear reminded her that the man offering her breakfast was not above overpowering her to get what he wanted.

She frowned at the thought.

"The amount of sedative I gave you should not have caused you to sleep so. Evidently your body merely used it to provide you with much needed rest."

That did not answer her question, but from the look of displeasure on his face, she fretted over whether or not to press the issue.

"You were in a state of near exhaustion. The fools you work with did not appreciate you, and then you…" he shook his head, his voice little more than a whisper, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than to her. "What else was I to do? It was right to bring you here… It was…"

He was growing more agitated, and the unpredictability of his moods made her uneasy.

"Is there cereal?" she blurted, hoping to distract him from whatever thoughts were beginning to plague him.

Erik stopped fidgeting and blinked before taking a breath. "Of course."

Her eyes widened as he opened a cupboard. She had expected perhaps a box of Raisin Bran, maybe some Cheerios, but the entire thing was filled with perfectly lined boxes, ranging from those appealing to health conscious individuals, to sugary delights that made her teeth ache slightly just at the sight of them.

Her first impulse was to ask if he had bought them all for her, but her new determination not to make assumptions stayed her tongue.

"Quite the connoisseur."

He gave a little shrug, and she was left with the distinct impression that she had embarrassed him. "I did not know what would be to your liking."

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she merely stepped closer, keeping careful distance between herself and Erik, and made her selection. She pulled the box down cautiously, utilizing her left hand to ensure her elbow did not brush against his person. He made no effort to be nearer, but he closed his eyes briefly before she moved away from him.

And when he opened them again there was a sad wistfulness that made her sorry. "I do not want you to be unhappy here. I do not know what to offer you, what would help to make your stay more comfortable. I did not… intend for you to become my prisoner."

Christine wondered what he thought would happen when he made the conscious choice to drug her, to take her sleeping form to… wherever they were. But by every appearance he seemed sincere, as if her reaction to these deliberate events genuinely surprised him.

It made her all the more confused.

She fiddled with the unopened box top. "Maybe you could start by telling me what you did intend. What you… want from me."

He was quiet for a long while as he leaned against the black countertop, watching as she opened cupboards and drawers in search of a bowl and spoon. It was a reach for her as everything seemed especially suited to his much longer frame, but she managed relatively well.

She had to get close to him again to get the milk, but yet again he did nothing untoward, even going so far as to move his arm away from her when she accidently brushed the carton against his sleeve.

There was no table in the kitchen and finally when she had poured the milk and began eating it, mimicking his posture as she did so, he abruptly vacated the room with a commanding, "Come."

With some hesitation she obeyed, mildly annoyed both at being ordered and because she did not want her cereal to get soggy.

He led her through to a dining room, a long rectangular table dominating the space. It was beautiful and shiny, and she was relatively certain that this particular space was rarely used.

It felt wrong to corrupt such a fine table with something as silly as cereal.

But he was pulling out a chair and looking at her expectantly, and yet again she acquiesced.

He took a seat opposite her, and told herself firmly that she would scold him if he stared while she ate, but instead his gaze was fixed on a seam within the highly polished wood, his lips pulled into a tight frown.

She tried not to slurp.

"Already you question your initial impression of me—that because I have… brought you here, that suddenly I am guilty of Poligny's murder."

She sighed, pushing around the little squares of cereal with her spoon. "I didn't… all I meant was that clearly you're capable of doing shocking… very wrong things. Maybe you did kill him, but I know I could not have found you guilty with the case Mr. Sorelli presented."

Erik scoffed. "Judge Albright was right to censure him. As if such absurd pieces of testimony could replace genuine evidence."

It gratified her somewhat to hear him speak of the case. Somewhow she had grown comfortable with the process of the trial, with hearing witnesses and the bickering of the attorneys.

And in some small way, it reminded her of the good opinion she had toward this man before… well, before all of this.

"But you doubt it now," he mused, more a statement than a question.

Christine ate the last of her cereal and wondered if Erik would think it terribly rude for her to drink the last of the sweetened milk that was leftover.

"I do not know what to believe."

He nodded at that, sadness exuding from him. "Quite reasonable," he agreed, but still he would not look at her. "And I don't suppose that by simply telling you what happened would help convince you of my character." Another statement.

Her brow furrowed. "It would be a start at least. So far you haven't told me anything. About any of this, either," she waved vaguely at their surroundings.

Erik dismissed that quickly. "I shall give you a proper tour after your breakfast." He leaned forward and finally looked at her, his eyes bright and intense. "But it is important for you to know whether or not I killed that man, yes? That would make you feel more comfortable here with me?"

Her confusion was growing as his urgent tone—as if some kind of plan was forming in his mind and her answer would determine his next course of action.

She wondered if now was the time to start drinking her milk, simply to avoid him.

"I… I do not like to think that you were capable of hurting him. Because then what if I did something to make you angry and… you…"

His tone gentled for a moment, his gaze equally soft. "That would not happen, Christine. I would never harm you, no matter what you said or did."

She wished she could believe him.

But even without saying it, he seemed to recognize her continued unease, for he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I had hoped we could put the entire business behind us, but I can see that this is important to you. You may trust me, Christine. But perhaps my word is not sufficient."

Whether or not he killed Mr. Poligny was not at all the root of her distrust of him, but he did not seem prepared to acknowledge how wrong and upsetting his decision to kidnap her truly was. Apparently it was better to focus on this, something he believed could unequivocally prove his innocence and restore her faith in him.

"What do you intend to do?" she queried nervously.

This time his grin was full of mischief, something that frightened her all the more.

"We are going to have a new trial. And this time you shall know the truth of what transpired."

Sooo... looks like they have a ways to go on this whole communication thing! Somehow I think they'll have time to work on it though... at least, if Erik has anything to say about it!

And what do you think he means about another trial? Ominous, no? Will he turn himself in?

Thanks so much for reading!