A/N: I know, dear ones, this chapter took an unbelievably long time (almost nine months, yiiiikes alive)—like the last, it went through many, many stages before its completion, and life got spectacularly in the way yet again. I've had my hands full looking after my two rowdy little girls (my 3 ½ year-old, who is apparently becoming a moody teenager before her time, and my thirteen-month-old, who just began walking a few weeks ago—time flies) and I've been working on an online Associate's degree in Graphic Arts since January.

Not only that, but there's been…marital stuff. Drama. Long story. To put it bluntly and concisely, I was in a very unhealthy situation for a long time (though I constantly, stupidly attempted to delude myself into thinking otherwise), an environment of emotional and verbal (as well as some very occasional physical) abuse, and after a rather intense yet gradual wake-up call (one that's been building slowly and gaining increasing momentum over the past 4 ½ years I've been married), I have now thankfully removed myself and my girls from that situation. It's been a long six weeks – I'm back home now in the place I grew up, trying to put my life back together again and figure myself and a lot of other things out.

I've really started to free up my ideas about POVs in this story—it's evolving a lot, to say the least. (And a lot of the credit for that goes to you lovely people, just so you know—I value your feedback and often use it to this story's advantage.) I thoroughly enjoyed writing this chapter, every bit of it—I hope you enjoy it as well.

The sun was just beginning to creep below the hills when Étienne washed the chalky dust of limestone from his hands, weary from a long day of chipping and chiseling designs into the stony façade of M. Romere's grand house just outside the town.

A deep, abiding cough welled up within his chest, making his ribs and shoulders and throat ache. Masons didn't last long when they were constantly around the shifting particles of stone, freed from its confines by chisel. It was why the older a man in the masonry business got, the more reasonable it was to hire apprentices to do the job, and for the man to oversee the work done by his hirelings rather than doing the work himself—but Étienne loved the work, loved to feel the stone taking shape under his palms, molding it bit by bit into the image in his head. In another few years, perhaps, he might hire an apprentice or two, but for now, he was ignoring the impulse—he had no wife and children to really pique an interest in prolonging his life, rather than shortening it by continuing to work. There was Maria, the baker's daughter, down in the village—they had long conversations, and he had watched her sometimes as she baked bread, her supple waist and hips swaying to and fro as she pounded the dough, a little flour flying up and landing on her cheeks—but nothing had ever come of it yet, and he was not certain anything ever would.

He would never admit it to his half-brother, but there were days when he envied him; Erik (of all people!) knew what it was to have the sound of a soft, feminine voice in his house, the sound of a swishing skirt on the stairs. And although Étienne had never been apprised as to exactly what, if any, kinds of things took place between his sister-in-law and her husband, he had noticed on occasion that there was a spring in Erik's step that had never been there before (not, at least, that he had observed prior to his brother's marriage).

He was startled by a loud knock on his door, and brushed a little more of the dust from his shirt before answering. Speak of the devil—! "Ah," Étienne said."To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" (This was said a little sarcastically.)

"Spare me your mock genialities," Erik said sullenly. "Much as it galls me, I have something I need to ask of you."

"Surely it's a bit late to require my cart—"

"I do not require your cart this evening, Étienne," Erik said, and it seemed to Étienne that Erik was in as bad a temper as he had ever seen him in for some time. "I require advice, if you can give me any, provided you're not brainless enough to be of no use whatsoever."

"You seem in a rather foul mood to-night," Étienne said coolly. "Might I enquire as to why, or would that be treading upon your toes too much?"

Erik's mouth twitched, and his eyes narrowed. "Are you going to invite me in, little brother, or shall I keep to the door-step and enjoy the night air for my health?"

Étienne stepped back from the door, allowing Erik to sweep past him. "You're lucky, you know, that I put up with your whims," he remarked rather brazenly. "Others might not be so forgiving."

Erik made no reply, hanging his hat on the brass hat-stand and sitting down in a nearby chair.

"Where is your wife this evening, if you don't mind me asking?" Étienne inquired.

"At the house," Erik said brusquely. "Étienne—have you been with women?"

"What?" Étienne asked abruptly, a little taken aback.

"Women," Erik said deliberately. "Have you been with any?"

"Even if I had, why on earth should I discuss it with you?"

"Confound it, Étienne—" Erik said between his teeth. "It is not to satisfy any idle curiosity on my part, I can assure you."

Étienne lifted a chair from its resting-place and sat it down a few feet across from Erik, sitting backwards in it so that he could lean forward and rest his arms. "Fine," he said calmly. "I've been with a few. What is that to you?"

"Had you any occasion to observe their behavior, in a general sense?"

Étienne was growing tired of this. "Erik, I haven't the slightest idea of what you're talking about. Get to the point."

Erik glared at him stonily for a few moments. "Christine, it seems," he said, "is angry with me, and I have not been able to glean why."

"Ah," he replied. "And you expect me to discern the thoughts and feelings of a woman I hardly know, from half a mile's distance?"

"Don't be clever," Erik snapped. "Have you any experience with this sort of thing or not?"

Étienne rolled his eyes. "Trying to read the mind of a woman, Erik, is like trying to ask a bird why its feathers are a certain color. The bird will not understand you, and even if it did, you couldn't possibly begin to decode its response."

"Helpful as an idiot in a strait-jacket," Erik said coldly. "I might have known."

"By the way," Étienne said, "just out of that same sort of idle curiosity you yourself claim not to possess…how is she?"

Erik's icy stare could have cut through stone more quickly than any chisel. "She is in good health, although why that should be any of your concern is beyond comprehension."

"Not her health, Erik," Étienne replied. "I meant to inquire as to the state of her bed, and yours. Warm or cold?"

Erik was very still, and Étienne held his stare. This was a game he had occasionally played with himself over the years, in typical brotherly fashion, seeing how far he could goad Erik before the latter snapped. Erik, despite his frequent threats, had never done Étienne a real harm—although they had come to blows once, years ago, and it had all ended rather quickly with brusque apologies and a little strained laughter (while Etienne had wiped the blood from his nose with a kerchief and Erik had inquired after a cold steak to put on his rapidly swelling left eye).

"Have you a particular wish to prematurely end your life, Étienne?" Erik inquired, his voice as still and dangerous as an icy pond upon which a man might try his weight, only to fall through and drown in the freezing water.

Étienne's mouth twitched from trying not to smile.

"Wipe that inane grin from your face before I do it for you," Erik snapped. "I have not the slightest interest in discussing my intimate marital affairs, nor will I ever have the slightest interest in discussing them."

Étienne shrugged. "Suit yourself. You asked for my advice—"

"To put it more bluntly, I don't care to discuss my wife in a fashion which would provide you with any more lurid thoughts than those which you already possess in that puerile head of yours," Erik said coldly.

Étienne laughed aloud. "I haven't any real personal interest in that frigid queen of the North, Erik, despite what you seem to think. There are much warmer women in town who could melt my loneliness if I wanted."

Erik's expression was inscrutable, but Étienne thought he detected a hint of proud disdain on his face. "As the fox said," Erik replied sardonically, "when he could not leap high enough to procure the grapes—he declared them sour, though he had never tasted them. And never will," he added dangerously.

"You still think I'm jealous, don't you?" Étienne chuckled. "Well, I am, after a fashion, though not in the way you think. I thought I would be well on my way to having a few sons by now, be married to a decent woman, but Fate has never presented the opportunity. I'm wrapped up in my work, and I don't have much time for courting. Speaking of sons—she's not in a delicate condition, is she, your wife?"

A look passed across Erik's face, brief as the beat of a humming-bird's wings, that was something like vulnerability. "Not that I am aware," he said.

"Hadn't given it much thought, had you?" Étienne asked a little smugly.

Erik's eyes resumed their stoniness. "Not much."

"Wouldn't mind a few nephews, myself," Étienne said, taking great amusement in Erik's suddenly sickly expression. "They could help me with the business."

"Any nephew you might have," Erik said expressionlessly, "would not be put to work carving stone, I can assure you. Not that I have a particular disdain for the work—I quite enjoy it, for it's in my blood as well as yours—but I don't care to subject children to the danger of stonework until they're of an age to decide for themselves. Besides—"

"You didn't seriously think I was suggesting putting them to work for me as children, did you?" Étienne asked. "Now, lads of twelve or thirteen aren't quite children anymore—"

"Why in heaven's name are we discussing this?" Erik snapped suddenly. "I haven't any sons, and my wife is not in a condition to expect one, at the moment—insofar as I am aware."

"It could be that she is," Étienne said smoothly, "and hasn't told you."

Erik suddenly seemed on edge. "Do you—" He seemed to be looking somewhere beyond Étienne, his eyes a bit unfocused.

"Provided, of course, that she's allowed you to perform the act that could lead to her being in such a state," Étienne said in a low voice, and Erik's head whipped to face him, his eyes narrowed.

"I will say this much, if it will quiet your insults," Erik retorted. "As far as marital duties are concerned, I have hardly any complaints."

"Hardly?" Étienne asked, trying not to grin again.

"Get that look off your face, Étienne, or I'll cut your heart out."

Étienne cleared his throat, composing his expression. "Unlikely," he said.

"If I were you," Erik said, "I would not assume that sharing a parent were grounds enough to keep me from being garroted or worse by a certain some-one who happens to be a rather skilled assassin."

Étienne held up his hands in mock horror. "Spare me!" he said.

"Be quiet."

"You never did have much of a sense of humor."

"Not an infantile one like yours, no."

Étienne turned the chair around and stretched out his legs, which were becoming cramped. "You're just jealous of my quick wit."

Erik looked at him coolly. "Yes, a wit with all the quickness of cold molasses. Tell me, how many times have you been struck on the head by your own chisel?"

Étienne grinned. "By God, I've missed this!" he said delightedly. "You know how long it's been since we sparred like this?"

Erik's expression reminded Étienne of a dog he had once seen, an older dog who had lain on the floor trying to rest while a young puppy had bounced up and down, yipping excitedly.

"So…what exactly are your 'complaints'?" Étienne asked. "You can tell me, you know. I shan't blab it to the neighborhood."

"You seem in an extraordinarily good mood," Erik said stonily. "You're almost like yourself again, which is why I am trying not to be annoyed."

"I feel a bit like my younger self again. Goading you is far too much fun. All the pressing responsibilities of being thirty seem to have melted away for the moment." Étienne ran his fingers through his hair, which was just beginning to thin a little, and suddenly grimaced. "Though the more…unpleasant physical aspects are still present."

A ghost of a smile played upon Erik's face. "Wait fifteen more years for far more unpleasantness," he said. "When I was thirty, I still had most of my hair."

"How much do you have now?" Étienne asked uneasily.

Erik shook his head. "Not much."

"Then I suppose I'd better hurry up and marry after all, before I go nearly bald. Is that why—" Étienne jerked his head toward the dark, conspicuously glossy wig. Erik ran a hand over it, seemingly habitually, and nodded.

"What does she think of it?" Étienne asked. "Merely…for reference, that is."

"She doesn't mention it," Erik said. "She's a good girl, Christine."

"What about…" Étienne flicked a finger towards Erik's mask. Erik's face—what could be seen of it—seemed to redden just slightly for a moment before fading back to its usual pasty pallor.

"You would do well," he said coldly, "to mind your own business, Étienne."

Étienne felt a little sorry for having brought up the sore subject of his brother's face, but only a little.

"Incidentally, she doesn't mention that, either, although she did express the thought that my new mask fits my face far better than the old one ever did—and that she liked the color," Erik said—a trifle smugly.

Étienne raised an eyebrow. "Has she ever seen—"

"Confound it, Étienne, yes, she has. Many times, in fact. I make it a point to wear this when ever I can, but certain times necessitate its removal—"

Étienne coughed, hiding his mouth with his fist.

"Wipe that smirk from your face, guttersnipe."

"Sorry."

The grandfather-clock in the corner chimed seven, and Erik stood up with a start. "I'd best get back," he said. "She doesn't like to be alone—she frightens easily."

"Are you certain she wants you there?" Étienne asked. "I thought she was angry with you."

Erik shrugged. "We'll see," he said grimly. "Perhaps the time I've spent away without telling her where I was going will have rattled her enough that she will have forgotten all about whatever caused her to be in such an ill-favored frame of mind."

"Either that," said Étienne, "or she'll be even angrier."

Erik smirked a little. "Perhaps."

"Why the smile?"

"Private matter," Erik said. "It's none of your affair."

Étienne shrugged. "Fine." He opened the door. "No more bad blood between us, then?" he asked.

Erik regarded him coolly. "Debatable."

"Which means correct."

"You're an insufferable little prig, do you know that, Étienne?"

"Touche," Étienne replied, and he thought he saw a swift twinkle in Erik's eye before his expression became closed again.

"I may need your horse and cart sometime in the next few days," he said. "Just as long as you are aware. Christine has been anxious to get some things in town."

"It's at your disposal, as usual," Étienne said. "I'm hard at work at M. Romere's, but I shan't be using it—you can drop by and borrow it whenever you like, so long as you keep it in pristine condition and don't kill the horse by dragging too many foodstuffs in the cart behind."

Erik's eyebrow twitched. "Thank you," he said coolly, getting his hat and putting it on his head. "Au revoir, mon frère."

Étienne smiled. "Au revoir."

Christine heard the chimes of the little clock in the parlor—seven—and her heart raced a little. Where had he gone? Where was he at this very moment?

More to the point, why on earth should she care?

She paused in her needlework. It occurred to her, suddenly, that she could not for the life of her recall exactly why she was angry with him; for the past three days she had given him naught but stony silence, and in the interim had forgotten all about whatever had triggered such cold disdain. He hadn't even bothered to try to get into her bed while suffering such treatment, which she supposed had angered her even more—he hadn't even attempted to reconcile, and she had rather been hoping—

This was silly. Christine put down her needlework, and drummed her fingers nervously together. God forbid, had he been caught? It could happen, though it wasn't likely—oh, God, what if he had? Was she to endure the sight of his ropy, strong wrists bound tightly behind him, to endure hearing the whip-crack of the noose breaking his neck?

A panic welled up in her that seemed the very sum of all horrors, and her gut clenched painfully. She hadn't eaten very recently, or the contents of her stomach might have gone up the way they came—still, she felt an overpowering nausea as she looked again at the clock, and her vision swam a little. She felt dizzy and weak, and grasped on to the back of the chaise longue for support.

She didn't care what had made her angry—she wanted him home, safe. What I wouldn't give to hear his voice at this very moment—

The sound of the front door opening and shutting sent a kind of shocked joy through her, followed by a sudden surge of fresh anger.

She heard him call her name, tentatively, and she felt the anger melt away, if only a little. She forced herself not to run to the main hall, but even so, her steps were quick. She stopped at the entryway to the hall, her fingers resting on the frame.

The sight of him made her feel strangely full, permeating the empty ache that had made her feel so ill. She wanted to stretch out her arms for him, wanted to crush herself against him, but she was proud yet, and she tried to regard him with the same kind of cool lack of expression that he had perfected so completely.

"Where were you?" she asked quietly, and could have kicked herself when her voice broke just a little.

He appeared to notice this betrayal of her inner emotion; almost in the time it took her to blink, he had already taken the few strides required to cross the hall to stand just in front of her. "At Étienne's," he said softly, and something in her quivered a little at the tender way he regarded her. His fingers stretched out and slid along her jaw to her chin, and she closed her eyes, entirely involuntarily; he hadn't touched her in three days, and she had not quite noticed until just now how desperately she had longed for his cool, calloused hands on her body and face.

Her eyes fluttered open again, and he tilted his head a little. "Miss me?" he asked, his voice sensuously deep with longing, his fingers sliding over the softest spots of her throat beneath her chin.

"A little," she said faintly, and then drew herself up, straightened, leaned away. "I thought you might be dead," she said violently, "or worse. How could you?"

He shrank a little, although she thought she detected a flash of resentment. "Do you fault me?" he demanded. "This place was like a tomb. You wouldn't speak to me—wouldn't even look me in the eye."

"I would have," she said irritably, "if you had tried at all to discern my feelings instead of assuming that I should sooner or later come around to your point of view."

"My point of view on what, exactly?" he asked, and then she felt quite embarrassed, because, try as she might, she still could not remember exactly what had begun this silly quarrel. "It doesn't matter," she said. Noting the faint look of incredulousness on his brow and in his eyes, she added curtly, but softly, "I'm glad you're safe."

"One would be hard-pressed to prove it," he said tersely, brushing past her and flinging his hat and coat on a nearby chair. She opened her mouth to call his attention to this, to ask that he hang them up instead, but bit her tongue at the last moment.

"What were you doing at Étienne's?" she asked quietly.

"Talking." His back was to her as he rifled through a small drawer.

She felt the sudden urge to calm him—she could practically feel his tension in the air around her—but her pride was still up, and she stopped herself from putting her hand on his broad shoulders. Although—God, she hadn't touched them in three whole days, and three days was an eternity not to have slid her palms across those strong, hard—

Get hold of yourself. Now. She shivered, and tried to keep calm, but she found herself standing a little closer to him. She could feel his scent in her nostrils from where she stood, and it made her feel a little dizzy.

"Erik—?"

He turned.

She could feel the flush in her cheeks, could hear the slight tremor in her voice. "What are you looking for?"

He glanced back at the drawer, then back at her. "Nothing in particular," he said, and she had an inkling that it had been merely something for him to do with his hands, to occupy his thoughts.

She swallowed, and said, "You haven't had dinner."

"Hang dinner," he said shortly. "I'm not hungry."

Oh, this man whose moods were coarse and unpredictable like a strong wind, and as easily tipped as a carelessly balanced scale—she loved him dreadfully now, effortlessly, it seemed, after those first few awkward days and weeks. She had struggled then, trying to fit her love with Erik, like forcing a square peg through a round hole, trying to fill the shoes of wife and lover and acclimate herself to her new circumstance. Amazing, really, the ease with which she loved him now, even when he made her angry—bad-tempered or not, he was hers, entirely hers, and she had little to no qualms about admitting to herself that she rather desperately adored him in spite of everything else that might give her pause.

"What are you smiling at?" he snapped, and turned back to the drawer.

"Nothing," she said. "Why must you be in such a foul temper? You seemed pleasant enough when you came home."

"Before I was greeted with all the warmth of a wintry sea," Erik said tightly.

Christine pursed her lips. "I thought you were going out for a minute or two to clear your head. I didn't expect you to be gone for an hour and a half, with no idea of where you might be. I was dreadfully worried."

"You hadn't any cause for concern, my dear," Erik said coolly. "You know perfectly well that I lived in the open air for nearly half my life. If there are any men who can best me while I am fully aware, I'd like to see them."

"I wouldn't," she muttered, the image blooming unbidden in her mind again of him being overpowered by police on the hunt, dozens of them, forcing him to the ground and binding his arms…Erik sitting in a dirty, dark cell awaiting his execution, cramped and stooped as he had been in the cage at the Paris fair.

She shivered. Her hand slipped around his arm, her other hand entwining with his chilly fingers. He looked down at her with a curious expression on his face, but a soft one.

"I couldn't bear it if you were caught," she said. "I don't think I should care very much what happened to me afterward at all, if you were to be captured and killed. I rather think my heart might stop, in that moment, if it ever came."

He looked pained for a moment, then with a suddenness that made her gasp, he lifted her up and sat her on the desk in front of him, leaning in to look her squarely in the eye. "I am not an idle fugitive, Christine," he said gently. "I have several plans in place should we find our situation…compromised."

Christine looked at him dubiously. "What if you should be waylaid quite unexpectedly by police on the road? What on earth kind of plan could you set into motion then?"

"Étienne knows what to do in that case," Erik said. "Trust your husband, would you? I have considered nearly every possibility."

"Nearly," Christine said, and his face darkened in a scowl. "Why do you make everything so damned difficult?" he said between his teeth.

She was keenly aware of how near they were to each other, and the rather delightful possibilities that could arise if he lifted her skirt at this very moment. His hand touched her knee for a moment, seemingly by accident, and her pulse quickened. She could feel the flush infusing her cheeks, the hot little pins-and-needles of breathless arousal.

"Is something the matter?" he asked, and she shrugged, but she made sure that her ankle nonchalantly brushed against his leg. She wasn't wearing any shoes, and her stocking rubbed against his trousers with a delightful little vibratory swish of fabric on fabric. He swallowed, although his expression didn't change—did he think it had been involuntary, on her part? Better that he think it, at any rate; it made it ever so much more fun when she played the unassuming innocent. She could really work him into a fine frenzy that way; this was a sort of unspoken game between them on occasion, although there were a myriad of ways in which they took pleasure in each other lately—and this happened to be one of her favorites. He had his own little ways of tormenting her to the point of nearly begging, and she much enjoyed these lush moments of reciprocation, when the power was hers to wield instead of his.

The transition from timid bride to eager lover had been a gradual one, though all things considered it had happened surprisingly quickly—but at any rate, she thoroughly enjoyed being the new Christine; the old Christine would have thought screaming out in passion was entirely indecorous, and that only the most disreputable of women actually allowed themselves to lust after men with the intensity that she had begun to desire Erik. "Hot blood," Mamma Valerius would have called it in her more lucid years, though she had rarely spoken of such things even then.

I like having hot blood, Christine thought, feeling a shiver of pleasure as he pressed a little closer, his hips between her knees and almost touching her thighs, if it weren't for so many voluminous layers of clothing. I like that he's awakened it in me, and that he's put the timid child in me to rest. I don't care if it's a sin to want this. I don't care.

He had made her want this, made her ache for it in a mere matter of long, hazy days and weeks. His clumsy awkwardness had faded quickly in the face of experience gathered upon experience, and he now seemed to know with a startling precision and clarity what was required to tempt her, what sorts of touches and caresses made her breathless.

It was almost mathematical, at times, the way in which he attempted to seduce her—calculated and choreographed much as one might experiment with musical notes or the steps of a dance. He often seemed to lack a prodigious amount of spontaneity in the subject of love—it all seemed rather rehearsed at times, and she privately suspected he was as yet feeling fearful and untried, despite his façade of dominative confidence. One might take risks with music—it did not have feelings, or projected emotions or a voice beyond that which was given it by the musician, and Erik had had a lifetime to manipulate and bend music to his will. But a person, a lover, a spouse—that was a different matter, one which, according to his own intimations, he had never before had ample cause or circumstance to explore; she could often sense his nervousness beneath the calm exterior he liked to project.

He was a puzzle, Christine thought, and he was exasperatingly skilled at wearing masks that went far deeper than the skin and were not made of porcelain or silk—but she was very slowly learning how to read him, the language of his body and expressions and the way he poised his hands.

She knew that any sudden stiffness in his back and shoulders indicated uncertainty, sometimes indignation. She knew that when he clenched his hands and repeatedly opened and closed them into fists, it was best to leave him alone to avoid being the verbal brunt of his tempestuous moods—thus far, any altercations between them had been almost entirely verbal, never any sort of physical assault, but she had an inkling of what he was capable of in a particularly black frame of mind and preferred not to risk it.

She also knew the long, deep shiver in his spine meant desire—and that when he tilted his head slightly to the side while regarding her, it usually meant that he was taking the measure of her in a manner to which only a husband and lover was privy, seeing with his mind's eye beneath the layers of muslin and cotton and lace to naked skin.

Occasionally it merely meant that he was attempting to see with his mind's eye into the inner workings of her own brain, trying to discern her thoughts merely by looking at her, puzzling over her in his head (no doubt the way she often puzzled over him)—but he had not been fully able to crack that mystery yet, and she intended to keep it that way. She was becoming strangely skilled at wearing masks, too—not of the tangible sort, of course. Perhaps it was wicked of her to be filing away such involuntary lessons, but he was (however unwittingly) schooling her in the art of keeping one's emotions from inadvertently showing on the face, when such expressional outbursts were unwanted.

"You're trembling, Christine," he said, and she thought her mouth might have curved upward at the corners just a little, though she tried to keep her face entirely composed. "Am I?" she asked calmly, and then purposefully injected a slightly breathy note into her voice. "Perhaps you had better feel my pulse to see if I'm well. You know more about these things than I do." She looked at him through her eyelashes, and he regarded her with his hooded stare, his eyes like glittering embers.

"Perhaps," he said, and lightly pressed the pads of his fingers to the side of her neck. "Your pulse is racing, beautiful one," he said in a way that made her feel warm and weak. "Perhaps you ought to lie down."

She felt a little bolt of excitement in her stomach, but said, quite calmly, "Oh, no…I prefer to sit, thank you." She slightly adjusted her left knee so that it briefly rubbed ever-so-lightly against the bulge between his legs, still feigning a kind of blissful ignorance. He wasn't fooled—he no doubt knew she did it on purpose, but she could sense that he was enjoying the game of her nonchalance. He leaned forward a bit, and she involuntarily squeaked as he pinched her thigh. "How clumsy of me," he said, and she could feel his smug, soft-spoken dangerousness, his sly subtlety as he attempted to win back control over the tryst.

Suddenly it didn't matter who was winning the upper hand; her senses were tilting, careening, and all that mattered was the feeling of his warm, twisted lips upon her own as her fingers slid beneath the mask and it clattered to the floor. "Christine," he mumbled between her lips, and his hand slipped under her skirt, sliding up her stockinged thigh. The pressure of his hand as it slid over her flesh was not very gentle, as it might have been had he been attempting to win her over more sweetly; it was firm, demanding. There was nothing remotely mathematical about him now; he was raw and beautifully unleashed, and she found herself responding breathlessly to his unapologetic plunder of her as he tore her stockings from her legs and, with a kind of violent abandon, yanked at the closure of her combinations and sent pearlescent buttons scattering to the floor. She gasped a little and her fingers clutched at the back of his neck.

"Tell me you want me," he growled in her ear, and a bolt of pleasure shot through her like lightning. His long, calloused fingers teased and tormented her, making her wriggle and writhe and arch. "Erik," she breathed, a moan of air passing through her lips. "Tell me," he said again, sounding delighted. Then, more forcefully, seductively, "Tell me."

"I want you!" she gasped, almost cried out. Her fingers dug into his shoulders—why was he still wearing his coat?—and she pressed herself against him, her mouth making small wet trails on his neck and wonderfully stubbled throat. One of her hands fluttered down to the straining, pulsing hardness in his trousers, and his body gave a little twitch. She laughed a little in her throat. "Rather astonishingly susceptible to the touch of a hand," she murmured in his ear, and he shivered violently against her, grabbing her thighs and pushing them apart.

She swiftly unbuttoned his trousers, sliding her hands inside, and he bucked sharply for an instant, a long, deep breath being inhaled through his nostrils and between his teeth. His eyes were closed, but they opened again and regarded her with a rapacious longing as she freed him from his confines.

His eyelids fluttered, and a groan as beautiful as any song made its way from his vocal cords to his mouth as she cupped him in her hands and slid her palms over the taut, throbbing length. He shivered again and brought her hands to his face instead, peppering her wrists and fingers with kisses.

Her mouth hovered close to his disfigured cheek as she leaned in, and she suddenly let her tongue dart out, trailing swiftly and lightly for just an instant along the ravaged lines of mottled, mangled skin.

He gave a strangled gasp and gripped her thighs, shoving himself inside her. Christine's head snapped back, mouth open in wordless pleasure as he grabbed her bottom and pulled her forward for leverage on the precarious desk. The world seemed to spiral out of control and she felt dizzy, ecstatic. He drove sounds out of her lips with every thrust, culminating in his name and a nearly breathless scream from her throat as release swept through her body like a silken hurricane, merciless pleasure that left her body slack and her skin tingling and aching.

He hadn't finished yet, to her delight. Her thighs tightened around him, and he bent his head to nip at her neck with his teeth. "Little wanton," he growled breathlessly, "who do you belong to?" She suddenly experienced a quick, frenzied buildup of sensation as he worked her, and then those wild, golden waves of ecstasy washed over her again. "You!" she gasped, almost screamed. "Only you—" She was suddenly caught with a wicked little thought. "Erik," she whispered in his ear, "who do you belong to?"

He shuddered. "You," he said fervently, a sob of breath panting in his throat. "Christine—"

"Say it," she gasped, and he grabbed wildly at her hips as though he would never let go. "I belong to you!" he cried out. "I'm yours—and you—are mine—"

She was breathless and hot, her cheeks flushed and her body unbearably yet wonderfully warm. He slipped over the edge then, a sound tearing from between his lips that was something between a groan and a shout, lovely and wild, almost sending her into paroxysms of paradise yet again.

She had never thought it possible, had never imagined it might happen to her more than once in a single tryst. If it was a sin to want such tangled bliss, then she was determined, for that single moment, to go merrily to Hell.

He was a little slumped over her, though he had not yet moved to disengage himself from her body. His hands moved over her like a prayer, slowly now, with the relaxed, sleepy aftermath of coitus. Her mouth was pressed to his neck, the taste of him on her tongue in the thin sheen of sweat cooling on his skin.

She wanted him fully unclothed, and herself, so that she could revel in their tangled bodies, feel his skin against her own. But that was for bedroom trysts, when their legs were tangled in sheets and bedclothes as well as in each other, and he finally—a bit reluctantly, it seemed—slid himself away, out of her. He had the courtesy to lift her up off the desk, rather than allowing her to disembark from it herself, and she clung to him like a child, unwilling to let this overwhelming intimacy slip away from them like an errant breeze. So quickly it could dissipate, this glowing feeling of being one, and she wanted it to linger, wanted to hold it like sifting sand in her fingers.

"Beautiful Christine," he sighed, carefully sitting on one corner of the divan and stretching out his long legs. She was still curled around him, plucking absently at the collar of his shirt. "Beautiful Erik," she said, and he turned his face away, not looking at her. She could feel embarrassment mingled with disbelief radiating from him in waves, could see it in the light flush of his pale cheek, lined with the years though unmarred by the disfigurement of its fellow.

She didn't press the issue, knowing it would be futile, and they reclined in silence for several minutes, the only sound that of their mingled breathing.

"I love you," she said gently, after what seemed a very long time.

He finally turned his head to look at her, his eyes soft and full of some unspoken pain. "And I love you."

She traced the strange, misshapen line of his mouth with one finger. "I suppose we forgive each other, then," she said, "for whatever offense caused us not to speak for three days."

He laughed, then, and she felt a little thrill of joy to hear that golden, rippling sound—not at all like his dry chuckle or cold, mirthless laugh. This was genuine, and she thought perhaps it was the loveliest sound she had ever heard him make.

"Shall we sing?" she asked suddenly. "We haven't sung in such a long time."

"Yes," he said musingly, "yes…we really must sing, mustn't we? Though if you'll forgive me, my dear, I require a few minutes, at least, to rest myself…intimacy is curiously fatiguing, you know, and I am not nearly as young as you—I fear I am quite out of breath, which of course does not lend itself at all well to musical pursuits…"

Christine put her finger to his lips to shush him. "It's all right," she said. "We can sit." Quickly, she added, "I don't much feel like singing at the moment, at any rate…I'm quite tired, myself." She wasn't, not really, but she didn't wish to unnecessarily wound his pride by appearing to cater to his age; far better he thought she wanted to sit just as much as he did.

He might not have been fooled by this—she wasn't sure—but he said nothing, merely fingering her hair as he reclined, his other hand dangling near her bare feet, which were hanging over his legs as she was practically in his lap. He passed his cool hand over her exposed ankles momentarily, lightly as a summer breeze, and it gave her a little shiver of pleasure as she wrapped her arms around him, languid and relaxed.

Everything seemed, for the moment, to be very wonderfully peaceful and ordinary.