This chapter is a long one and by far one of my favorite to write. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. :)
Chapter 3
Christine woke to a brighter room. At some point, Erik had lit more candles in the bedroom, showing her that it was morning. She was disturbed by the obvious truth that he came into her room while she was sleeping, but she did appreciate the sign that it was time to get up. Without sunshine, her internal clock was threatening to get confused.
The second thing she noticed was that her suitcase was sitting next to the bed. She bolted upright – it was her keycard that he had taken from her purse, and with it, he had gone to her hotel room. Oh god, what had he seen?
She quickly unzipped her suitcase and spread it open. Inside, she found all of her clothes carefully folded. She definitely hadn't left them inside her suitcase. She had been living at the hotel for several months and had made use of the closet and drawers. But here was everything, including her toiletries. Seeing her toothbrush especially made her happy; Erik hadn't a spare.
She felt a blush rise when she spied her underwear tucked into a zippered pocket. Of course, he had grabbed those too. She was grateful that she had only one bra – the one she wore – so he hadn't seen that. Her pile of dirty laundry, which she had left in a hamper in the closet, was now clean and folded with the rest of her clothing.
Nothing seemed to be missing. He had even taken all of her shoes, including her house slippers.
Her slippers felt so good on her feet, a touch of familiarity she'd missed. She put on her own robe, the smell of her soap and shampoo wafting up to her. The sense of missing Erik's scent she pushed aside. All of this made her feel more normal, more herself.
However, seeing her suitcase and all of her clothing in this room did give her a chill. Her situation was not normal, not at all, and now he had officially moved in all of her belongings. Seeing all of her stuff, brushing her teeth with her toothbrush and her hair with her hairbrush brought everything to crystal clear reality. What the crap was she doing here?
She found Erik in the same spot he had been yesterday morning, sitting in his black high-backed armchair. His tea and newspaper were both in front of him, seemingly untouched. His elbows rested on his thighs as he leaned forward, deep in thought.
He didn't move as she approached slowly on her crutch.
"Good morning," she said, keeping her voice soft.
He seemed tense, an untamed man ready to strike if he needed to for any reason. His hands, dangling between his legs, trembled. His shoulders were slightly hunched, fraught with tension.
He didn't look up as she stood in front of him. Had he slept at all? Had he even changed his clothes? His suit was rumpled with what seemed long-term use.
She cleared her throat. "Thank you so much for getting my things. You went through a lot of trouble for me."
"No trouble," he replied, still not looking up. "I should have earlier. Daroga – Nadir reminded me."
"Nadir? Was that the man here last night? Is he a friend of yours?"
"No, no friend. I have no friends. He is more a nuisance who refuses to go away."
Erik's words were harsh but carried no viciousness to them. She suspected he cared more for this Nadir's opinion than he wanted to admit.
Erik continued, "I apologize for waking you. How much did you hear?"
"Not much," she said lightly.
Erik raised his head, his eyes meeting hers. Those glowing depths were shadowed by some emotion she couldn't figure out. His fingers grasped the black fabric that clung to his thighs as though he was afraid they would do something else. "He accused me… well, what does that matter? I haven't touched you, much. I have kept my hands to myself!"
"Yes, you have." She moved the tip of her crutch one step closer and swayed her body to fill the space. Her mind screamed at her, what are you doing, Christine? Erik was obviously on edge, holding himself together, from doing something, with barely-contained strength.
Her hand moved of its own accord. He hadn't reacted well last time she had tried to touch him, but all of the other times, all of her touches, had taken him by surprise. This time, his eyes followed her movement. When her fingers were a breath away from his bare cheek, his hand lashed out and grabbed her wrist, not painfully, but enough that she could feel his iron grip. He didn't push her away.
"Christine." His tone warned of violence.
She didn't care. She wanted to touch him, had wanted to since that first time she had dared. So many mysteries loomed between them, but she wanted to take this one thing from him.
"Let me," she said.
His eyes widened. He seemed like a cornered beast that might bite if she came closer, if she pushed too hard. "My mask," he choked out.
"I won't touch it. I wouldn't do that." She knew she wouldn't. Even though her curiosity burned, she could never betray his trust that way. She knew what it meant to cover up a secret.
Her hand flexed, testing his hold. He didn't let go, but she felt the pressure ease as he allowed her to move her hand closer. Finally, she pressed her palm against his exposed cheek.
He gasped, his sudden breath fanning her face.
She didn't stop. His skin was soft beneath her hand with no hint of stubble. She traced down to his jaw, his hand on her wrist following the descent, such a strong line ending in a hard curve of chin. Her hand cupped his jaw, her thumb running along the side of his mouth, his lips a yielding smoothness under her nail.
Beneath her thumb, his lips parted in a soft pop of shock.
Dear god, had this man never been touched before?
She gave a gentle smile, intending to take her hand away, but he held her hand against his cheek once more, both of his hands coming up to enfold hers and press her more firmly to him.
"Christine," he said again. He turned his face and, the motion so light she barely felt it, touched his lips to her palm.
The kiss sent shivers up her spine. Her mind sent off warning bells, but she wasn't listening, instead focused on the feeling of his lips still against her, this time on the tender skin of her wrist, his long fingers encircling her arm with gentle precision.
She swallowed thickly. If he decided to keep going, she wasn't sure what she would do. That alone made her heart race. "E-Erik," she managed to say, "can I sing today? Will you teach me?"
He broke away, his eyes sparkling. The tension seemed gone from his shoulders. She had done that to him, helped ease his troubled thoughts. When he let go of her hand, she immediately missed his touch. This man was a drug to her – the more she had him, the more she wanted from him.
"Of course I will teach you, my dear."
She tried to ignore the weakness in her legs at the pleasure in his voice.
"Would you like breakfast first?"
She shook her head. "Later. I'm nervous enough without food turning my stomach."
They went to the piano together. He sat upon the bench and began to play while she watched his fingers dance about the keys. He really was a beautiful player, his fingers long and slender and perfect for such an instrument.
She didn't recognize the song at first, but as she listened, she picked out the melody of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker. Erik had taken the familiar tune of "The Sugar-Plum Fairy" and shifted it into something slower, darker, a low, draw-out version that raised the hair on her arms.
He paused, looking up at her. "You know the basics of vocal warm-ups, yes?"
She nodded. "I've had some training."
"A triad, then, please." He tapped a key, and she began, singing first on that note, and then steadily singing up three notes before returning to the start. They repeated this for about ten minutes as he patiently corrected her stance and posture. Then he began more complicated ranges of notes, and she managed to follow along without issue.
They continued on for what seemed like a long time. She would sing bits of notes for him while he adjusted and corrected as she went. She got the feeling that he was testing her out, seeing what she knew musically, what her range was, how she took to criticism. She had no doubt that he could be a tough instructor and that he was probably holding himself back, not wanting to scare her off.
"Now," he said, "what kind of music do you take satisfaction in singing? A lack of enjoyment will show in your voice."
She thought for a moment. "My father played all kinds of music, and so I learned to enjoy many different kinds. I admit to liking pop ballads – the lyrics are interesting and the songs are fun to sing."
"And yet you interned at an opera house." His voice was musing. Was he teasing her?
"I didn't know much about opera and wanted to learn. I admit that I've yet to hear an opera that actually moves me emotionally."
"Ah." He played a few bars of music, the song lovely. "You have yet to meet the right one."
She laughed, and the exposed side of his mouth curved upward, the first bit of smile she had seen from him. "I suppose you're right. I have to say I'm a tough audience, though."
"We shall see. Tell me a song you would like to sing. I will learn it, and we shall practice tomorrow."
"That sounds lovely, but I'll have to think about it." She gestured at herself. "Maybe I should go change now that I have clothes! And have breakfast."
"Closer to midday, now." He held out a hand to her, and she stepped nearer, slipping her own into his. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand, the gesture warming something inside her. Oh, he was growing bolder. And she didn't mind – not at all.
"I must leave for the afternoon," he said, still holding her hand. "I apologize for leaving yet again, but business calls me away. I suspect I should be back for dinner, so I will bring you something from the upstairs kitchen."
"Thank you, Erik." She wondered what kind of business he could possibly have. Some kind of job that required he venture aboveground?
He bowed over her hand, such a gentlemanly and formal thing to do, and left her alone.
The rest of the day to herself? She supposed she would spend more time reading. There wasn't much else to do besides playing on the piano.
After changing into a pair of comfortable jeans and a nicer blouse, Christine sampled from the platter of food Erik had left out for her: fruit, cheese, and a few small pastries that delighted her. He really had taken her into consideration when getting food yesterday. She smiled at the thought.
She made tea, took a dose of ibuprofen, and spent the next several hours reading portions of various books in Erik's small library. The texts varied wildly, from medical journals with explicit dissections of body parts, to architectural books she could barely understand, full of jargon. She found many history books, including some on the Palais Garnier itself, and several on the history of opera.
Soon, her stomach began to rumble, so she headed back to the kitchen to grab an apple.
She had just taken a bite when she heard a splash at the lake's edge. She froze in the kitchen, slowly setting down the apple. Was Erik back already? But he hadn't taken the boat, and she highly doubted he would make such a fuss about the water. Was it an animal? She hadn't seen anything yet, not even bats or spiders. Erik kept this place clean and free of pests.
Another stirring in the water, this time followed by the grumbling of a man's deep voice. Definitely not Erik's familiar tenor.
Trying not to panic, she glanced around the kitchen and grabbed a large carving knife. She carefully maneuvered her way to the edge of the door frame that led into the living space as silently as she could. Whoever the man was had made it inside Erik's home, stomping his way up the stairs, not even trying to be quiet.
"If I get water on his carpet, I won't hear the end of it," the man muttered to himself. "Hello? Are you here?"
Christine stepped into the door frame, holding the knife in front of her. An older man stood on the outskirts of Erik's home, his black hair and beard flecked with gray. He was dressed in a brown suit that fit well over his rounder form. His feet were wet, which was obvious from the loud squelching sounds they made.
He seemed relieved to see her, and though his eyes swept over her knife, he didn't appear bothered by it. "I apologize for startling you, Miss Daaé. I appear unable to get here without some type of incident." He gestured at his sodden feet, and then peered around the room. "He is still gone, isn't he?"
She responded by narrowing her eyes and brandishing the knife.
"Ah." He held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I assure you I'm not here to hurt you. The opposite, in fact. My name is Nadir Khan. I have known Erik for quite a long time, you see."
She didn't lower the knife, but his voice was so familiar. "You're the man from last night. The… Daroga."
"Erik likes to still call me that, but the name has little meaning now. I'm far removed from my home country and certainly not the chief of police there anymore." The man sat down and removed his boots with a grunt. He peeled off his socks and began to wring out the water.
She came a little closer. "Why are you here?"
He glanced over his shoulder at her. He seemed nice enough, his round face lively and his eyes kind. "I had hoped to catch you alone. I wanted to see if you were as well as Erik told me you were." He looked pointedly at her ankle. "He didn't tell me how you were injured."
She shrugged and finally decided to lower the knife, though she kept a firm grip on it. "Before I met Erik, I fell on some stairs in the dark. Erik found me, took me here, and he's been taking care of me since. He's seen to everything I need."
"He's been good to you?"
"Of course."
Nadir pulled on his socks and laced up his boots. "Forgive me for asking," he said as he wiped his hands on his coat. "Has he hurt you in any way? Threatened you? We are the only ones here, so you can be honest. If he's keeping you here against your will, I can get some help to get you out."
She shook her head. "No, he's been kind to me. I don't want to leave." After the words left her mouth, she realized how true they were. She had seen a new side of Erik lately, and she really didn't want to leave, not yet.
"Are you sure? Please be honest."
"I am being honest. If you're his friend, then why are you thinking these horrible things about him?" She didn't like where this was going. Even if Nadir was a nice guy, he was scaring her with all of his insistence that Erik, well, wasn't.
He stood and moved toward her, stopping when she raised the knife again. "As I said, Miss Daaé, I have a long history with Erik. I know quite well what he's capable of. When I tell you he's never had a visitor down here, much less a pretty young lady like yourself, I am trying to protect you."
"I don't need your protection, Mr. Khan. Maybe it's time for you to go."
Nadir's face was pleading. "I can get you out, Miss Daaé."
"I said I don't want to leave!" she all but shouted.
"You have nothing to fear from-" Nadir cut himself off, the blood draining from his bearded face. "Erik!"
Christine felt the room press in around her as Erik's terrible presence filled the space. Nadir was pale, and she feared the man might pass out in sudden terror.
Erik's voice rang out from the darkness: "The lady has answered you, Daroga!"
Nadir jumped, his dark eyes searching the edge of the chamber. "Erik, you know I had to make sure."
"Of what, Daroga?" Erik's voice asked with a snarl. "That Christine was truly safe? That I hadn't hurt her?"
Sweat broke out on Nadir's brow as he backed away from the lake. "Of course I had to."
"You heard what she said, she doesn't want to leave."
"Yes, yes, I heard."
"And yet still you came here."
Erik paused. Christine wished she could see him in the dark. She could often tell his mood from his eyes, and while she couldn't predict what he would ever do, she could see the emotion behind his actions reflected in those glittering depths.
When Erik spoke again, Christine heard a new, dangerous edge. "Why is she carrying a knife, Daroga?"
Nadir had heard it too, but before he could get out a reply, a blood red circle of rope flashed out of the darkness, looping around Nadir's neck and tightening in one quick motion. Erik appeared as Nadir fell to his knees, his fingers grasping at the rope as his face began to turn purple. Erik's yellow eyes were dark with rage. He grabbed the back of the lasso and yanked it, sending Nadir's frantic face tilting upward.
Christine stifled a scream and dropped the knife so she could move quickly with her crutch to the scene. "Erik, what are you- Erik, stop!"
She reached his side, not knowing what to do. If she grabbed him, how would he react? Would he turn his weapon on her? He had never actively tried to harm her, but then, she had never seen him hurt someone like he was now.
Erik loomed over the older man. "At the level of your eyes, Daroga. No one threatens my Christine. No one – not even you!" He loosened the noose just enough to let Nadir gasp for a breath.
"Erik, I didn't. I would never-"
Erik flexed his hands and the loop of rope tightened again. He didn't seem to notice Christine standing there, hadn't even glanced at her. His face, the half she could see, was twisted in fury, his normally smooth black hair disheveled and falling about his forehead.
"Stop, Erik," Christine begged. "Please, you're killing him!"
Throwing away her caution, for Nadir's face was turning colors again, she clutched Erik's arm, trying to shake him off the other man. The muscles of his upper arm were bunched tight, and try as she might, she could not budge him.
Without taking the time to think, she wrenched the crutch from under her arm and smacked him across the face with the solid bottom edge as hard as she could.
Erik's face jerked to the side. She had caught him across the mouth, splitting his bottom lip on his unmasked side. It was a wonder that she hadn't knocked off his mask; she wasn't sure she would have survived that kind of betrayal.
He was frozen in place, his eyes staring at nothing in the distance. When she lifted his hands from Nadir's throat, he didn't stop her.
She removed the noose from around Nadir's head and tossed it as far as she could into the lake. He coughed, drawing in fierce, deep breaths of air, rubbing at his throat. Deep red marks sprang up around the thick column of his dark skin. He tried to speak, wheezed, coughed, and tried again.
"Run, child."
She shook her head, helping him to stand. A quick glance at Erik told her that the man hadn't moved from his spot a few feet away, though he had lowered his hands to his sides. He stood straight, still staring away from them. Blood trickled from his lip.
"Miss Daaé, you must-"
She cut him off and took a deep breath. "Mr. Khan, I am perfectly safe here. I already told you: I don't want to leave."
She tried to sound as convincing as possible, but really, she knew little about Erik. She had just watched him try to kill someone he had clearly known for a long time, someone familiar, if not a friend, someone close enough to know where he lived and how to get here.
But his actions had been in the name of protecting her. Erik had seen her with the knife and thought she was in danger, thought she was afraid. Even though she had seen a flash of his potential, a darkness within him that lingered just under the surface, maybe even a glimpse of the man he used to be – she still wanted to stay.
"You threw my punjab into the lake." Erik's voice was soft.
"I did," she said. Tucking her crutch back under her arm, she strode over to Erik and took his hand. His gloved fingers were limp in hers. "Come on, let's look at that lip." Over her shoulder, she gave Nadir a pointed look that said get out of here.
Nadir Khan rubbed his neck and wisely didn't argue further.
Christine made her way to the bathroom, Erik trailing after her, still in his dazed state. He still wore his full regalia, and after hesitating for a moment, she lifted his hat from his head, keeping her movements slow in case he wanted to stop her. She sucked in a deep breath and searched for the clasp to his cloak under his chin. The black expanse of fabric was remarkably heavy. She set both items onto the nearby chair.
She gently maneuvered him to sit on the edge of the bathtub. All the while, he hadn't looked at her, but now that his face was about the same height as hers, his gaze swiveled to meet hers.
"You threw my punjab into the lake."
"You weren't being nice," she replied as she wetted a washcloth.
"I am never nice."
Ah, so he had recovered from his stupification at last. She raised and lowered her shoulders. "I'm sure you can fish it out if you want it back that badly."
Without waiting for permission, she pressed the damp washcloth to his scraped lip, beginning to dab away the blood. He jerked back, but her hand followed him, continue to clean the small wound. As she washed away the blood, she could see the wound was tiny and shouldn't even scar.
"You don't have to do that," he said, cutting his eyes away from her.
"Based on the way you eat and sleep, I would guess you wouldn't clean it if I didn't."
She kept pushing at him, but she couldn't help it. She felt bold and fearless, a woman who had broken up a fight between two men, who had quelled the anger of this dangerous man and stopped him from committing murder. She did have an effect on him, that was plain to see. Nadir had been so sure Erik was about to hurt her, and yet, and yet, Erik had been pacified by her actions.
Now that the blood was gone, she put aside the washcloth and, before her mind could set off warning bells, swiped her thumb across the bottom swell of his lip, mindful of the cut.
His hand lashed out and grabbed her wrist, not painfully, but strong enough that she couldn't move it away. "What are you doing, Christine?"
"I have no idea," she answered truthfully.
She could feel his anger surge again, his legs tense and ready to spring, his eyes glowing in the candlelight. "Don't test me tonight, Christine. My hands have just tasted the intersect of life and death, and I fear what I may do."
Oh, she had her own temper, to be sure, and it rose hot within her throat. "Is that what you have to say for yourself? I know you were protecting me, but you almost killed someone who obviously adores you!"
Erik swept to his feet, his grip still iron around her wrist, forcing her to stumble a few steps backward. "The Daroga wants nothing more than to force me to atone, to make sure I haven't backslid into oblivion." He bit out the words, looming above her. "He knows more about me than anyone, anyone, and that is why he still haunts me, that is why he won't stop following me wherever I go. He wants to check that I am still Erik, still just me, and not the Angel of Doom once more."
Christine looked up at him, horrified. "Angel of Doom?"
He kept on with his onslaught, his tumble of words. Her back pressed against the wall of the bathroom, and he pinned her wrist at the level of her head. "Those who have known me keep one hand up in my presence for a reason! You told the Daroga that you wanted to stay, you told him, Christine, but you have no idea what you are choosing down here in the dark. You have no idea who this man is that stands before you, barely a man, barely anything more than a beast with a mask." He pressed his face close to hers, his breath a quick pant against her face. "But he knows, and that is why you should leave."
"Then tell me." Her whisper cut through his harsh breathing. "Show me. Then I can decide for myself."
He pulled back to stare at her, his eyes roaming over her face, searching. "You would leave, then."
She jutted out her chin. "I'm not a little girl afraid of the boogeyman, Erik."
Whatever response she was expecting, she was not prepared for him to release her, throw back his head, and laugh – a deep, throaty laugh that she otherwise might have found endearing. Now, it sent a shiver across the back of her neck.
"My dear, I am the boogeyman."
She didn't reply, keeping her chin up, her mouth set at a stubborn angle. His dark humor faded as quickly as it had come, and he beckoned her from the bathroom.
He removed his gloves and fixed them both a glass of wine. Whatever he was about to tell her was a needs-wine-now type of situation, and her heart fluttered behind her ribcage. As promised, he had brought her dinner, but her stomach wasn't in the mood for eating just yet.
Instead of settling in his usual spot in his chair, he sat next to her on the divan, his wine glass cupped with both hands as he leaned slightly forward. He gave her a long, studious look, his eyes taking in her features, before taking a sip of wine and beginning.
"The Daroga feels somewhat responsible for the years we spent together in his home country. He is, after all, the one they sent to find me and bring me back. I had many talents, you see, from illusions to architecture, from singing to… other aptitudes. The Shah of Persia wanted me for himself, and he bought my presence in his city. I didn't need the money, much. However, the lure of going somewhere new and having the freedom to explore my own talents was rather seductive."
She immediately had a dozen questions, but she held them back.
"On the surface, I was the designer of the Shah's new palace, in charge of all things architectural. But my other talents soon became known to the Shah's mother who was a bored woman with too much power. I became her-"
Here he hesitated, took a gulp of wine from his glass, and licked his bottom lip. The flash of that pink tongue shouldn't have caused her to suck in a breath, but it did, distracting her so much that she almost didn't hear his next words.
"I became her assassin."
Assassin? He had been a killer for hirer? Christine took her own long sip of wine.
He pressed onward, the secret already spilt between them. "I amused her by my creativity, but even I became bored after so many years of bodies. I lost track of how many people I killed for her, Christine, because after so many years, I stopped caring to count."
If he noticed her starting to shake, he didn't comment upon it. He took another draught of wine. "After I became a political liability, they tried to have me murdered. The Daroga arranged my fake death so I could escape back to the west. I still do not know why he bothered because in the end, he was thrown in jail himself. He spent five years in hell before they released him and he sought me out."
She found her courage. "Why did they call you the Angel of Doom?"
His eyes stared her down, seeking every reaction from her. "I can sing, you see. My voice has kept me alive on more than one occasion. As a boy, I often used my voice to my advantage. I would horrify crowds with my face, cause women to faint and men to lose their dinners, and then I would thrill them with my singing, and all of them would weep. I made quite a lot of money this way, for a while, after I escaped the ones who had initially forced me to do it. In Persia, the Shah's mother delighted in having me sing before I killed."
So this man, this Erik, had led such a life. She could tell he left out the details for her benefit, that he had only skimmed the surface of what he had experienced in the decades before coming to the opera house. She had always sensed that he was dangerous, and now he had confirmed it, had revealed his years as a killer for hire, and she had seen his abilities for herself.
She would have to revisit the subject of his voice at a later time.
Now, she put down her glass of wine, fearing she would drop it in a moment of weakness. "Your face?"
He gestured at the mask. "This is not for theatrical flair, Christine. They called me Angel of Doom in Persia for I brought only death to them, and my face looks the part. It is the face of a corpse and not a man."
A corpse? She trembled. "You are hardly a corpse, Erik, because of what you look like. A man has treated me well these past few days. A man has helped me sing and bandaged my ankle. I have known only a man."
He downed the rest of the wine and set aside his glass. "You speak out of ignorance."
"I've seen injuries," she said, narrowing her eyes. "I saw my father after his car accident, before they took him off life support. I've seen… well, I've seen what surgeries and infection can do to a person. I haven't lived in a bubble all my life."
"This is not an injury, my dear. This is a deformity of birth. I have lived with this face since the moment I was born."
"So show me." The words tumbled out before she could stop them, but she met his incredulous gaze without flinching.
He looked like he was about to flee, his feet tucking under him, his body leaning away from her. "After everything I have told you, you would still dare!"
She wasn't lying when she said she'd seen her share of scars. Her father's car accident had left his body in horrible disarray. They had never taken the bandages off his face, but she could see the dips and contortions that didn't use to be there. His legs had been crushed by the dashboard just before the car caught fire, and only half his body lay under the hospital sheet.
She clasped her hands together to keep from rubbing at her own chest. Yes, she knew a bit about scars. "Has Nadir seen?"
The side of his mouth curled but not in a smile. "Yes, and I believe he had to lie down for fear of fainting."
"I'm not so dramatic, Erik." She thought herself a rather stable person.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then cut them at her. "You, who have had two panic attacks in so many days?"
Oh, that was a low blow. Her panic attacks had only started up in the past two years, right after she was first diagnosed. Before that office visit, she'd never had any problems with anxiety. Before that office visit, she'd been a different person. She wouldn't reveal any of that to him, especially not right now.
She wanted to punch him right in the split lip.
"Say what you like," she said. "All of these people may have called you Angel of Doom because they were terrified of you, but it is you, Erik, who are afraid." His eyes flashed, heating with anger, but she kept going. "You've been afraid of me since I came down here, afraid I'll see, afraid I'll judge you. And because of that fear, you are too paralyzed to even try."
"Afraid, am I?" His voice was rough, unglued at the edges.
He grabbed her hand and forced it to press against his mask for the first time. The white porcelain was cool and unyielding under her palm, and she wondered how comfortable such material could possibly be for long periods of time. Did he ever take it off?
"I have rarely been called a coward, Christine, so do it. Take off my mask! See if you have what it takes to look upon the Phantom's face."
His hand pinned hers to that uncompromising white shape, not letting her free but not prying off the mask himself. His eyes glowed, and he held still, awaiting her move.
She could have backed away. She could have refused. But all that would've done is confirm his greatest suspicions: that she was just like all the others who had seen him. She had pushed him to this, and here he was, ready to bend himself to her will, to reveal what others had demanded he keep covered. This face had driven him beneath the opera, had reduced him to a life of darkness and solitude.
Even Nadir Khan, he said, had not been able to handle it.
Her fingers gripped the mask, digging into the sharp angles at his cheek, and slowly began to lift it from his face. Erik sucked in a sharp breath, but held still as she pulled it all the way off. She looked down as she placed the mask in her lap; it was remarkably heavy and lined in silk. She closed her eyes and tilted her face up so she could look directly at him when she was ready. He shifted a little next to her, and his breathing had turned harsh, rapid.
She opened her eyes and took in his revealed face. His right eyelid drooped, the eye sunken into the socket. That side of his nose was stretched outward, the nostril too wide and twisted. His lips flared into two dark lines of lumpy flesh that did not quite close together. His cheek, if she could call it a cheek, ascended into a sharp cheekbone with ribbons of ruined skin that showed tendons beneath.
Yes, it was horrible. Yes, she had never seen a human face look like that before, especially on someone who was still alive.
He panted beside her, his stare heavy and searching. She refused to look away, but she knew from her sudden dizziness that she had likely paled.
"There is more," he said, almost growling the words at her.
"More?" she echoed breathlessly.
He took both of her hands into his cold ones and guided them to his hairline. His fingers showed her how to pinch at the edge of black hair, and her lips formed a shocked "Oh!" before she could stop herself. His hands left hers, and she caught their trembling as he returned them to clasp at the edges of his own coat.
She couldn't stop now, she couldn't refuse, so she tucked her thumbs under the seam of the wig and gently pulled it off his head. The neatly-combed black tresses that were not his own joined the mask in her lap.
Erik's real hair stood out in thin clumps around his head, the wisps paler than she would have expected. What was his true hair color? Light brown? Blonde? His head appeared almost bald without the thick black hair. The wig had also hidden the grotesque form of his deformity spreading across the upper right portion of his skull. The large round patch sunk into his head, the skin stretched thin over bone.
He didn't look anything like he had before. If she passed him on the street, she wouldn't have recognized him. He sat before her, back a rigid line, eyes daring her to act like every person before her had. She made sure his mask and wig were secure in her lap – god forbid she let them fall to the floor – and lifted both hands to his face.
"What are you doing?" he hissed, not moving away.
His eyes darted to each of her hands like a bird watching a cage descend. She gave him plenty of time to flee; she wasn't trying to frighten him. But after seeing his reaction to being touched, after witnessing what her touch could mean to him, she knew what she had to do.
She cupped both sides of his face with her hands. One side was smooth and cool beneath her hand, the other an expanse of rigid flesh and heated skin. She wondered if the mask chafed, causing those red places. She scooted closer, noting his sharp inhalation when she did so, and continued her onslaught. Her hands mirrored each other in their quest across his face, her fingers roaming the ridges, the smooth patches, the soft swells, the irregular spaces never meant for a human face.
No wonder he had suffered. No wonder he had turned into a monster in Persia. She didn't want to cry, she had made herself promise not to, but the wetness flared hot behind her eyes.
Her hands continued upward, smoothing across his head, the ruined portion of his skull. His real hair was surprisingly soft, the skin of his scalp smooth beyond the deformity. She continued, moving closer still, until her hands met behind his head, and she kept going, pressing her body against his chest.
Her arms squeezed around him in a hug.
His shoulders trembled, his breathing harsh in her ear, and his arms, with no space left to go, stuck straight out to either side behind her. If he would not – could not – return her embrace, she could accept that. It was enough that he let her do this.
Once she knew she had a grip on her own tears, she pulled back. He was terrible to look at, even a second time, but the initial shock had worn down, and she was left with numbing sadness for this man beneath the opera. Of course, most people hadn't taken a second look, had they? She met his gaze with her own and willed him to see her compassion for him.
"I need no pity," he said, his voice low.
"Good," she replied. "I don't pity you."
He looked away for a measure, his gaze far away, no doubt remembering something from his past. When he turned back, his eyes were a little too bright. "No one has ever - the way you-"
She gave him a small smile, not knowing what to say. When he reached for the mask and wig, she let him take them back. She wanted to say, it's okay to leave it all off, to let your skin breathe and heal. But she stayed silent as he stood and put his back to her. He swept on the wig with practiced ease, and his mask slid back on in one quick motion. When he turned back around, he looked like his usual self, his composure regained along with his disguise.
He held out a hand for her, and she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. He clasped her upper arms with both hands, his grip almost too tight. He clenched his hands, then released her. The closest he could come to returning her hug?
"I'm exhausted," she said, dipping her head a bit. "Would it be all right if I took a plate of food to my room and then crashed for the night?"
If he was disappointed by her quick departure, he didn't reveal it. "Of course, Christine. You make your way while I prepare a tray for you."
"Thank you, Erik."
He gave a short bow and left for the kitchen, as she shuffled, crutch under her arm, to her bedroom. She closed the door and changed into her pajamas, loving the familiarity of her own clothes against her skin, a dark pair of pants and t-shirt with Boston University's logo on it. She had just put away her clothes when he knocked on the door.
"Come in."
He did and sat the tray of food on the nightstand. His white mask clung to his face like a giant weight between them. She was barely able to keep her emotions at bay, and she wasn't sure how successful she was because he hovered in the doorway like a tall, ominous presence.
"May I see your ankle?" he asked, all formality and politeness as though moments ago he hadn't pushed his face inches away from hers. As though moments ago, she hadn't hugged his stunned, thin body.
She really didn't want his fingers upon her, and she feared seeing him kneel before her would make her come undone. However, she remembered how much his massage had soothed the swelling the night before. Now that her medicine had worn off, her ankle throbbed.
She nodded.
He went to one knee, and she assumed the usual position of her foot upon his leg without hesitation. Now that she had seen him unmasked, his disguise was clearer to her, the edges of his wig not quite perfect, his mask not quite covering all of his reddened flesh. As he began to press and knead her ankle, her bottom lip quivered. She sucked it between her teeth.
"Are you all right, my dear?" His voice was soft, his eyes downturned to watch his progress.
She couldn't answer, the lump in her throat preventing speech. She gripped the silk of the bed comforter to still her shaking, but his long, strong fingers danced about her skin, and she shivered.
He glanced up at her. "Ah, there are the tears."
She hadn't realized she was crying. She gasped and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. She was stupid, stupid, such a little girl.
He had paused his massage, but now he continued, musing. "Really, tears are the best reaction I could have hoped for. At least you aren't screaming or running away, though without this injury, you might be attempting."
She couldn't take his dark humor. "S-shut up, Erik," she snapped, hiding within her hands. The tears wouldn't stop. "I hate hearing you speak about yourself like that."
"Like what, my dear? It is all true."
"No, it isn't! That isn't how I feel at all!" She shook her head fiercely, her long wavy tresses falling about her shoulders. She kicked her foot a bit so he would let go. Staggered by her behavior, he did.
Then her hands were leaving her face, not quite caring that the tears had left her a wet mess, and grabbing onto the lapels of his coat, dragging him to his knees between her legs. He was so tall that their faces were almost of the same level. She used the momentum and his startled balance to yank him closer still.
"I care about you, Erik! Isn't that obvious by now? I'm not crying because of your face. I'm crying because someone I care about has been hurt so, so badly."
"You-"
He didn't get to finish. Her hands fisted in his coat, her whole body trembling with fear and want and something else she couldn't yet name, and she leaned down, and she smashed her lips to his.
It wasn't graceful. His mouth was open mid-word, and their teeth clanged together. She was too afraid to pull back, afraid she wouldn't get another chance, so she changed the angle, trying a different slant that brought their mouths together with a softer melding of lips. The kiss was wet with her tears and so awkward, and she probably held it longer than she should. His lips never once moved, and he hadn't breathed the whole time.
Oh god, he tasted the way she had imagined, all fireplace smoke and darkness, but she wouldn't let herself linger on the experience. He was a statue on his knees, and fear overwhelmed her. She must have made a dreadful mistake.
When she pulled back, his eyes were wide, all white around the yellow irises, pupils blown. Her fingers were still clenched within the fabric of his coat. His chest pressed between her spread thighs. His hands were splayed to either side of her – to push away, she was sure.
An apology rose to stutter out of her mouth, but he cut her off, voice wondrous. "You have seen my face, and yet you…" He growled, the noise without anger, coming from some primal part of him she had awakened.
He surged upward, his cool fingers tangling within her hair, his body bending over hers as he took her mouth in a surge of enthusiasm.
She had been kissed before, by a few fumbling teenagers in high school and a few more frat boys in college. That had all been years ago. This – this was the embrace of a man. His lips, slating deliciously across hers with newfound attention, devoured her with a roughness just this side of pain, and her moan was lost between them. His tongue dipped inside, seeking her out, a foreign slick slide that made her ache in new places. His large body arched over hers, not quite touching but she could feel the heat of him everywhere. His kiss was almost frantic in its quest for greater contact, the kiss that of a man who had seen the sun for the first time.
And just as quickly, he stumbled back and to his feet, and pressed himself against the far wall before she could sit up. His broad chest heaved.
She touched her swollen lips. "Was that… okay? I'm not that experienced."
"Okay!" He was incredulous. "You, Christine, have brought light and wonder and life into my underground tomb. How could you ever call that merely okay." His eyes were intense, the depths swirling with newfound emotion. Her face flushed hotly under that powerful gaze.
She managed a small smile. "Well, I liked it too."
He took a step forward after he seemed to have regained a bit of control. His fingers ghosted along her cheek. "Christine."
She leaned into his touch. "Yes?"
"I must take my leave for the night before that happens again."
She would have laughed at his frank words, but he was so serious. He left the threat – or promise? – hanging in the heavy air between them. She understood exactly what he meant. The fierceness of their kiss suggested way more than she was ready for. She hadn't even wanted to kiss someone in a long time.
"Good night, my dear."
Oh, how she loved that endearment. At first, it had sounded so patronizing, a snide clip that sounded more civil than it was. Now when he said it, with his honeyed voice rough with passion, she felt a thrill run through her.
"Sia's 'Chandelier,'" she said, making him pause in the doorway.
"Pardon me?"
She flushed a little, but pressed onward. "The name of the song I want to sing tomorrow. So you can practice. If it's not too modern."
He dipped his head. "As you wish." And he was gone.
On the nightstand, she found the dinner he had left. He had fixed her a sandwich of sweet ham, cheese, and tomato on rye bread. She ate half of it hungrily and downed the glass of water with two ibuprofen before tucking herself deep within the heavy blankets.
She fell asleep to the sound of his hands pulling a slow, sweet melody from the piano in the other room.