This chapter is rated a hard M for some very strong reasons. We will all need chocolate after this.

Chapter 24

Late the next morning, Nadir came to her door to have breakfast and discuss plans for disembarking the next day. If he noticed her red eyes and puffy face, he tactfully made no mention of how terrible she looked. They both sipped on hot beverages and ate in silence, until Nadir cleared his throat.

"Erik made it safely, and he is comfortable enough. Think of his crate like a rather cramped bed."

She shuddered at the thought. "I'm glad he's safe, at least. What should I expect tomorrow?"

He outlined the steps they both would take. They needed to carry their own luggage off the ship, so neither of them would set out their bags tonight. This would allow them to disembark as early as possible around 8 o'clock in the morning. They would meet up at the taxi gate and take a cab together to a hotel on the outskirts of the city. Christine would be dropped off at the hotel while Nadir went to rent a van and get Erik through customs, a tricky process that Nadir said would likely cost him a large sum of cash.

After fetching his precious antique, Nadir would drive the van back to the hotel, let Erik out in the van, and sneak him up to the hotel room. After Erik had showered and changed, they would all start the drive to the safe house.

"And where is this safe house?" Christine asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Switzerland," Nadir replied, smiling a bit. "A tiny town called Saint-Ursanne, near the French border. No one ever goes there, not even tourists, which has made it the perfect spot for us. I haven't been there in years except for day trips to check on the property's renovation, so I do look forward to seeing the manor again."

Christine tried to imagine such a place, nestled between the mountains of Switzerland. She knew nothing of the country, only that they spoke many languages there and with all the mountains, it was likely to be chilly at night.

She picked at her breakfast, not feeling much like food. Nadir, to his credit, tried cheering her up, but ultimately, he left her alone. She wasn't good company anyway, and she was happy to let him off the hook while he still could be. Thoughts of Erik filled her mind, and she passed the rest of the day the best she could around the stateroom – plucking at the piano, watching the news, and reading. The sight of a bookmark tucked into the last book Erik had been reading brought her to tears once again.

That night, she tossed around in bed. She had grown used to Erik's weight next to her, and more than once she woke to find herself groping his side of his bed for him.

How was he doing down at the bottom of the ship? He had now been there a full day, encased in darkness, able to hear only the pings and groans of the ship's hull. She felt sick at the thought.

Once a reasonable hour arrived, she got up and watched dawn break over the horizon from the balcony. The day of disembarking had finally arrived.

Christine felt a thrill run through her as she gazed at land for the first time in almost a week. The next few hours passed far too slowly as the massive movement of twenty-five hundred passengers off the ocean liner began. Her legs felt weirdly shaky after she stepped onto dry land, wheeling her suitcase behind her.

She made her way through hundreds of people and found the taxi gate Nadir had spoken of. Due to his cabin's location, he knew he would be arriving sometime after her, so she sat on her bag to wait for him. Almost an hour later, he waved at her from across the sea of people.

They flagged down a cab and drove until Nadir found a hotel he thought was suitable enough. He paid for two rooms, just in case they needed them, and checked Christine into one. At first, she insisted on going with him when he went to pick up Erik, but Nadir refused, saying for everyone's peace of mind, she should stay here. Underneath, she did understand that he needed her out of the way, but she also wondered if it was for Erik's dignity. She hated to imagine the shape he would be in when Erik opened the crate.

She gave the Iranian a hug. It was past lunch time by this point, so she ordered some food and ate while watching some British show, enjoying a bit of TV after a week without. For a brief second, she eyed the phone and considered what would happen if she picked it up and called her mother. The idea was quickly squashed.

Lunch passed into the afternoon, and then afternoon melded into early evening. She was beyond restless in the hotel room, and she had begun pacing. Nadir had left no way of contacting him. What if something had gone wrong with customs? What if they were both in a British holding cell somewhere – or worse, found out by the very people they wanted to avoid? She chewed on a fingernail and tugged on her messy hair and tried desperately not to think the worse.

A fist pounding upon the door made her jump. She raced to peer into the peephole and threw open the door when she saw Nadir.

"Thank God, there you are!" she said with relief.

He rushed passed her into the room and grabbed Erik's suitcase, dragging the bag toward the door. "I need this." His darker skin was pale, and she read the distressed expression on his bearded face.

"Nadir, what happened? Why did you take so long?" She grabbed his arm. "Where is Erik?"

"He's fine, mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Whoever removed his crate from the ship didn't pay attention to my many, many signs. They stood the crate upright!" Nadir shoved thick fingers through his salt and pepper hair. "The idiots left him standing for Allah knows how long. I have to go."

"Where is he?" Her voice was shrill.

"In the other room. I'll bring you over when I can. Just… give me some time first." He paused long enough to rest a shaky hand on her shoulder. "The important thing is that we made it, right? The worst danger is now over." He hurried out of the room, and she watched him disappear through another door down the hall.

Oh my God, Erik had been standing in his box all day? In a crate that wasn't nearly tall enough for him to stretch to his full height? Christine felt like she was going to be sick. She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to get her breathing under control. If she thought too much about what he had just gone through, she might truly lose it. She needed to be strong for him, a calm presence when she saw him.

The next hour took an age, but when Nadir knocked on the door again, it was with less panic. In fact, he seemed a bit angry.

"You can go to him now, if you want. He won't let me near him, so maybe you will have better luck. I do warn you that he doesn't believe me when I say you're still here."

"What? Why not?"

His shoulders slumped with weariness. He sat heavily upon the bed and began to pull off his shoes. "You will have to ask him that. I'm too tired to pry his mind. We'll stay the night here and leave early in the morning. Try to rest – we have a long drive ahead of us."

"Okay, thanks," she told him.

His tired voice stopped her at the door. "This room is open to you if you need it. There is no reason for you to stay there. Eventually, he would understand."

She thanked him again and headed down the hall. Why would she need to be able to escape into a different room? Her place was at Erik's side. No matter what kind of shape he was in now, that wouldn't change.

Using the keycard Nadir gave her, she pushed the door open to the other hotel room. Like her room, it opened to a little hall and then the bedroom with a double bed and not much else. The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn, but light peered out from underneath the door leading to the bathroom to her left.

She knocked on the bathroom door. "Erik? It's Christine. Can I come in?"

No answer followed. Jiggling the door handle, she found it unlocked, so she cracked it open. She could see Erik's angular white feet, his black-encased legs stretched across the tiled floor. She opened the door further to peer inside.

Erik leaned against the side of the tub. He wore what appeared to be a clean pair of pants and an unbuttoned shirt. The scars on his torso cast strange patterns across his skin in the harsh light. A towel was draped over his bowed head, throwing his unmasked face into shadow.

He didn't move when she crouched beside him. "Erik," she called softly. "What do you need?"

One long-fingered hand lifted and gestured at his head. Ah, he needed his mask and wig? Her heart broke, and words came to the surface to tell him that he didn't have to wear those around her. But she didn't know what he had gone through over the last two days, and she didn't dare push anything upon him right now.

Instead, she could be what he needed most: someone to put him back together.

"I'll be right back," she told him and headed into the bedroom. On the dresser, she saw a discarded wig and mask – the ones he had worn, she guessed. On the floor, she found his opened suitcase and retrieved the two articles she sought, noticing he had at least one other spare as well.

She toed off her sandals, and then hurried back into the bathroom and knelt at his side. "I'm here. May I help?" She began to reach for the towel on his head, but one of his hands snapped forward and encased her wrist in a steely grip.

He lifted his head and glowing amber eyes glared at her from beneath the towel. She tried to tug free but he held firm, his fingers wrapped around her wrist.

"You're hurting me, Erik."

"They put me into a box." His words came out as a hiss.

Christine thought he meant Nadir, but he had said they, not he. She tried to relax into his painful grip instead of pulling back. "Who did?"

"The men who owned the traveling carnival. The put me into a box, and I would lay there waiting until they opened the lid to allow the audience to gawk at me. Then they would close the lid, and I would wait again for the next group." His head tilted, his eyes piercing her. "Sometimes I waited an hour. Sometimes they forgot I was in there until the next morning. Do you know how old I was?"

"No," she whispered.

"Six, and then seven, and then eight."

Oh God, what had been done to him? This was the kind of childhood Erik had lived? Christine wanted to weep for him, but she couldn't fall into her tears now. This man, who had faced his past while alone and suffocating in the dark, needed her.

Her wrist ached. She ignored it. "What happened when you were eight?" she asked, keeping her tone low and easy.

"My hands were finally big enough to wrap around the throats of the men who put me in the box. I strangled two of them before they left me alone." He pulled her closer. "Does this frighten you?"

Do I frighten you, he meant.

"No," she said. "This makes me so, so very sad." She laid her free hand over the fast fluttering of his heart, his skin cool beneath her touch. "I love you."

At once the clench around her wrist eased. "Christine," he said, her name a whine in the back of his throat.

"I'm here, my love. May I help you? Please?"

"Turn off the light."

He didn't let go of her wrist, so she scooted onto her knees and stretched up to reach the light. She knew he could see better than her in the dark, so she wasn't too concerned when she pitched them both into almost complete blackness. His eyes flickered as she settled back.

Now he allowed her to pull the towel from his head, his hand moving from her wrist to her knee as though he needed to stay in physical contact with her. She smoothed back the sprigs of his fine hair still damp from his shower, and then took up the wig.

"Show me?" she asked, and his fingers covered hers, directing her to spread the front of it open and lay it against his forehead. The adhesive on the inside edge caught onto his skin, holding the front in place as she gently pulled the wig across the back of his head, adjusting the edges with his guidance.

The mask slid on without difficulty. Erik took a shuddering breath and let it out slowly. Sensing the discharge of tension, she found the bottom edges of his shirt and buttoned him up, leaving the top two undone.

"There you go," she said gently. "Now, can I get you off this cold floor?"

He grunted in response, but he raised his arm when she placed a shoulder under it, allowing her to help him to his feet. The two of them made their way into the bedroom, his pace shuffling and slow, and they sat on the hard mattress.

"Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?"

He didn't answer, his hands coming up to cup her face. "You are here."

"Of course I'm here."

"I thought you would leave. You could have easily left."

She wished she could see him in the blackness of night. She felt a little self conscious that he could see her while he remained a mere dark shape before her. She could make out a little of his white shirt and mask, but that was it. Reaching out, she felt the crispness of his shirt and traveled upward until she found his neck, his jaw. As always, he was free of stubble, and she slid her fingertips to the bottom swell of his lip.

"I told you – I'm not going anywhere. I love you. I'm staying." She would say all of those words a hundred times a day if that is what he needed.

"You are staying," he echoed.

His lips kissed her exploring touch, and then bent and captured her mouth with a surety he shouldn't have had in this darkness. He leaned over her, pressing her into the bed, deepening the kiss with probing tongue and bruising force. She felt his caresses darting over her body, rubbing a lock of her hair between finger and thumb, touching her face, skimming over her ribs, riding up her shirt enough to scorch a path down her belly.

"My Christine."

"Yes," she breathed. "I'm yours, Erik."

Before she realized what he was doing, he had twisted open the button of her jeans and glided his hand further downward with inhuman quickness. She gasped into his mouth at the sudden intrusion, clutching at his shoulders. Not hesitating, his long fingers stroked her with a boldness he hadn't possessed before, pressing into her atop her underwear. Then one finger found the edge of the lacey trim and slid underneath and inside her, his arm elbowing her legs wider to allow him access. A second finger joined the first, a tighter fit, and he breathed a groan as she met him with a wince.

And then he was wrenching his hand free of her and tugging at her jeans with both hands, exposing her upper thighs to the cold air.

"More," she heard him say.

And she gave him more, helping him remove her pants the rest of the way, not sure if she tossed them aside or if he did. She was dimly aware that her underwear had come off along with her jeans, and she was now naked from the waist down. She felt terribly exposed and sought to hide herself, but he was covering her with his own fully clothed body, shoving himself between her legs as he sought her mouth again.

"Erik-" The words were there for her to share with him, the admission she hadn't yet told him. She knew he was as untouched as she was, knew they were having a shared first experience, but she couldn't say the words, couldn't admit what she had never found the right moment to say. If she told him she had never done this before, she knew for certain he would stop.

And she didn't want him to stop, didn't want him to hold back. She had wanted him days ago – she had wanted him weeks ago, the first time he had held her ankle in his hands and fiery energy had coursed between them. She had wanted him then, wanted him even more when he had massaged her swollen ankle and made her dinner, when he had let her take off his mask for the first time, when he had bumped teeth with her in their first kiss and given her the first singing lesson and looked at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

Instead of words, she tried to lay a hand on his exposed cheek, but he grabbed her and pinned her wrist to the mattress just above her head. He brought her other arm up until both were held in one of his tight fists, and the roughness startled her, brought her into sharp focus.

The coarse material of his pants rasped against the tender skin between her thighs. His hips snapped against hers, bringing a long line of hardness against her, and she shivered in delight and a sudden surge of fear.

His free hand traveled down her body to the outside of her thigh, fingers spreading across that expanse of her skin, blunt nails digging into her as he raised her to meet his hips. He pumped against her, lips burning a path down her throat.

"Ah Christine. My lovely Christine. Let me have you."

"Yes," she whispered to the dark, her body trembling beneath his.

She didn't know how ready she was, but she ached for him, wanted him, and his hand was dipping between them to undo his pants. Her arms still pinned above her head, her fingers starting to tingle, she had nothing to hold onto, no way to push or pull against him. She drew her knees up but he was already between her thighs again, spreading her wide.

The space around them seemed to bleed away. She was aware of his lips on her neck, the scratch of his mask on her cheek, and the thickness of him pressing her open with a steady, quick slide that took her breath away. It was all too fast, too much, and he seemed much too large to be filling her, too much for her to take. This was nothing at all like his fingers – this, a throbbing pressure that split her open, a burning ache that parted her mouth with a cry she had never made before.

Oh, it hurt, and she was burning in more ways than one, and he was already pulling out, dragging flesh on flesh, leaving her empty for a second of an eternity before plunging deep inside again. The rotation continued, the dance of his body atop hers, the undulations that her body somehow knew all on its own rising to meet him.

"Erik, Erik, Erik," his name became a voiceless chant upon her tongue. Her mind echoed his name with stop and more until both became entwined in one thought that wrapped around her mind and threatened to smother her.

She couldn't take anymore. She would die if he stopped. He surged like a tidal wave above her, deep sounds coming from him that she felt between their pressed chests. She might have screamed. And then he abruptly shuddered and pressed deeper, and warmth flooded inside her.

His weight fell upon her, his breathing harsh in her ear. He pried his hand off her wrists, and feeling began to rush back into her numb fingers, and his arms crushed her to him. She settled her hands on his back and held them there. Her thighs ached from being spread so widely open, but she stayed still, unwilling to prod him into any kind of movement.

Eventually, his lips found hers, a gentle caress so different from a moment ago. He kissed her for a long time, and when he did finally rise off her, she felt him slip, softened, easily free. She throbbed. She curled onto her side, hearing him pad to the bathroom. Water turned on and off, and his weight settled onto the bed next to her. There was a tension to him that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"I hurt you," he said in the darkness, voice cracking.

She didn't answer. What could she say? Yes, he had hurt her. He had been too rough, and she had let him. He had gone too fast, and she hadn't told him why he should slow down. She swallowed, tried to wet the inside of her mouth. She was highly aware of the air on her naked skin and just how well he could see in the dark.

"You… were a virgin." How could he push those words out of his mouth? But he did, the last a breaking in the final vestige of his control.

Despite everything, her face still heated. "Yes."

There was a long pause, and then she heard the anguished, "Gods, Christine!"

Don't take it back, she silently pleaded. Don't take this moment from me. She supposed she should feel some sort of loss, but she didn't, only the lingering realization that her old reality had been replaced with a new one.

He shifted and laid a hand on the outside of her thigh. With his silent prodding, she rolled onto her back, and he pressed a damp washcloth between her legs, the warmth seeping into her sore flesh. She sighed and stroked his arm, and listened to the sounds he made in the shadows where she couldn't see his face, the hitching breaths of a man weeping.

She let him cry for the both of them.