A/N: Okay guys, you can put your Punjabs away now. ;-) And now…

Chapter XLVIII

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Damn his wretched, bleeding heart to the nether regions of the universe!

Though in his estimation, it already shriveled there...

The Phantom belted his robe around his waist and hurried down a secret passage, a more circuitous route Christine knew nothing about. If she could not find him, he hoped she might give up the chase, and chase him she was sure to do. He knew he would have to face her eventually. But he needed time to think his way out of this damnable mess.

This was not how it was to be – upon visiting her chamber tonight, he certainly never intended on making love to her! And every expression of what they had shared was love, God help him. At least on his part. He had never experienced such devastating yet exhilarating emotion with anyone as she ignited within his empty excuse for a heart and a soul so long twisted and dark, so dark …

As he hurried through the concealed corridor, his mind traveled along its own detour, to events of the past three years, here, and in the theatre above – all of them wretched mistakes – and all, in their own dismal and absurd fashion, leading to this one moment from which he now fled.

The first gross misjudgment occurred in a remote corridor above shortly after he arrived to the theatre, where he encountered Juliet, intoxicated and as surprised to see him as he'd been to run across her path. Her interest had been evident. After having recently fled Persia and the horrors he'd been forced to create there, also having just heard the distressing news from England with regard to Christine's activities, he had yearned to feel whole again, to feel wanted, and hoped to find some semblance of it with the tipsy dancer. Vastly experienced, she had been thorough, giving him favors he never knew existed, also instructing him in how to pleasure a woman. But before they could conclude their wicked tryst, before he could plunge into her body and learn the mystery that eluded, they were interrupted by a clamor coming from an adjoining corridor – a flock of dancers returning late from a night of revelry in the city, calling out for her, she obviously having been one of their number.

Shocked into awareness, he had left Juliet protesting and pouting and retreated to his dungeons, disgusted by what he allowed. Later he sought her out, warning her never to speak of what happened between them. She agreed to stay silent, if he resumed their covert liaison. He refused, and the wretched girl told the entire chorus what transpired between her and the newly arrived Opera Ghost, who had made his presence known the previous month, and – according to those imbeciles who attempted to run the place – "haunted" their theatre.

Then came Winnie, the following spring, on the same night he found Jacques and his sister. Winnie had been crying, betrayed by her beau. She wanted revenge – so had he, feeling likewise betrayed. Of all the girls in the corps de ballet, with her dark profusion of long curls and deep brown eyes she strongly favored the one woman who had the power to destroy him – and had done so again. That, and his wicked experience with Jolene was what pushed him over the edge into insanity. They came together violently in that filthy corridor, each using the other for selfish gain – to strike out at those who'd hurt them, no matter that their tormentors were unaware. After the deed was done, Winnie, too, expressed a wish for additional meetings, and for three depraved weeks he succumbed.

They came together in shadows, in the little used corridor, later in an abandoned storage room, the Phantom desperate to forget about his night of debaucheries with the young French maid while engaging in the pretense that Winnie was his lost love, before he finally jolted to his senses and ended their shallow, cold-hearted association. She continued to seek him out late in the nights that followed, walking the corridor they had often used and calling to him – pleading for him to come to her. Because he did not yield, she also disobeyed his orders never to speak of what happened between them. His indiscretions were spread into some loathsome legend, and even after her dismissal by his order through Madame Giry, other ballet rats walked that same damned corridor late in the night, hoping for a clandestine encounter with the Opera Ghost.

And the intrusive little Giry had been quick to tell Christine all of it her first day there.

The incidents with both dancers were wretched mistakes, though his indiscretions with the little maid was the worst of the lot. In part, his actions stemmed from a desire to experience the intimacy and gratification the more deserving of humanity shared; but what lay at the core of each encounter had been no more than a case of blind, animal lust and for all the wrong reasons: Drink. Anger. Vengeance … Desolation. After the fleeting satisfaction of the corporeal act faded, each time he felt revolted with how he used them and how he had been used. To ease the guilt and justify his choices, he bitterly told himself that she had done the same, and with his enemy –

But he had been mistaken.

She had not.

And up until minutes ago her innocence had been intact.

God, what had he done?

He slammed the flat of his hand against the wall he hurried past.

The warm memory haunted with bittersweet cruelty. He had taken her fiercely, passionately, his urgent need to have her as his woman, as his wife pushing against every deliberate restraint he'd built between them, the long-burning desire to possess her controlling him until he no longer could claim rational thought. The experience had been different with her, phenomenal, even before he discovered the shocking truth that shattered what was left of his defenses.

Despite previous experiences, he had felt untried. Lost in the wonder of being with Christine, with her he did things he never attempted with the others, never wished to. The emotions she set off in him thundered through his soul, infiltrated his heart, her innocent, hungry touch arousing him to a point he could not contain it, and when at last they had come together, he felt as if not only their bodies but their souls were joined!

Dear God, had he but known the truth of her virtue he would never have taken her so ruthlessly at first. Might not have taken her at all, not like this ... She had been so innocent and sweet, so damn reassuring, driving the wedge of his guilt deeper into his weak excuse for a heart. And then the ultimate mistake – in hearing her utter that name in the heat of her climax, he had forgotten who he now was, forgotten why he brought her to this dark dungeon to begin with, forgotten all else but that consummate moment in her arms. He had responded without thinking, speaking the old endearment from his heart, confident that because they were finally in complete union, she would come to love him – the man he was now – and in time become his of her own free will. No longer feeling forced to remain in a marriage she agreed to – just to save that wretched boy!

He had claimed her body tonight, yes, but she withheld from him her heart. In time, he might have been able to persuade her to relinquish that too.

God, he was a fool!

He never should have run. He should have stayed. He could have explained away his blunder. He had done so with greater mistakes and comparisons. Smoothly he always was able to deceive her when she brushed too close to the truth. Like those other times, she had sounded uncertain. He could have said something to convince her that his whispered endearment was only another coincidence with regard to the boy she remembered, the boy who no longer existed – who she didn't want. He could have easily resumed the masquerade had he but tried.

But his defenses were completely shattered upon his discovery that she was a virgin. The foundation of his revenge had been based upon the lie that she was not, that she had given herself to that irksome rogue of a viscount and lived as his paramour, slept in his bed – once they rid themselves of the troublesome, gullible gypsy he'd been. And at that moment of stark recognition, to learn that he had been wrong, what little remained of the chipped wall between them at once demolished into ashes of harsh regret and fearful concern – followed by an ecstasy such as he had never known in the finale of their lovemaking, his emotions for her so damned powerful and gripping, he had not been able to think after his blunder – only to run.

And now, because of his damnable folly – everything must change. He could no longer submit to his perverse will to go through with this wretched plan. Not after tonight. Not after she so blindly and innocently had given him her trust, a trust he did not deserve.

She thought him only the Phantom and a criminal, and he was that. She did not desire or want the despised and ridiculed creature she left behind in England, dead and buried. He could never let her see beyond the mask. Could not bear her revulsion, or worse, her pretense. Would not be the curse. No more games – not after tonight ...

... not after he discovered what it meant to love a woman with his entire being – Soul. Heart. And body.

The Phantom let out a harsh sob, dashing away the hot moisture that welled in his eyes, his stride never slowing. He would give her what she most wanted, what she had long asked for - every day, since she had come to these foul caves - though in all likelihood it would destroy him. It was the only recourse, the only manner by which he could attempt to find some morsel of redemption from her after all he'd done, and especially for this latest dark deed from which there could never be a return.

Even as he arrived to that somber conclusion, knowing how difficult it would be to carry out, he entered his chamber through the back entrance of his bedroom...

...and came to a sudden stop.

Christine glared at him from where she sat on his plush coverlet.

Looking like a warrior princess who had just been thoroughly ravished and bedded, her skin damp and flushed, her curls tangled and wild, she regarded him without smiling. Her chin lifted at a proud angle, her dark eyes burning into his in tearful accusation. Her red, kiss-swollen lips drew into a tight line. Somewhat unsteadily she rose from his bed and approached until less than a foot of space separated them. The traces of recent tears ran down both her cheeks.

"My apologies," his voice came gruff but steady, something for which he was astonished as much as he trembled inside. "I did not mean to leave in such haste and without explanation. I heard a noise and felt it detrimental that I investigate, especially after more than one intruder has crossed into these premises."

The lie, like so many others before it, slipped easily off his tongue.

She asked no questions.

She hurled no accusations.

One moment she stood completely motionless, like a mannequin. The next, she moved forward with blunt determination.

Before he could recognize her intent, her hand darted up and snatched the mask completely from his face…

…while the violent force of her action brought with it a snug wig of raven black that pulled away from his sable brown hair.

x

Christine dropped her prize and let out a shocked, pained whimper.

"Erik."

Upon witnessing the stark truth he could no longer disavow, fresh tears rushed to her eyes. Before he could slap his hand over his grossly distorted features, she threw her arms around his neck and desperately clung to him.

"My God! - You're alive? You're truly here?!"

Her elated relief to see him and mind-numbing shock that she had been correct all along twisted into an anguish so vast and intense she stepped back and slapped him as hard as she could across his smooth, handsome, unmarred cheek. His head snapped back from the force of the blow, but other than cupping his hand over the flawed side of his face, he remained immobile, not saying a word.

His resulting silence seemed its own betrayal and only served to sharpen her ire.

"Have you nothing to say? Nothing in your defense?" She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, feeling ready to splinter into a thousand pieces of angry, weeping femininity. She drew herself up and regarded him with hurt disdain. "No, of course not. How can you defend such – such duplicity and cowardice and utter treachery – and again distort the truth when it has been revealed in full, with no turning back…?"

He winced but still said nothing, and her sham of composure shattered.

"You heartless, unfeeling bastard! How could you not tell me! How could you LIE to me all this time – all these weeks – almost months – since the very beginning? The VERY FIRST DAY?! My God, Erik! All of it – LIES! WHY…?"

He regarded her gravely. "It was for the best."

At his low, detached words, all of her bitter angst and endless pain of over four years thinking him dead rushed up to drown her soul.

"The best…?" she sobbed. "THE BEST?! DAMN YOU FOR YOUR BEST! AND DAMN YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID TO ME BECAUSE OF YOUR HELLISH 'BEST'! Have you no concept of the pain I suffered? How could you do this to me, after all those years we once shared - how could you?!"

Blindly she lashed out at him again. This time, he caught her by the wrists. They wildly struggled, with her hurling a string of cutting invectives in the wake of his heavy silence, the searing tears of her wretched heartache and his damnable treachery unleashed in a torrent that refused to ebb.

He hauled her against the hard length of his body and held her tight, so close, with his form molded to hers as if he never wished to let her go.

"This is for the best too," he whispered sadly against her ear. "For you."

Before Christine could understand his meaning, he gently pressed his lips to her temple while circling his hand around her neck - and steadily exerted pressure with his thumb against the wildly beating pulse of her throat.

"Forgive me..."

She barely heard his whisper. Her surroundings dimmed, and the fight went out of her as her body went limp and she collapsed in his arms.

.

xXx

.

Christine slowly came to, feeling groggy and disoriented. She blinked in confusion when the pink blotches before her eyes came into focus as roses on smooth wallpaper – with no sign of lumpy dark rock ... she had seen that design somewhere before, and then she remembered.

The pink dressing room.

Hurriedly she sat up, tasting bitterness on her lips. Clothed only in her loose silk wrapper, her entire body felt sore, even bruised, the most sensitive areas – the nipples of her breasts, her inner thighs, especially the hidden area between her legs – very tender. And in one staggered breath it all came rushing back to her.

Their night of incredible passion.

Her discovery of his wretched lies.

She had confronted him. He had tricked her – again – somehow caused her to pass out – likely drugged her – brought her back above – he had ... he ...

My God –

Erik was alive!

She had been living with him in his dungeons for months! Married to him for weeks!

ERIK was the Phantom of the Opera …?!

Her breath came fast as the absolute shock of her discoveries registered and settled heavily in her mind, weighing down her soul. Tears again threatened and for long moments all she could do was blink through a hot film of building moisture and stare at the mirror, where he had once come to her.

All those years ...

All those wasted, horrible, endless years!

Why had he done it?

Why was she here now?

God, where was he?

Christine swiftly rose from the chaise, then put a hand to her forehead, feeling dizzy, and groaned as she sank back down. So many questions revolved inside her mind. But paramount to all of them, she must find him. Must demand answers. How could he do this to her? WHY would he do this to her?

She frowned at the mirror then again rose, more slowly this time, and moved toward it. Near the dressing table sat a trunk that she did not remember being there before. A quick peek inside revealed her clothing.

So, he was tossing her aside? Finished with her now that his ruse was up?

Resentful tears burned her eyes as she fluctuated between disbelief and fury, calling herself a damned fool for succumbing and believing in his endless masquerade when she had sensed it was him that first day – since the first bloody day she had known! – and cursing him as a heartless, black scoundrel for his repetitive lies. Within seconds of that, the power of her tragic love for him surged to the fore, and her strongest desire was to find him and hold him so closely to her as to never let go, never to let anything separate them again –

…until the darkness once more took hold of her mind, reminding her of the hopeless years of agony, and she wanted to make him suffer for all he'd done to her.

Dear God…

Erik was alive.

Christine shook her head in confusion as tremendous shock again tingled her senses, and she grasped her throat, as if by doing so she could calm her elevated breathing. A hazy recollection of his hand circling where hers now rested, his thumb pushing with wicked intent against the hollow before her world grew black made her frown.

To what purpose had he put her through such endless torments? Revenge for her foolish talk with Berta? Hatred that she would say such things, even in the heat of her feelings of being scorned by him? Had he planned her punishment for four entire years?

That sounded extreme, even for Erik, and she could not fathom what would push him to such measures. Henri had lied, Erik had not been shot, but then she remembered the blood on the cloth mask – the very fact that she had it in her possession – and knew something must have happened to him. Had he really been shot and left for dead? Did he blame her for that too?

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She did neither and glared into the mirror, wondering if he was on the other side. Wondering if he was watching her even now.

Pressing her palms to the glass, Christine leaned in, trying to see past the silver surface, but only her pale, desolate reflection looked back. Tears leaked down her clumped lashes from eyes that burned in wounded anger.

"Can you hear me, Erik? Are you in there, spying?"

Hearing his name spoken, coming from her lips, made her choke back a sob as her mind again faced the reality of what she was truly saying: Erik was alive! All this time he had not been dead, he had been in hiding!

Was he hiding from her now?

"Come out and face me, you bastard! Or are you a pathetic coward?"

Her deliberate insults did not produce the desired effect. The looking glass did not move to reveal an opening. No voice answered from the other side.

"You cannot treat me like this," she whispered, balling up her hand and striking the mirror, pressing her cheek against it. "I won't let you treat me like this…! Why did you do it?" she asked miserably and struggled to quench another heavy sob building in her throat. Regardless, it tore loose and she briefly closed her eyes, attempting to do the same with her heart to fight against the pain.

She pushed at the reflective glass, trying to move it to the side, her fingertips then feeling up and down the sides for a latch when it wouldn't budge. "Damn you!" Twice, she struck the mirror with both fists. "You cannot hide from me now, Erik! I know where you are and I will find a way to reach you. Do you hear me?" she threatened more loudly, backing slowly away and looking the mirror up and down. "You will face me and explain every bit of this! You cannot hide from me anymore! I won't let you!"

Mirrors were fragile glass and that one was a door, with no wooden backing to make it a viable barrier. Determined, she swung around and grabbed the small chair in front of the vanity. Lifting it, she struck her image – the impact weak, since her strength had not fully returned from whatever potion he had used to drug her. Her pathetic attempt did not make a crack, only an unsatisfactory scratch on the glossy surface. Not quite as fragile as she first thought. The door of glass must be unusually thick.

Growling, her blood boiling hotter with intent, she lifted the chair to strike again.

"CHRISTINE GRENDAHL – STOP THIS AT ONCE!"

The shock of hearing her mother's maiden name linked with hers in fierce command punctured through her angry desperation. Christine paused with the chair raised to look behind her, from where the stern salutation came.

Madame Giry stood in the doorway. The ballet headmistress furtively glanced over her shoulder, to see if anyone had heard, then stepped the rest of the way inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, walking toward where Christine stood with the chair still held high. "Put that down before you do damage."

"That was my intent."

"And so, you wish all of the opera house to know where your husband resides? Is it also your intent to put him in danger from those who would hunt him down like a wild animal? Once broken, there will be no way to hide that entrance."

The woman's ice cold logic broke through Christine's red haze of fury. As livid as she was with Erik, the last thing Christine wanted was his capture. She had lived through a purgatory on earth these past years without him, thinking she was the reason for his brutal death. Now that she knew his demise had been a sham, she would never do anything that might send his enemies to his doorstep, would fight for his safety in any way she must…

Though once she did confront him again, he might wish for the thick steel bars of a prison cell between them.

With her anger only slightly abated, Christine set down the chair.

"You know about the entrance, then," she stated more than asked. "Will you show me how to get inside?"

Madame looked at her curiously. "You wish to go back?"

Christine shook her head in confusion. Why should Madame think she would want to stay here? She had attended Christine's wedding and saw her married to the Phantom…to Erik. Feeling a bit lightheaded again by that revelation and leery of saying too much, uncertain what exactly the ballet headmistress knew, she eyed her warily.

"He did not inform me of such an arrangement," Madame explained. "That you would travel back and forth. His instructions were that you are to stay here."

"You saw him - spoke with him?"

"Non. He communicated through his usual method. His notes."

"What were his instructions?" she whispered.

"That you would be returning to us within the week to join us in rehearsals for the new opera. It begins in less than two weeks."

Christine inhaled a stunned breath.

"But surely you knew that?"

No, she didn't know anything of the sort, but then the Phantom had chosen to keep her in the dark in more ways than one.

Christine scowled. "When did he send that note?"

"The first one, two days ago."

"Two days?"

Had she been unconscious for so long?

"Tell me, is it – is it still the first day of the new year?"

"Yes. Just past dawn."

So he had brought her directly from his bedchamber to the dressing room. He had planned her stay in the theatre before all of what happened between them last night…though his decision as to the abrupt timing of her arrival was in all likelihood because of what followed after…

Erik was alive.

Madame eyed her strangely, carefully, as she might observe a cornered wild animal. Under the circumstances, Christine could hardly blame her. She felt entirely capable of wreaking havoc, and almost had done exactly that. She looked at the intact mirror that had nearly been destroyed.

"Beneath the earth it's easy to lose track of time," Christine explained in an attempt not to sound like a madwoman, though she did feel as if she was slowly losing her mind.

"His second note came this morning, alerting me to your arrival. I came to the dressing room, where he said you would be, and found you asleep on the chaise. I did not wish to disturb you, nor do I have anywhere for you to go. I'm afraid there are no empty beds at present. You shall have to bunk with Meg, in the ballet dormitory, until I can make other arrangements."

In her present state of mind, and remembering how they treated her at her audition, Christine had no wish to inhabit a room with a gaggle of inquisitive, rude, gigging girls. She liked Meg, the little she'd seen of her, but had never shared a room with anyone, save for the one night here, in a servants' chamber, as a maid. And she didn't wish to be grilled with a plethora of questions about the past two and half months with the Phantom or her sudden rise to stardom, as Meg or the others were sure to do. An idea formed. She glanced at the mirror then at the chaise longue.

"May I sleep here instead?"

"What? Here?" Madame looked around the cheery pink room as if Christine had asked to sleep in a shadowed crypt. "Your dressing room?"

"I would prefer it."

"I suppose we could bring in a cot, but it is most unusual…"

"I won't need a cot." She moved toward the long chaise, almost wide enough to fit two people. "Only some bedding – a blanket and pillow, some water to wash with, and this will suit me nicely as a bedchamber."

"The chaise longue was from an old opera, with Cleopatra and Antony, a lovers' couch," Madame mused. "I suppose it will be comfortable enough, since the manager at the time demanded the highest standard with all stage props, and this was designed for a queen." She still seemed hesitant. "If you are certain. The Maestro gave me no specific instructions as to your sleeping arrangements, but I'm not sure he would approve."

"I'm certain." Christine narrowed her eyes at the floor-to-ceiling mirror. "It's perfect."

"Very well. I'll have one of the maids bring what you need. You look rather pale…are you able to attend the morning practice, Christine? You won't need to sing yet. I shall only need you for blocking."

She still was a bit woozy, but time on stage might help her momentarily forget as opposed to sitting alone in this room and brooding over all that transpired.

"Yes, something to eat, and I should be fine…Madame Giry?" she added when the woman nodded once and made as if to go.

Madame arched her brows in question.

"You called me by the name of Grendahl. Might I ask why?"

Again Madame looked at her queerly. "The Maestro wrote in his last note that it is to be your stage name and how you will be addressed from now on. I assumed that you knew?"

"Yes, yes of course. We did discuss it," Christine said, feeling foolish, but it was difficult to have a conversation when she didn't know the facts. "I just wasn't aware that he'd told you." That sounded even worse than the first inanity, and she turned aside, fingering a pearl-handled comb on the dressing table.

"I'll leave you to dress. Meg will be in shortly to show you the dining area reserved for the cast. You will, naturally, not again eat in the servants' quarters or during those ungodly hours they keep."

Christine watched the door close, then hurried to turn the key and lock it. So much had changed in the span of one night…and so much more was destined to change.

She stared into the mirror, her expression grim, her manner determined.

"This isn't over, Erik. Not even close."

.

xXx

A/N: After all he's done and what they've both been through and the way they've been written, you didn't honestly think this would be resolved so easily did you? ;-)