A/N: Due to increasing demand, I am again juggling 3 stories. :) Thank you guys for your patience as I craft them - and hope you enjoy …

Chapter LXX

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It came as no surprise to the Phantom that the evening practice proved to be an absolute travesty. Christine, still bearing a grudge over his refusal to change Aminta's character for the opera, pouted and fumed in silent resentment, tense actions which strained her delivery of the newest aria he had written. Barely curbing his impatience, he ordered that they work on the choreography of the current opera instead. Her bearing stiff and stilted, she executed the moves even more awkwardly than when she performed them on stage, causing him to sardonically question if her joints had any flexibility whatsoever, or if she was a wooden doll, which led to another brusque exchange of words between them.

Weary of such tiresome inanities, he pulled his lips against his teeth, ordered an end to the fiasco of a practice and told her to go to bed.

Christine stamped her foot like the small girl she once was who had been instructed by her nursemaid to do the same thing – and had different ideas.

"I will not go to bed," she snapped, "and stop treating me like a wayward child!"

"Then cease acting like one!"

"You are the one being so stubborn! Had you bothered to even take time to look and notice the audience reaction the other night, you would know they preferred my interpretation of the character over your pathetic rendition!"

"So we are back to that, are we?" he bit out.

"We never came to an understanding!"

"No – it is you who fails to understand!" He grabbed her below the shoulders and gave her a little shake. "I am the composer and my word is final. How many times must I say it, Christine? I refuse to rewrite the whole damned opera to suit your foolish little insecurities!"

"Foolish?!" With an angry wave of her arms she broke free from his hold to jab her finger in his chest. "You – who knows me better than any person living – how can you think I would not see that I am the mold from which you created that harridan Aminta? And a warped image at that!"

"Do I know you, Christine?" His words were forceful, low and terse. "Do I really?"

She blinked then stared at him blankly as if taken off guard. "What do you mean?"

The Phantom opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it and once more grabbed her arms, pushing her away from him. Though much had been resolved between them, it did not change the fact that four years ago he heard her viciously denounce him with his own ears and, not one day later, heard proof that her despicable vanity and greed started the wheels in motion that led to his supposed demise.

He wanted a future with her, he loved her damn it, but the only way to succeed in a life of wedded bliss and live out the dream was to attempt to forget all of went on before – and he could not very well do that if he was again forced to pore for long hours over his opera of vengeance against the woman who was now his bride. He had triumphed. He would not exchange his hard-earned victory for defeat. Better to let his opus play out the season and spend his working hours on composing his new opera, a better opera…

"Nothing, I meant nothing," he said with quiet finality. "Now let this be the end of it."

"No, Erik, I want to know what you meant by that remark," she insisted. When he remained silent, she shook her head in exasperation. "Why must you always be so stubborn? I don't ask for much and often have seen much bigger changes made in rehearsals. This is such a small request, really. A few minor changes here and there ..."

"In your estimation, perhaps. I have told you –"

" – all manner of excuses that make no sense!"

He swung his arm toward the bedchamber and pointed to it. "Go to bed, Christine!"

She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin in the air. "I have told you before – I am not a dog to be ordered to heel and obey. And I don't wish to go to bed –"

"Fine then," he growled. "Do whatever the hell it is you wish – as long as you remain here. I have business to attend to above."

He spun on his heel and left her, his strides long.

"ERIK!" she called after him. "Erik, come back! Don't you DARE run from me!"

The Phantom paid her no heed, putting swift distance between them before he flew into a rage. The heat of anger boiled beneath his flesh, and he tore through the tunnels like a madman, almost at a run, until exhaustion cooled the fury and he could again think clearly.

Self control he had learned to master in dire situations, patience its offspring, and he often bided his time for long stretches, waiting and watching from the shadows before exerting his cruel and clever methods of justice. He knew how not to act rashly, though he did not always choose to do so, especially with the imbeciles above. But never would he harm Christine, and to swiftly and suddenly quit her presence at times was needful, even if she thought him only a coward, a knowledge that rankled but must be ignored.

She would never relent and he could take no more of her incessant pleas, since he did not dare grant them. He wished to give her the world, but would not do anything that could make their existence topple on its axis.

What she did not know, what he did not tell her, was the mercurial state of his mind during the entirety of writing that damned opera, of writing her character especially, as he had transferred those tragic days of their past to the pages of the fictional opera – different names and settings – but still the same damned theme. From wrath to despair, his emotions had teetered on the brink of madness. All that had been absent from his personal Hades had been the fire and brimstone. It was difficult enough to watch the reminder of those dark days play out on stage from a distance, but to immerse himself in the creative process of the accursed opus would be to revisit hell.

He could not subject himself to that again, could not daily relive her past unfaithfulness and treachery – especially since he had achieved the impossible, and of her own desire she was now with him. He wished only to dwell on their present life together and forget those final days at The Heights.

Near the stage entrance the Phantom slipped into the world of the contemptible and the privileged to observe matters inside his opera house.

Casting a speculative eye around the darkened theater lit only by the occasional lamp, he noticed nothing amiss. A couple of drunk stagehands passed a bottle between them in the shadows of a backdrop of fire. A coy giggle behind the thin tapestry of crimson curtains brought his attention to a silhouette of a couple locked in embrace.

With a fleeting look of disinterest, he continued through the corridors and walked toward the chapel area. He had only just concluded his routine inspection when movement in the distance caught his eye.

A bobbing pinpoint of golden light floated toward him, the bearer behind it wearing a billowy wrapper tied around her nightdress. He grimaced at the sight of the foolishly hopeful ballet rat and turned away with a barely discernible rustle of his cloak.

"Monsieur Phantom?" the query came nervously.

The revelation of the bearer of the voice had him freeze in his tracks, and he turned slowly and stared, though she could not possibly see him where he lurked in shadow. Carefully she advanced, her attention darting around the path before her as if searching him out. Her long hair was a halo of light, the golden glints deepened by the flame.

"Monsieur Phantom … are you there…?"

Narrowing his eyes, he stepped into the path a short distance before her.

"Oh!" The ballet rat jumped and retreated a step in shock, almost dropping her candlestick. The flame wavered, on the verge of going out. Pressing a hand to her heart, she collected a swift breath. "You – you startled me!"

"Mademoiselle Giry. I did hear you request an audience with me?" His tone came mocking.

Her pale features blushed a light shade of scarlet, and he speculated if she wandered the empty corridors for a different purpose than he originally assumed. For the past two years he ignored those expectant ballet rats into whose path he crossed, silently and swiftly turning away from their presence before they caught sight of him. Meg Giry had become a friend to Christine, and he assumed upon finding her here that she did not share the same aspiration as her peers – no matter that she eagerly gossiped of his former exploits to all who would listen and scrambled to catch sight of him during his rare visits to communicate with those in the theater.

Had he been mistaken?

Warily he watched as with one hand she gathered the top edges of her wrapper above her full bosom in an uneasy gesture. She did not bear the aura of seduction as the others had, did not wantonly approach, and he allowed himself to relax, waiting to hear what she had to say.

"Yes, I …" she hesitated as if cautiously forming a reply in her mind. "I wish to know – is Christine well? Maman told me next to nothing the night of the Bal Masque or of your plan to take her with you – then. Though I am certain she was willing to go."

He lifted his brow at her hasty conclusion and the memory of how he had abducted his bride in front of all present. "You are certain?"

"Yes, of course. She did all she could to get back to you and was terribly distressed at every failed attempt, especially when she was forced to stay absent from the theater. That was so difficult for her. All she wanted was to return and find you."

It pleased him to hear it, not that she suffered, but that her resolve to reach him had never waned despite the breach of distance he had thrice erected between them. And all because of that wretched boy. Every act of their separation, both purposeful and without warning, could be traced back to that ignoble fiend ...

"I saw her disappear with you through the floor and a trapdoor I never knew existed. I tried to talk the Vicomte out of gathering a mob and chasing you, telling him she was safe with her teacher, though of course he doesn't know that is you. But I was never sure if he resisted."

The Phantom gave an abrupt nod. "Christine is safe and well."

Her lips fluttered in a faint smile. "I am pleased to hear it. I thought she might be – and happy, I'm sure – but … will she be coming back to the theater to perform? Now that performances have resumed...?"

Her face drained of its rosy color as she caught herself at the edge of her words, her eyes going wide as if she suddenly remembered the cause for the delay.

"Some say … that is, did you…?"

"Yes, Miss Giry?" His query came calm and cold when her barely articulate words trailed away. "You have something more that you wish to ask me?"

She swallowed hard and faintly nodded, her response coming in a burst of words –

"– Did you kill Monsieur Buquet?"

"I did."

"Oh." She rapidly blinked as if trying to assimilate the weight of those two words that came without apology or remorse. "I –I thought I might have seen you in the flies that night, the moment after, well… after – but I said nothing to anyone. You must have had good reason to do what you did."

Her rush of words sounded hopeful, even pleading.

"Must I?" His smile was sarcastic. "I am mystified as to what would lead you to arrive to such a conclusion. I am, after all, the Phantom of the Opera – known for my wicked ways."

"Oh. Alright..." Apprehensively she looked down at the lit candle she held, clearly uncertain what course to take next, but to her credit she did not flee.

The Phantom had spent the last four years of his life creating fear and inflicting terror on the undeserving of mankind. To grant mercy was unknown to him – as was the atypical dissatisfaction to cause this girl, who had become an ally to Christine, unnecessary grief in believing the deceit he created with his flippant reply. Inhaling deeply, he pondered whether to elaborate and let his breath out with his decision.

"The fiend brutally attacked Christine and would have done so again by his own admission. He deserved to die."

"Oh!" Her eyes lifted to his in shock. "Then I am glad you rid the theater of that awful lecher!"

Surprised to hear such emphatic words from one so innocent the Phantom masked a grin. He recalled how she once revealed her curious, dark excitement of his "morbid activities" on the night of his wedding to Christine, much to her mother's undisguised horror and disapproval.

Yes… Meg, perhaps, was different than the loathsome rabble who resided within the Opera House. Christine trusted this young woman enough to enlist her secret aid. Faith in mankind was as distant to him as the moon, but the girl had proven her merit – though there was one matter that so often infuriated him and must be dealt with.

"Christine told me you have been a worthy accomplice in bringing us back together. Perhaps there is more you can do to help."

The girl's eyes lit up and eagerly she nodded. "Of course – anything, monsieur."

"First, there is one matter which must be addressed…"

His voice rumbled low, strong with authority, and her eyes widened as she gave another nod, this one tentative.

"There will be no more tales shared from your lips about my … erstwhile experiences in these very corridors of the opera house. Do you understand?"

Her skin flushed redder in mortification as she answered with a quick half nod. The Phantom felt the heat of embarrassment darken his own features to be discussing with this girl such intimate matters that now brought nothing but remorse and shame, and was grateful for the black mask that covered two-thirds of his face.

"If you are to assist me, you must keep my secrets well – all of them. That includes the entirety of secrets involving Christine."

"Assist you?" Her eyes lit up with eagerness. "You mean like Maman does?"

He grew stern when she failed to address his command. "I must have your word, Meg Giry. You will not spread such gossip about me again."

"No. I-I won't. I promise." Flustered, she looked back down at the flame of the candle she held.

"However…"

"Yes?" She quickly glanced up at him.

"I may have need of that loose tongue of yours to spread a different wildfire." He narrowed his eyes in thought.

She tilted her head in curiosity. "Monsieur?"

"The Vicomte, I assume he has regularly made his presence known inside the opera house since the night of the Bal Masque?" At her nod, he grunted in disgust. "And was he appeased with the explanation of Christine's disappearance?"

"He has been asking the cast and crew questions."

"With regard to what?"

"You. Christine. Her teacher."

The pesky gnat! – would he never stop with his meddlesome ways?

Pensively he nodded, a half smile twisting his lips as a plan formulated in his mind.

"Then listen closely, little Giry. This is what I require you to do…"

.

xXx

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Moments after Erik hurriedly vacated the lake room, bent on whatever destination he chose, (and Christine wondered what "business" he had to attend to so late in the evening) – Christine whirled around with a thwarted little growl. Her first impulse – to clear the closest table of objects with an angry sweep of her arms – was eclipsed with the urgent need to find and talk to her elusive Phantom husband and have this out once and for all.

She ran to the corridor through which he left, intent on chasing him down and forcing him to shed light on the irksome mystery that continually haunted, but soon realized her goal was futile. He had well and truly disappeared – and must have taken a secret passage of the many that existed inside these caverns, one of which she knew nothing. One probably dark and damp and laden with his infernal traps.

In a stew of vexation, she returned to the lake chamber. Once there, she fumed and fretted, feeling like a veritable thundercloud, thankful the boy and his sister had both retired for the night and could not see her in such a horrid state.

She did not understand why Erik was so damned obstinate about changing the wretched opera. She barely asked a thing of him in all these months – and why had he said what he did – about not truly knowing her? She had bared her soul to him! Had confessed every horrid thought and act committed since the night he left The Heights! But why should she be the only one to confess, when she had not once broken her vow of eternal love for him, whereas he had attained the despicable title of the Opera House Don Juan – not in fiction but in fact?!

Her body a taut bundle of nerves, Christine fretfully paced the chamber until she worked herself into an emotional stew of exhaustion. Deciding to rest her eyes a moment and ease the dull throb that had begun at the back of her skull, she slipped out of her confining dress and laid down on the bed, clad in her chemise. Not believing she could sleep, she was surprised to find herself suddenly coming to consciousness. Immediately she turned on her side, her mind still in turmoil.

In the faint glow coming from one tall candlestick that stood near the bed, Christine saw that Erik had returned and now slept on his back, the detestable silk mask in place. Her first inclination, to snatch the foul thing from his head – an encumbrance to always keep her out – dwindled as her gaze dropped lower to his bare chest, muscled and defined. The sheet rested at the waistband of his black silk trousers, and her fingertips ached to draw sensual patterns against him, to feel the sensation of his warm flesh with the strength of steel beneath – his entire body a delicious conflict of silk and coarseness, sensitivity and strength. The sparse tufts of short hair did little to cover the rigid patches of his many scars, and for a moment her heart softened to remember their conception.

But only for a moment.

Her fingers curled into a tight fist as the recollection of what led to her latest upset came to mind. The worst of it, for once, she felt unable to suppress, and sitting up she drew her clenched hand hard against her midriff….

x

During his span of imprisonment by the Shah's men, the Phantom had been ingrained with the defensive measure to discern when he was no longer alone while in slumber. In his light sleep he felt the presence of his wife beside him and knew he was not truly alone, but sensed a thick tension in the air that caused him warily to open his eyes.

Christine had awakened and sat sideways on the bed facing his direction. As stiff and straight as a ramrod, she glared at him.

"Christine…" he began suspiciously, edging himself up on his elbows to lean against the headboard. "Is there a problem?"

His calm words further provoked her silent fury and she compressed her lips into a thin line.

"How many, Erik?" Three words that came out brief and cutting, like the lashes from a whip. "How many were there?"

"How many … problems?"

"How many women!"

He slowly shook his head, at a loss, which further infuriated her.

"Don't bother denying it, Erik – I know! The whole damn opera house knows, and besides that, you found sick pleasure in telling it to my face, before I learned of who you truly are!" She swiftly changed position to sit on her knees, leaning toward him with her palms pressed flat on the bed. "So now I want you to tell me – I demand that you tell me – how many were there besides that jezebel of a maid? Two? Three…? More than three…?"

"I am not having this conversation with you." Whipping away the sheet, Erik shot off the bed and away from her.

"Oh!" With a frustrated little cry she grabbed his pillow and hurled it as hard as she could at his back.

The silken missile did not faze him, glancing off his shoulder blades as he stood facing the wall. He reached for a decanter of wine they earlier shared, pouring himself a glass. Lifting it in his hand, he stared at it hard then tossed the red liquid back as if it was water. She assumed he must be very upset to need its sedating effects. But that did not dissuade her, for she was certain her ire far outdistanced his.

Christine hastily disentangled herself from the sheet and left the bed to approach him. "I want to know, Erik. I want you to tell me."

"Of what possible benefit is to be gained by recounting a past that never mattered?" he uttered low between clenched teeth.

"That never bothered you before! You certainly never minced your words to me when you gloated of your nocturnal exploits in abandoned corridors! Is that where you went tonight?" Her query was tight, horrified by the sudden thought. "To meet with one of your dancing floozies?"

With a splinter of breaking crystal, he threw his glass at the corner wall and spun around to grab her shoulders.

"Damn it, woman - what the hell is wrong with you? How can you even think something so absurd?"

"How can I think it?" she repeated in disbelief and gave a harsh laugh devoid of humor. "How can I not?!" She sensed she was behaving horribly, even childishly, but he deserved every accusation flung at him, and it had been a long time coming.

"You know you mean the world to me and are all I ever wanted!"

"Clearly I was not ALL you wanted!"

He winced. "Enough of this, Christine."

"How many were there, Erik? How many besides Juliet and Winnie and let's not forget Jolene…" She hated that she so easily remembered the harlots' names that had been so deeply inscribed in her mind. Hated also this obsession to fill in the dark areas when the light of revelation could only hurt more. But the mystery of his past also had teeth that could and did gnash at her fears, strengthening her insecurities.

He pulled away and turned from her, but she rushed to his side and grabbed his arm, looking up into his face.

"Tell me!"

"Three," he growled, "only those three."

Only…?!

Bitter tears rose to her eyes, the hurt fresh to hear him admit what she had always known to be true, what he had never in any way hidden.

"I was faithful to our love long after your death," she vehemently whispered. "I only ever kissed Raoul once because anything more felt like a betrayal to you and the memory of what we shared."

His eyes flared behind the mask and he grabbed her below the shoulders once more. "He KISSED YOU?! When? Since your arrival in Paris? That wretched night at the hotel?"

"Oh, no – don't you DARE turn this around on me!" She flung her arms wide, breaking free from his grasp. "I was a virgin when you took me –surely you remember, Erik? But you! You cannot say the same! All those years I thought you dead – but you – you knew I was alive!"

His jaw grew hard like chiseled marble. "It was your wish to know of my past encounters, Christine. I have no desire to hide the truth from you. Not any longer. However, if you do not like what you hear, perhaps you should no longer ask."

He was right and that galled her even more. She crossed her arms tight against her chest and cast her troubled gaze to the ground. She was grateful for his vow to be truthful, at the same time irate at the cause of that truth. Briefly she closed her eyes, attempting to find some sort of emotional equilibrium.

"Yes, I did ask. I asked because I have long needed all the cobwebs of the past swept away. The mystery of it and being left in the dark is far worse."

He gave a slight nod, as if he understood.

She swallowed hard over the painful lump in her throat but held her head high. "So, were those … women special to you?"

He expelled a fierce breath through his nostrils when she did not relent.

"Erik –"

"No!"

"Then they were mistakes made one time?"

When he gave no reply, her resentment again escalated.

"So they weren't all meaningless! They did mean something!"

"Christine…"

"NO!" She retreated a step as he reached for her. "Don't you touch me… "

He was not deterred and stepped forward, grabbing her above the waist and pulling her close against his hard body. "You belong to me! You are my wife -"

"Who obviously did not mean the world to you! I thought you were dead, but you knew I was alive," she repeated, still unable to believe it. "Damn it, Erik – you KNEW! Yet you sought out other women to be with and did not return to ME!"

"You KNOW why!"

"No, I don't," she insisted, angrily swiping the tears from her cheeks. "I thought you loved me! Why would you do that to me?"

"Because of your betrayal!"

"MY betrayal?!"

Clearly he was the one guilty of betraying their love, not she!

Christine blinked the hot tears from her lashes, pressing her palms hard against his chest in vain, wishing only to get away. He tightened his hold on her.

"Need I remind you that I left that infernal country to return to England only to discover that you were traveling through the Mediterranean with that wretched boy…"

"And his cousin!"

"…Weeks after my arrival to Paris I learned through my contact that you were engaged," he continued bitterly as if he'd not heard her. "That was the night I found Juliet, the only night."

"Your contact lied. I was never engaged! Rumors were always spreading throughout the countryside by busybodies of things that were just not true!"

He closed his eyes briefly, his expression almost contrite, but said nothing.

"It must have been Jolene then, as I suspected," she continued, needing to hear the entire abysmal truth and have it all aired between them, no matter how painful. "You gave her a home, you are with her every day…"

"For Jacques' sake."

"For Jacques. Yes, for Jacques – but why did you sleep with her?" She hated that her words came out in a plaintive whine. He shook his head, refusing to speak, but she persisted, "How long were you intimate with Jolene? How long, Erik? Days? Months? Years…?"

"One night," he bit out, "one night, on the night she first came to be here."

Her eyes widened at his admission and he gave a harsh laugh.

"Yes, Christine, I took Jolene – a prostitute well versed in the arts of seduction and manipulation – but barely a woman nonetheless. And ever since that despicable black night I have resented my lewd behavior and never touched her again."

"Why did you do it?" she whispered.

"I thought she was you!"

"Me!" She glared at him in disbelief. "You truly expect me to believe that? We are nothing alike!"

He grabbed a thick handful of her hair at the nape of her neck when she leaned away, forcing her to look at him.

"She seduced me while I dreamt of you. Later I found Winnie – who looked like you. That was the night of the opening of Tristan and Isolde…"

Her eyes grew wide and grimly he nodded.

"Yes, Christine, that was the night I first saw you again after two years apart – saw you in the arms of your precious Vicomte. I watched you holding hands in my opera box, later watched you enter his private suite as you clung to one another –"

"I didn't stay with him! I only sought his comfort – as a friend!"

"I know that now. Then I felt as if a knife had been driven through my heart; I felt betrayed. I drank myself into a stupor and returned to my lair, later to find Jolene hiding near the lake, naked and almost frozen…"

She slowly shook her head, uncertain that she could bear more of this, but did not interrupt to stop him.

"I will spare you the details, but in my inebriated haze, in my darkened chamber, again, I thought she was you, that you had come back to me…"

His words made sense but stung deeply. To know that in this very chamber, in their bed where they made love, he had first been intimate with another …

She struggled to retreat, but he was too strong.

"And Winnie?" she demanded. "Were you with her only that one night?"

He did not respond, only looked at her with grim regard, and she stared up at him in confused hurt.

"It was more than one night… You – you had an actual RELATIONSHIP with her?!"

"Damn it, Christine, ENOUGH of this torture! You were all that mattered then – and all that matters now!"

Bending swiftly, his hand still wrapped in her wild tresses, he crushed his lips to hers. Feebly she struck his shoulders, trying to twist her head aside, despising the swift flame of desire that singed her skin. Always he had this control over her, this hypnotic power to make her insides melt with one touch or glance. As Erik, whom she had known, as the Phantom she had not...

With steady deliberation, he backed her up and fell with her to the bed.

"You lied to me, you beast," she hissed then groaned with need, to feel his lips trail over her shoulder that had been bared in their struggle.

She was a wretched contradiction of deep-seated emotion. She loathed him and she loved him. She wanted him as far away from her as possible, at the same time she wanted him to gather her close in his arms and never let go.

He pulled her chemise lower, his mouth pressing kisses along her collarbone. Her hands smoothed along his shoulder blades before bunching into fists and hitting hard against him.

"No…NO!" Her words, at first a whisper, became adamant. "You betrayed me! You betrayed our love…"

Her fingers tightened in his hair and she tried to pull his head away. "Did you love her?"

"I have only ever loved you…" His labored breath warmed her skin, damp from his moist caresses. "I was angry, hurt. I thought you'd chosen him. She was a means to an end. I never cared for her, for any of them."

"But you made love to her more than once." A tear escaped, rolling down her temple. "Your refusal to admit it speaks volumes. You must have cared…"

"No, Christine, never."

She moaned as his lips brushed the top of her breast and briefly sucked in the hardened pebble of soft, sensitive flesh. Still she tried to push him away, though her halfhearted attempt came much weaker than before.

"I was with her only because I could not have you!" He lifted his head then, his golden eyes blazing with hunger and remorse and the need for her forgiveness. "What Winnie and I shared in the weeks we met was far removed from love. It was animal lust and the mutual need for revenge and to be wanted, nothing more."

His bald-faced words stung like the slash of a blade to her soul – that her Erik had physically desired and been with another woman – three of them – was difficult to hear, more so than she realized.

Yet she had asked for this, requested his complete truthfulness, demanded it of him. So she should not resent him for these admissions of the painful details into his past when he was granting her that wish…

Her wounded heart failed to blithely accept such reasoning.

"Before you came back into my life and my bed, I had not lain with a woman for two years," Erik went on, his tone low and emphatic. "All of what happened with the others were mistakes created while in the depths of my despair. I came to regret every one of those encounters deeply and realized I did not want a weak replacement that could never satisfy or touch my heart. There is room for only one woman there."

Along with desire, sincerity glistened from his solemn eyes, lit like the flames of twin candles.

"I wanted you. Only you… I love you, Christine …"

His velvet soft words were a tender balm that caressed the tattered edges of her soul. She forced away the lingering resentment of his past conquests, lifting her hands to frame his face.

A host of problems had torn them asunder and kept them apart – locked up in old fears, misconceptions and lies. But if they were entirely honest with one another, as they had been since the night of the Bal Masque, as they had been tonight, and if they built on that trust – surely the reverse would occur and prove to be the key to hold them together?

With her thumbs, she gently wiped the tears that leaked onto his cheeks, letting her own fall unheeded. His countenance was both earnest and remorseful, the love he pledged to her brimming in his eyes and spilling over into every word and action. Since she had been reunited with him as the stranger he had presented himself, in his guise as the Phantom, she rarely had seen him so sensitive, so vulnerable…every emotion vivid and real and no longer hidden behind an invisible shield.

Unable to create angry distance any longer, no longer wishing to, Christine lifted her head, pressing her lips to his, and with that kiss, with the mingling of their tears, she silently gave him her forgiveness.

Their shared affection, at first gentle and conciliatory, soon deepened and blazed with their unified need. Within moments, they were tearing at each other's clothing until they lay fully exposed to one another, flesh pressed to flesh. Arching her back, Christine grasped handfuls of her dark lover's hair while his hands spread along her spine and she whimpered her immediate desire for him to take her.

Lifting her thighs against his narrow hips, Erik plunged inside to the depths of her. She gasped in hungered pleasure as he filled her so completely, as to vanquish all emptiness and make her feel whole again.

Ripping away his mask, she grabbed each side of his head and brought his cherished, scarred face close while lifting her mouth to press against each ruddy patch and run her tongue along each protrusion and deep ridge.

These alone were hers – his scars, his face, his body. His heart. His soul. No other woman had touched him the way she touched him, of that she was now certain.

The knowledge deepened her excitement. The sensation of his warm skin beneath her seeking lips and hands stimulated her further, the planes and hollows uneven and unique, smooth and rough – all of it an idyllic composition of her Erik…

The Phantom groaned deeply beneath the onslaught of his Angel's affection, though her caresses did not cause him any degree of pain. But always, to feel her touch on tortured skin that had never known such a blessing overwhelmed his heart, and he pulled away – only to grasp her head and crush his mouth to hers.

Ever so slowly he moved within her drenched walls. Gasping at the sensation and wishing to press herself as close as possible to her husband, Christine wrapped her legs around him, their tongues entwining even as their bodies did. The flames of passion heightened, until mutual hunger clamored for more, and he tore his mouth away from her kiss-swollen lips. His strokes came short and rapid until the culmination of their desire washed over them in powerful waves that left them both drowning in pleasure, spent in the warm glow of their love and gasping for breath.

Christine clung to Erik as he languidly kissed her neck and the slope of one shoulder. All the while he whispered sweet endearments in a low, sensual rumble.

"Mon Ange … Mon Amour … le désir de mon cœur …"

She reached for him, lifting his face to hers, and he read the tender plea in her eyes. Understanding the unspoken need, with a tender smile, he moved so that his lips were a breath away from hers.

"Always you are to me, My Little Angel…Always you are all I will ever want..."

A happy tear slid from her eye to hear the name that was his alone to call her, and the profession of his soul.

"Erik, my dear Phantom, you dwell inside every beat of my heart. You always have... and always will..."

Holding him deeply within her body and treasuring these last moments of their deepest intimacy, Christine pressed her fingers to the hollows of his cheeks and closed the breath between them in a tender kiss.

No matter what went on before, no matter the mistakes they had both made – she was now his, and he was hers for all eternity. And if she must lie, fight, steal – God help her, even kill – to protect that bond, she would never lose the mate of her soul again.

.

xXx

A/N: A vow from the heart that will never be challenged or a dark foreshadowing of what's to come? hmm… ;-) thanks again for the reviews!

le désir de mon cœur - my heart's desire