Chapter 28 — Again

Erik had faced down hardened criminals twice his size before a crowd of spectators cheering for his defeat, armed with only a punjab lasso. With a stealthy, steady hand, he had helped himself to a diamond brooch as big as an egg right from under the nose of a tsar, even stopping to bow to the sabre-wielding guards on the way out.

And yet, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking as he fumbled with the gate.

He knew more languages than he could easily count, including a handful of dead languages and a few which were obscure enough to be as good as. When he was a young man, he had smooth-talked his way off a Tonkin pirate ship's gangplank and into a position as interpreter, all in a local dialect he'd picked up rather unintentionally from a couple of deep sea fisherman whose boat he'd stowed away in for a day or two — just long enough to learn how to work the thing — before he'd thrown them both overboard and attempted to sail south, away from some very angry men who had rightly suspected Erik's sleight of hand during a game of cards.

However, at the moment, when all that was required was his native tongue, somehow Erik couldn't even remember the word for 'hello'.

And that was why when Christine stepped through the gate, Erik pulled his hand under his cloak, holding the lantern aloft with the other, and, without a word, indicated with a sharp nod of his head that she should follow.

Each step down the stone passages was a calculation. He couldn't walk too fast, that would seem too eager. Too slow, and it might seem as if he was dallying. Words bubbled up from his throat, and he swallowed them down. Were they to actually make it to his lips, he knew just what they would be: fawning, effusive, bordering on blubbering. And, god, he couldn't seem too needy.

Although he most certainly was, as they both knew all too well.

He risked a glance behind; Christine's eyes were trained on the barely illuminated path, a slight frown on her face.

Goddamn it, he knew it. He was doing this wrong, doing the wrong things, making the wrong choices, making her wish she wasn't here.

Next time will be better.

So much for that! Already things were decidedly worse if he couldn't offer up the most basic greeting, couldn't even take her hand.

It was cold down by the water's edge. As Erik descended the steps and hooked the lantern onto the boat, Christine waited behind; she pulled her cloak around herself and shivered, the frown still in place.

Among the many other terrible things he was, Erik was a coward as well; when he climbed back up and at last held out his hand, he found he could not look at her — he kept his face turned away and fingers stiff as she placed her hand in his. He knew she must think him so cold, so indifferent, but he was so very afraid that she might see the raw need for reassurance in his eyes, feel his desperation in the grasping of his hand.

So he led her down the stone steps with all the cool dignity he could muster, while trying not to notice the furrowing of her brow, trying not to think about how she was obviously deciding how best to break it to him gently that last time had been a mistake, and then she would tell him that she never—

"Erik?"

The unexpected sound of his name was accompanied by a tug on his extended hand, and Erik turned back to find that Christine had stopped a couple of steps above him. Their faces were level now, and though it was dark, there was enough light from the lantern to see the searching way she looked at his — or what was visible of it, anyway.

"Have you been all right, Erik?" Her voice was small and uncertain, but infused with undeniable warmth. "Are you all right?"

Struck completely dumb, Erik could only nod.

"You seem so…" Face creased with concern, Christine held his hand in both hers and gently squeezed. "You haven't changed your mind, have you? You could tell me— you need to tell me, if you have."

Even through the barrier of their gloves, warmth flowed from her hands into his, up his arm, straight into his chest, where it bloomed more vibrantly than any flower he could have procured for her.

"No, no, I haven't," Erik managed to croak out. He paused, then forced himself to ask, "Have you?"

"No," she said, and that single word, the way it was said so quickly, so confidently, nearly brought him to his knees right then and there, and between that and the uncontrollable way his hand shook as he helped Christine down the rest of the stairs and into the boat, Erik couldn't help but grow just a bit wistful for the easy days of his youth, when the worst he'd ever had to face was mortal peril.

…

All that work tidying up the house, and Christine didn't even seem to notice. Rather, her eyes stayed fixed on Erik as he took her cloak and gloves, as he removed his own, as he took a little longer than necessary slipping the gloves into pockets and draping the cloaks over the back of a chair. Perhaps he should have gotten the flowers after all — it would have given her something else to look at instead of him; Erik could feel her eyes boring into his back. It was quite unnerving, really, especially for a man who had spent so much of his life in the shadows, desperate not to be seen.

"It's funny…" said Christine, as Erik continued to fuss with the cloaks, "I think I'm almost more nervous than last time. And I was thinking…"

Erik froze, a fold of fabric pinched between two rigid fingers. Her tone had been light but the words turned his stomach into stone; it felt cold and heavy beneath his fluttering heart. No good could ever come of Christine thinking too much about what was to happen, as far as Erik was concerned.

"I wonder…" she continued, and Erik sprang back into motion, smoothing his hands over the cloaks one last time and drawing himself up, then turned to face her, schooling his expression into neutrality. Her cheeks were glowing pink. "Since we have enough time that we don't need to…right away— And I was thinking that maybe— maybe it would help…" She gave an uncertain, almost apologetic half-smile. "Could we have a drink first?"

All heaviness evaporated, leaving Erik feeling light to the point of giddiness; he only just stopped himself from laughing as he answered, "Of course! I'll go make a pot of tea, although, I'm afraid I don't have any—"

"Actually—" Christine cut in, very quickly. "Actually, I was thinking of something stronger. You do have wine, right?"

"I—" Erik blinked. "Well, yes. But is that allowed?"

"I don't recall any rules regarding refreshments, do you?" She smiled again, and it almost seemed…coy? Conspiratorial? Whatever it was, it made Erik's heart give a pleasant squeeze. But then her expression sharpened. "And anyway, there is very little I need his 'allowance' for. He's my husband, not my master. I can decide if I'd like a drink or not."

Heat rose up the back of Erik's neck. "Of course, of course," he said with a deferential spread of his hands, and backed out of the room as quickly as possible, wondering, with a vague sort of unease, exactly what he was supposed to make of all that.

It all boiled down—Erik decided as he entered his kitchen, passed through a small, inconspicuous door, and took the stairs down to his wine cellar two at a time—to two questions:

The first — Had Christine just expressed an interest in working between the lines of the agreed-upon rules? — was worth thinking about at length, later, when Erik had time to really explore what she might have meant, and how he might benefit from such a line of thinking.

On the other hand, the second question — When Christine said that maybe a drink would help, did she mean it would help him…or her? — was one of those questions Erik decided he would really rather not think about at all.

And yet it would not leave him alone. It whispered doubts in ear as he selected just the right bottle and brought it back upstairs, made his hands tremble as he filled two glasses with a heavy-handed pour and brought them out to the parlor, finally settling into an uneasy pit in his stomach when he found Christine pacing by the fire, twisting her sash in her hands.

She gave a start when Erik gently cleared his throat to announce his presence. Then, with a grateful smile, she accepted the glass, sat, and immediately took two large swallows.

Well, it seemed that answered that.

While he couldn't really blame her for needing a little fortification, Erik wasn't sure the wine was helping anything. They alternated sips and darting glances, stumbled over half-hearted attempts at small talk, and then lapsed into silence. After a minute or two of racking his brain for something to say, Erik finally opened his mouth to speak just as Christine raised her glass to her lips—as she pressed the rim against her full lower lip—as the deep red liquid flowed over her tongue—as she took a long, deep swallow—as she lowered the glass and drew her bottom lip into her mouth and gently sucked it clean of one last, lingering drop—and his comment about the unusual mildness of the weather died in his throat.

The glass began to slip in Erik's sweating hand.

This— this was... Well, he wasn't quite sure what to think. Prior to this moment, the most decadent thing Erik had ever seen her partake of was the rare glass of celebratory champagne after a performance — and that was from the other side of a mirror. That had not been so…sensuously indulgent; he had never been this close. It felt almost…hedonistic.

But then again, Erik's bar for that sort of thing was embarrassingly low. He forced a large swallow of wine down his dry throat, and covertly wiped his palms on the sofa.

Another minute or two of stilted silence elapsed. Erik filled the time concentrating on careful, measured sips — no easy feat between the mask and his malformed lips — trying not to notice that she seemed to be making the wine last as long as she could, and letting himself sink into a wine-soaked state of resignation.

Finally, she spoke, very quietly. "Thank you for doing this."

"Ah…" Grimacing, Erik thumbed a drop of wine off the rim of his glass as he cast about for something, anything at all, to answer with besides the first and only response which had sprung to mind, the wildly inappropriate—but perhaps the most accurate—'My pleasure!'

"You're, ah… You're welcome?" Erik winced even as the words left his mouth; that was hardly any better.

But if Christine had taken issue with his questionable word choice, she was hiding it well — it seemed as if she hadn't heard him at all, actually. An odd, determined sort of calm had seemed to settle over her, and, with a disconcertingly firm set to her jaw, she sat her glass on the table and exhaled heavily.

"Erik, I—"

Every muscle in Erik's body seized, and the sip of wine he'd just taken caught in his throat. He swallowed hard to ease it down as he watched her seem to struggle with whichever words were meant to come next.

But, thank god, they never came.

Instead, with a shake of her head and a doleful look of apology, she reached for the glass and took a long drink.

When at last she lowered the glass and placed it back onto the table, her eyes were on her hands, now clasped in her lap, and there they stayed. And though, no, he couldn't be certain of the reason behind her downcast face and her sagging shoulders, Erik was fairly certain he could guess. He could feel his lips begin to twitch; he hid them behind a deep sip of wine.

No, she needn't say a word. Erik understood perfectly.

He understood that Christine wanted to do this, without really wanting to do this.

He understood that he wanted to do this, without really wanting to do this.

They were delicate distinctions, and he understood them and appreciated them, and it wasn't foolishness to choose to ignore them — it was a calculation.

His life had been full of calculations, of picking the option which was the least distasteful; which, in the balance, afforded the greatest benefit. Living in the ground under an opera house wouldn't be anyone's first choice, and yet if one wanted to remove themselves from humanity as much as possible while remaining able to enjoy some of its benefits — food that didn't come from tins, easy access to wine and music — then one's options were rather limited, weren't they? The rats and cobwebs and Carlotta were a small price to pay. He'd been hardly more than a child when he first left home and, for a while, had to find his meals in refuse bins, learning well how to pick out the good and leave behind the bad.

And there was good to be had here. Perhaps reminding her of it would help the bad seem more…tolerable?

"Ah, so—" Erik adopted a casual posture, though, inside, his stomach was winding itself into a knot. "I realized that we, ah—" Thankfully, his voice was only a bit tight. "We haven't talked about music. Are you…" He rolled the stem of the glass between his fingers. "Would you like to continue with that?"

"I would," she answered quickly — much more quickly than Erik had braced himself for. "I can't tell you how much that has meant to me. But…" A look of distress crossed her face, and Erik felt himself holding his breath. "I really don't know what to do, I don't know how there can be both. I— I think the two must be kept very separate."

Erik exhaled, surreptitiously enough, hopefully, that Christine would not recognize it as the sigh of relief that it was. She hadn't said no to continuing their music! She only had some logistical concerns! And she really needn't — if there was one thing Erik could say for himself, it was that he was quite good at devising self-serving plans.

"Perhaps we…could switch off days?" he offered, though that wouldn't exactly be his preference. "Or…if we manage the hour well, we might have time for both?"

"Oh, yes, maybe." Christine snatched up her glass, took a small, quick sip and looked down toward her feet.

"I can give it some thought. I can't bear to think of your gift going to waste. I'll think of something."

Christine smiled, though not particularly happily. "You are too kind to me, Erik," she said, then sat down her still-not-empty glass and stood abruptly. "Five minutes?" Her eyes were on her hands as they smoothed down her skirts in quick little swipes.

Five minutes.

Somehow Erik managed an audible sound of assent, and then as soon as Christine swept from the room and disappeared down the hall, he poured the rest of his wine down his throat and stood on wobbly legs.

Five minutes!

How could she get ready so quickly?

Five minutes passed far too quickly for Erik: four in his room, agonizing over how much to undress, one removing his jacket and cravat and waistcoat—a handful of panicked seconds putting the waistcoat back on as he rushed down the hall—and then he was at the door, steadying his breath until it approached a casual pace.

He knocked, and Christine called him in, and then he forgot all about breathing at all, let alone at in any particular manner, because there she stood again in her ethereal underthings, radiant as an angel and just as wondrous, and once again he felt compelled to fall to his knees before her, as one does in the presence of such divinity — except what he wanted to do while on his knees was entirely, deliciously blasphemous.

Erik forced himself to draw in a breath, blow it out slowly. Oh yes, an eternity in hell would be well worth a taste of—

Ah, but he was getting ahead of himself.

Or, more accurately, he was being blatantly delusional. Besides the fact that the only type of conception it could lead to would be the miraculous kind, it should go without saying that if the last time they were together in this room she'd launched herself off of him, in tears, the moment they'd completed the act, she'd hardly want him spending an hour with his face buried between her legs now.

God, not when the face looked like this — and certainly not when she had another man waiting for her above who looked like that.

But more importantly, why on earth had he let himself think about how she'd reacted last time! He was nervous enough without adding in that particular worry.

Then again, he needn't worry about her looking at him in distress if she wasn't really looking at him in the first place. And she hadn't, not since he'd entered the room.

And she still wasn't.

Like last time, her eyes stayed on his hands as he removed his shoes, his waistcoat, his braces, and then on his feet as she climbed onto the edge of the bed and raised her hand and gestured—come—with a curl of her fingers, and Erik came to stand before her parted knees, hands twitching at his sides.

Then her eyes were on his shirtfront as she gestured again—closer—and then on his waistband as she worked the fastenings and slipped her hand into his trousers. And then her eyes were closed and she wasn't looking at him all.

In the end, there was an odd sort of comfort in this sort of rote, mechanical way of going about it — in knowing that he would again fail in his readiness, and that it seemed she expected it, too. And there was pleasure in it, as well, because it meant she was touching him again, like this, even if it was more than just a bit awkward standing there, uncertain of what to do with his hands, with his knees weakening under him and a groan building deep within his chest.

Above the neckline of her chemise, her creamy skin began to flush, and how badly Erik wanted to skim his fingertips over it, feel her heat, feel the solid bone beneath the soft skin, feel her heart beating beneath it all—but no, no, that was not allowed. That was not wanted. So instead his fingers came up to flutter at his shirtfront, then slid down his body until they writhed and flexed against his thighs, twisted into his trousers, clutching the fabric just as he wished he could clutch at her chemise where it fell below her shoulders, to hold her tight as he feasted upon her throat and collarbones and lower, on the rounded flesh rising from her corset, and—

And he needed to get control of himself.

Not least because he glanced up to find, with a jolt of sudden cold, that Christine's eyes had been open and watching his restless hands.

It was strange, though: Why was it that she looked like she was in pain when he was the one being tortured with a single hand? Yet her brows were pulled together, her teeth scraping at her lower lip, and for a moment Erik thought that she might be about to cry.

But then her eyes lifted up, slowly, until they met his own, and they were dark and unreadable. Her parted lips were stained deep red with wine.

"Do you think it would help if…you touched me?" Her voice was as taut as his own straining flesh which she still worked slowly in her hand. "I mean…if you want to?"

Erik could not breathe.

It could hardly be said he needed more help, but god, yes, he wanted to, of course he wanted to. But not if she didn't… And she couldn't...

"Do you want me to?" Erik hadn't meant for the question to come out as a whisper, but his throat was too dry for anything else.

"I—" Christine's flushed skin seemed to pale, and her eyes darted downward, lips pressed together tightly. "I… Here," she said, and suddenly she withdrew her hand from his trousers and wrapped her heated fingers around his wrist. "Here."

Roughly, she hitched up her petticoats and placed his hand upon the inside of her bare thigh and guided him, sliding his hand beneath her skirts, up, up — until he was touching her there, where he'd never touched another, and ah god, how soft and how warm she was. How alive, how ripe and lush and vital.

Of course Erik had no idea what he was doing, but she felt so good and his mind was too clouded with stunned ecstasy and too lost in the sensation of her heat beneath his fingertips to worry about anything other than getting his fill of her. And perhaps later he would look back and cringe at the memory, but for now, he simply did not have the wherewithal to be embarrassed by his own low moan, or the buckling of his knees, or the way he sort of collapsed against the bed, catching himself with one hand so that he was leaning rather awkwardly over her, while the other continued to explore under her skirts, discovering pleasures he had been unable to even dream existed.

Incomprehensible pleasures—such as the way her breath caught as he dragged his thumb down the slick cleft of her—the increasing wetness coating his fingers like liquid silk—the urgent pressure of her ankle hooking around the back of his leg.

Oh this was helping alright. The pulse in his groin had grown insistent; the strain against his trousers was almost painful.

Fortunately, it was the masked side of his face which nearly brushed against her cheek as he hunched over her, the cool porcelain providing a shield against the heat which he could feel radiating from his skin — the sculpted features providing that cool, implacable expression, rather than the look of slack-jawed shock he knew he wore.

Unfortunately, a mask did nothing to hide his ragged gasp as, in his exploration, one probing finger slipped gently inside of her.

Erik froze, mortified that she might see presumption in this unsolicited, intimate breach which could not have been at all what she'd meant for him to do…and horrified at the prospect that she might make him stop.

But the hand still wrapped around his wrist gave a small, encouraging squeeze, her thumb lightly stroking the sensitive skin just above his palm. "Yes, like that," Christine breathed into his burning ear. "More."

Erik shut his eyes to steady the swaying room.

Yes. More.

Two words he had never thought he'd hear, not from her, not ever, not like this, not that he could have ever imagined this. And yet, she had said them — Yes. More. And so, in stunned disbelief—slowly—he withdrew his finger and then, adding a second, he slid inside again—so slowly—until he could go no farther, until the heel of his hand pressed into the solid warmth of her body, until, so quietly that it was little more than a breath against his ear…Christine whimpered.

A rush of cold cooled Erik's heated blood, and he would have yanked his hand away, were her grip not still tight upon his wrist. Had he hurt her? He hadn't meant to hurt her! And yet…it seemed that she was in no hurry to push him away. In fact, it seemed she was— was almost...pushing back against his hand, moving her hips in a sort of a rhythm. And he may not know a woman's body, but music…music Erik knew. He matched her with rhythmic strokes.

What was this? Why was she letting him do this? This seemed unreasonably far from necessary. As foolish as he often was, though, Erik wasn't fool enough to point such a thing out.

Was it the wine? Had it hit too hard?

She wasn't looking at him, exactly—her half-lidded eyes were focused somewhere in the vicinity of his shoulder—but from what he could see, her eyes seemed glazed with something entirely different than intoxication. Something he could not place.

Perhaps she was being kind—very kind—and giving him the opportunity to learn?

Erik shifted his stance, adjusting the angle of his rolling wrist.

"Oh…" Christine sighed, long and low, her head falling back.

He was, it seemed, learning quickly.

Erik's mouth watered at the sight of her exposed throat, though he would never dare. She might be willing to get creative with the rules, but she had not given any indication that she would want his monstrous mouth anywhere on her, so he swallowed hard and ignored the craving for a taste of her and redoubled his focus on his hand, pressing with thumb and finding the rhythm that made her mouth fall farther open.

Ah god, he was ready—so ready—perhaps too ready— If they continued on like this for very much longer, there was every possibility he might spill in his trousers, untouched, which would be mortifying, obviously, though the humiliation of it might be a small price to pay for the indescribable pleasure of watching her like this.

Truly, Erik would have happily stayed just as they were, for as long as she would allow it. It was simply incomprehensible that it could get better.

But then…Christine let go of his arm.

At first he thought she might mean for him to stop, but no— she lay back onto the bed and let her hands drift up her torso, over her corset, caressing the flesh spilling from the top, sighing and shivering, and dear god it could get better, and it had.

Beneath the tautening muscles of his chest, Erik's heart was swelling with a surreal sort of pride at the sounds passing through her lips — and yet his heart still twisted, because he hadn't forgotten…he hadn't forgotten what he was and who she was and who waited for her when they emerged from this temporary madness.

He didn't understand this, and maybe that was fine, he didn't need to question it, only ignore the bad and pick out the good — and the good was very, very good; it was Christine flushed and panting, her thighs clenching around his hand, her teeth pressing into her lower lip, her hands grasping her petticoats in white-knuckled fists — and it was because of him. Him.

And even as he grew lightheaded, watching a dream play out through eyes which had begun to grow blurry with gathering tears, there was a growing tension within him, an aching desire to hold her in his arms and bury himself in her, to stop holding back all the want and the need and the sheer desperation. To drive into her, pour into her the years of longing and devotion and give up the pretense that he was anything other than hopelessly, endlessly in love with her.

And so, without even really meaning to, he grit his teeth and groaned, "Oh Christine…"

At the sound of Erik's voice, Christine's eyes opened, and she blinked up at him in a lost, uncomprehending way that froze every muscle in his body, turned his stomach sickly cold.

Her face paled. He could feel his own face drain of blood.

Then, with her lips pressed together as if holding back a sob, Christine all but pushed Erik's hand away and scrambled to a sitting position. "That's— I think that's enough, right? We need—" Her hand shook, as she reached for his waistband. "We need to— Quickly. Here." Pulling up her skirts, she laid back on the bed, turned her head, and closed her eyes. "Is this all right?"

On suddenly boneless legs, Erik stumbled forward, catching himself on the bed. Christine's spread thighs brushed against his hips. He felt as though he might vomit.

"I think I— I—"

The truth was, Erik wasn't thinking at all. Couldn't think. Only could feel a kind of numbing shock and a desperate need to disappear.

And he couldn't. Not without his trapdoors and smoke bombs and all the other stupid tricks he used to employ to make himself into a ghost, The Phantom, anything other than the ugly, sad little man he really was.

He could, though, still run away. Run away and try to make sense of what had passed between them, find some way to salvage things, if there was even anything there to salvage.

But how could he just leave, when she was lying there, waiting for him to— to— When she was only here at all because she needed him to— to… She might leave and never come back if he didn't…

But he couldn't. Not like this. Not now.

But he couldn't let her go.

"Could you?" he heard himself ask. "Like last time?"

She obliged him.

Erik laid himself out on the bed, numb and cold except for where her hands touched, as he let her stroke him back into readiness, let her climb on top of him and connect their bodies — just their bodies. The way he'd agreed to.

It was mechanical. It was lonely. It wasn't how he wanted it.

But at least it was happening.

And at least it would be over quickly. Maybe a lack of endurance wasn't such a bad thing after all, not when the entire time was spent with eyes screwed shut, struggling to replace the way she'd just looked at him with something else. Anything else.

And at least it felt good, good enough that his body could perform an imitation of enthusiasm, even if his heart was bleeding out inside his chest beneath her bracing hands as silently, except for hitching, panting breaths, she took what she needed from him.

And at least he could give it.

Still, the stars which exploded behind his eyes as she rode him to a shuddering finish weren't bright enough to blind him to the sight he'd known would be waiting for him when it was through — that look of misery, mixed with regret, tears already streaking her flushed cheeks. And so Erik simply closed his eyes again and waited as she scrambled off of him and ran to the bathroom, just like last time.

But at least this time, she spared him the shame of an apology.

At least this time, he made it until he was lying alone on the bed before his own tears began to fall.

…

Erik lay like that for a long time — too long. Long enough that if he didn't get up soon, Christine would come out and find him like that. And then she would want to know why he was the one crying — as if he had any right to be crying.

He shouldn't be crying. He should be grateful. It should be enough.

But…it wasn't.

And it wasn't enough for Christine, who might have hoped that she could find some little bit of pleasure while being bedded by a monster, just as Erik had once been forced to dig through trash to find sustenance — except she discovered that it was only possible as long as she could pretend he was not there.

She did not want to see him. She did not want to hear him. She did not want him.

Erik dug his fingers into the bedding, gathering it in clenching fists. He was not— no, he could not be angry with her. He could not blame her. He was not someone who was wanted.

But he was angry—very angry—with himself.

He shot out of bed, scrubbing his face dry with a rumpled sleeve.

He'd known damn well it wasn't enough! And yet, like the pathetic, stupid, desperate man he was, he had taken scraps from the hand of one who couldn't even look at him, who had shut her eyes and turned her head as she'd offered herself to him. And like a starving man, he hadn't been able to say no.

But he'd had enough. There were limits to his gratitude. And if this was all it would be, well, perhaps he would rather have nothing at all.

Erik dressed again, fastening each button of his waistcoat with quiet resolve, tying each shoelace into an unyielding knot. He smoothed his hands over the false face he wore, the false hair. He held his chin high, clenching his teeth to keep it from trembling. And then he waited.

He had to do it now, before he lost his nerve. He had to do it, though it was the most daunting thing he'd ever done—worse than several trips down a gangplank.

He would tell Christine they needed to talk.

Now.

Is there a nice, nineteenth century term for 'post nut clarity'? Well, if there is, please feel free to pretend that's what I said instead of the crude, juvenile term I just used, because I, of course, strive for only the most refined, historically accurate language while writing about a sad, ugly murderer jerking off in a basement. Anyway, things have become quite clear for Mr Erik here, but is Christine ready to come clean about whatever it is her deal is? She better be, it's been 28 chapters!

Up next in the 29th chapter: Christine comes clean about whatever it is her deal is.

Thank you guys for the warm welcome back after my Covid-derailment. I'm so happy to be back writing again! Thank you so much for all the support and incredible comments. I've said it many times, but I will say it again: you guys are the best, and I am so grateful.

And big big thanks to Aldebaran for all the help on this chapter! The ending in particular owes so much to her input. Show her some love and give her stuff a read!