was afraid. So at last, he tightened his fingers on the reins, looked straight ahead, and said, 'Christine. How… how was it for you all these years in the Opera House? What I mean to say is… Sorelli and my brother have been together, and other singers and dancers have had protectors, and… I just wish to know… Have you been treated… well?'

When she didn't respond, he gripped the reins tighter, but didn't look at her. This was so much more difficult than steering a massive ship in a storm and planning and executing voyages and training for ship-to-ship attacks. There, one could learn one's way with the lines and the sheets and the navigation, and even use the weather and myriad weapons.

But this was a woman, and she did not have a helm.

At last Christine spoke, her voice barely audible over the soft crunch of hooves on a portion of the rue that was still covered with snow. 'I was lonely. I didn't fit in with the other girls, because for a long time, I didn't want to sing. I barely danced. When Papa died, I lost the music and I still don't know how Professor Valerius convinced the conservatoire to take me. Perhaps because I was the daughter of the famous violinist, they believed I would rise to the occasion.'

'But you have, Christine. You did! You were magnificent last night.'

'Last night. Yes, I felt it. But there were many months and years where I didn't belong and I didn't believe I would ever have the chance to be… to be the beautiful lady, who stands onstage in the limelight, and garners all of the applause and admiration. I longed for it, Raoul… but it was out of my reach.'

'You have arrived there, Christine. No one will contest it now.' He wanted to reach over and take her hand from beneath those furs and press it to his lips, to comfort her. How he wished he'd been there during her lonely days.

'I made friends with one of the other dancers and Franco, a young Italian man who was brilliant at organizing the props docks. Franco and I… Raoul, he made me feel not so alone. We were clumsy and furtive, but we needed each other.'

Raoul swallowed. He'd hoped, but he really hadn't believed she might have still been untouched, living in an environment such as the Opera House. 'Did you love him?'

When she shrugged, the furs shifted and fell away, exposing her shoulder to the brisk wind. She busied herself, trying to pull the fox and rabbit skins back up over her as she answered. 'I don't know. But whatever it was, it did not last long, for he soon had his attention caught by one of the older chorus girls, and they ran off to join the theater in Marseilles.'

'And after Franco?'

'Does it matter so much to you, Raoul? Will my answer change anything?'

'No.' It was true.

'Then why ask it?'

'Because I want to know that your life wasn't as hard as I think it was; while I was raised in a world of luxury and comfort, I don't want to believe that you were lonely and afraid or… or mistreated. All those times I thought of you-and I did think of you, Christine, I truly did.'

'Thank you, Raoul. It's nice to know that perhaps I wasn't as alone as I thought I was. And… to answer your question, no, I did not seek out a protector. Nor did one seek me out. I was too shy, and not talented enough. I didn't attract their attention, and I was rather glad I did not. And it seemed so… false. Practical, perhaps, but false.'

'I'm selfish, but I am glad.'

'I was lonely. I was surrounded by people all the time, but I was alone. I don't know if I shall ever find my place.'

'You will, Christine. You will. With me.'

Then she looked at him. 'That's what I love about you, Raoul. You're a good listener. You help me to put into words things that I didn't realize I felt until I spoke them.'

But he didn't want to be just a good listener, just a friend. He wanted all of her.

And he would have it. All of her.

Erik dreamt.

He dreamt of her, of her long, swirling dark hair, cloaking him… of the slender warmth of her body, lining his own, tangling with his limbs.

Of her luscious mouth, red and full, smiling, pouting, coming to him, closing over him… of her delicate fingers, narrow and creamy in the dark hair of his body… of driving into her, filling her, joining with her… loving her.

Loving her.

Of her laughing, singing, dancing… even of eating, of mundane things such as dressing her hair and buttoning her gown.

He dreamed of Christine onstage, singing for him, only for him, her blue eyes lifted to his box and her whole being centered on him, on pleasing him.

Of waking next to her.

Of walking boldly into the Opera House to take his seat in the front of the stalls.

Of pushing through the throngs of admirers outside her dressing room door, carrying an impossible armful of lilies.

Of driving with her along the Seine, in an open carriage.

And then the dreams changed… from a warm, sun-filled day to a dark, cold emptiness. To pain, searing pain, and scratchy wool coverings and iron chains. To the shrieks and cries and jeers, and the running. Always, the running, and running, and running.

Down dark hallways, through moon-glistening streets, into deep, dank tunnels and underground rivers. With the echoes of life above, permanently exorcised from his own. He could not draw in enough breath; he could not gasp in enough air… He rounded the corner of the never-ending tunnel…

And saw Christine, hanging on the wall, the black and gray and evil blue stone wall, her arms spread, her legs apart, her body white and naked against the dark.

He couldn't get to her… couldn't reach her… He kept running toward her, running and stumbling and running, but he could not reach her…

And then strong hands pulled on him, captured him… held his muscular arms; something hard crashed against the backs of his knees, sending him crumpling. His legs bound, his arms chained, he was thrown to the floor. The cold, wet, dark floor.

You'll never have her, scuttling rat.

You bury yourself in the dark, and yearn for what you will never have. She will never look on the likes of you, no matter that she spreads her legs when you force her. She'll not spread 'em for your cock.

As Buquet's taunting words echoed in his mind, reverberating in the cavern of his dreams, Erik struggled against his bonds. He had to reach her… to get to Christine…

But then… she was not alone.

Hands reached out, covering her breasts, and someone bent to her throat, his shadowy shape obstructing Erik's vision from his miserable position on the stone floor. She moaned and closed her eyes, tipping her head back, baring her long, creamy neck.

The man played with her breasts, fingered her nipples, bent to suck loudly on one as Erik was forced to watch. Her hips were moving; she was making soft huffing sounds from full parted lips; she shivered and shifted and moaned as the man sucked on her beautiful breast, leaving it red and moist from his lips.

Erik could see every texture of her ruched-up areola under the thick fingers of the man who manipulated it… the jutting red point, the gentle pink wrinkles. It was as if it filled his vision; then the close view of the man's lips, closing over the nipple. Greedy, they sucked, pulling it into the circle as the white flesh around it trembled and shook.

She cried out when the man moved, his hand fingering the black thatch between her legs. Erik saw it then, the red, swollen sex that he would die for… the slick, warm velvet of Christine… She bumped and moved and cried and Erik struggled again to pull himself loose and go to her… The man's head bent there; Erik could see only the back of it as it moved, as he licked and sucked and tasted her.

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