Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (12 page)

Christine didn’t reply, and they rode along in silence, broken only by the shouts of street vendors and the scrabbling of carriages along the cobbled street.

Raoul struggled to put his thoughts into words; he wanted to talk to her, to find out about her, to
learn
her…but one could not just suddenly delve into a woman’s life with personal questions. Yet,
he felt almost as if he had earned the right to do so, all those years ago, that summer. After all, he wasn’t just a young man who’d suddenly noticed her glorious voice and lovely person.…He’d known of it for years.

Perhaps he would start there. Where they’d left off. “I didn’t realize your father died that winter after our summer together. It must have been terrible for you.”

She nodded next to him. “It was the coldest winter I’d ever known. I felt frozen, Raoul. Numb and slow. He was all I had. Father and his music. And then suddenly, it was gone. It was worse than losing Mama, for I was so young and I barely remember her. But Papa…but you know. You lost your parents too.”

“Yes, but…well, it was different for me. I had my brother, who became like a father to me, and my two sisters, who were all so much older than I. And my mother’s sister, who raised me. Of course, I have her to thank for living in Brest, for that is how we came to be in Perros and how you and I met.” He flashed her a quick look. She had a sad smile on her face. She must be remembering.

“I had no one. No one except the Valeriuses, and they were wonderful to keep me on, but it wasn’t the same. For a long time, I didn’t want to even hear the violin. Do you still play?” she asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.

“I haven’t in many years, but I believe if I picked up the instrument, I would remember what your father taught me that summer, after I rescued your scarf.”

“Those were lovely days by the sea, with the gulls calling in the distance behind the notes you and father were practicing.”

He chuckled. “I would not have called them notes, Christine.…I was only a passable player, not talented like your father. And you.”

There was another silence as he considered his next move. He
needed to ask; he needed to know…but he 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 dreamt 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.

She thrashed against the manacles that held her spread-eagled, her head rolling from side to side, her breasts, now free from questing fingers, bouncing and jiggling. She cried out, cried and struggled, begging…and the man pulled away.

He turned, and Erik saw the familiar face of his brother, glistening with Christine. His lips, full and red, dripped with her and he smiled. Mocking. Taunting.

“Don’t frighten the girls, Erik. They cannot stand your touch. Hear them scream?”

She spreads her legs when you force her. She’ll not spread ‘em for your cock.

“But she’ll take mine,” his brother said to Erik. “She’ll take mine.”

He turned back to Christine, suddenly naked with her, and somehow her arms were around him as he drove into her. Then Erik could see the cock as though he were next to it, working in and out of her swollen sex, in and out, in and out, the rhythm pulsing within him, his own need building in agony.

Then he saw them from a distance again, writhing, twined, against the wall, Christine’s arms around him, her face tilted up, her eyes closed in deep pleasure. She cried out, cried her release, scoring her nails down the man’s back, and Erik felt her shudders as though it were he buried inside her.…

And he woke.

Panting, sweating, naked, and tangled. His cock screaming with pain, jutting toward the ceiling. His heart racing, his hands clenched.

His unmasked face wet with tears.

Christine.

“Oh, Christine,” he cried softly, bringing his hands to his face. One side, smooth but for the stubble that edged his jaw…the other, rough and textured as the bark of a tree.

How he loved her.

He wanted her, yes, but he
loved
her.

He had grown to love her. Watching her, seeing the same loneliness in her face that would be etched in his own…if he had the courage to look at it.

Listening to her music—music that
he
pulled forth from her, music that they created together.

But she could never love him, deformed and defective as he was. He dared not let her see him, barely allowed her to touch him, though his body craved it. Trembled for it.

Oh, he had hope, buried so deeply inside him that he rarely let
it out. Perhaps someday she would love him for himself, in spite of his face. In spite of his past.

From that first morning he’d watched her sing alone on the stage, months ago, Erik had been fascinated. Who knew why Christine should have touched him so, that first day? But she had.

After that, he’d watched her. Lurked. Loitered. Saw that she was not like the other girls—not like many of them, anyway.

There was a purity about her, and a shy goodness. A tolerance. She was kind to the door closer, the lowest of low on the hierarchy of the opera personnel, who had the club foot. Instead of ignoring the half-blind man who worked in the cellars below the stage, she greeted him. And he learned to recognize her voice.

She shared her meager meal of Red Egg and garlic sausage with one of the younger, smaller dancers, who obviously was in need of extra nourishment. She even gave one of her hair ribbons—a lovely scarlet one—to an
ouvreuse
for her daughter’s new baby.

Perhaps that was part of the reason he’d fallen in love with her. Certainly, if it were just for her beauty and her singing voice, there were others who’d passed their way through the Opera House. Carlotta had once even been less jaded, more innocent. Beautiful.

But neither she nor anyone else had ever touched Erik’s heart and soul the way Christine Daaé had. Lonely, sad, magnificent Christine.

And now…anger churned inside him. She was dining and associating with Raoul de Chagny and his brother, the
comte.

Erik had not known whom she had left with last night after their interlude on the stage until he’d listened in on the
foyer de la danse
, when Raoul de Chagny had swept in and fairly carried her off. Until that moment, Erik had been merely indulgent, watching from his hidden knot high in the wall, as his protégée shyly accepted the attentions of her admirers.

It was nothing more than he’d expected—of course one as gifted and beautiful, but still with that underlying innocence, would attract the attention of the
abonnés.
And Christine had given him no cause to feel any differently, for she was polite, and reserved, but seemed to single none of the men out. They were all the same to her.