"What of Erik? Philippe said he was dead!" Christine asked as she washed.
Madame shook her head. "He is in the dungeon. The comte has made him his prisoner. He is hurt, but by no means dead."
Her heart swelled with relief. "Thank God he's alive! How badly is he hurt?"
"Come, quickly, I will take you to him while the comte is busy with his guests. We haven't long, and you must be back—"
"Back?" Christine reared away in fear. "No, if I leave here, I won't come back! Erik and I will leave."
"I hear he is in chains; no one knows where the key is. No doubt in Philippe's pocket. Rose has dared to bring me here, and will guide us to the dungeon—but is too frightened to do more to help us. If you do not come back here and pretend you know nothing, you will not have the chance to find the way to free Erik. Do you understand?"
She understood. And… Raoul should return soon. If Philippe was busy with his guests for long enough, there would be no chance for him to come to her.
"Take me to Erik."
Rose was waiting for them in the hall, her delicate features pinched with worry. Christine recognized her immediately as the girl who'd been hanging on the wall, with the ball in her mouth. It was no wonder she knew Christine's whereabouts.
They hurried like silent wraiths along the corridors and through servant passageways down four floors to well beneath the ground, where it was damp and dark.
"He is down there," Rose said, pointing down another flight of stairs that led into darkness. "Now I must go. I am leaving this place, and I will never return." She disappeared back the way they'd come.
Madame gave Christine a little push. "I will wait here and signal you if someone comes."
Christine barely heard Madame's last words; she hurried down the rest of the stairs and around the corner—and there he was, manacled at wrists and ankles, sagging against the cold gray stone. Blood streaked his torn shirt and along the sinewy muscles of his bare forearms, drawn tight from their fastenings high on the wall.
"Erik… oh, my dear Erik," Christine cried softly, rushing toward him.
He lifted his head at the sound of her voice, struggling to hold it upright as her hands cupped the sides of his face, and she brought her mouth to his lips.
They were dry, cracked, bloody, but it was Erik. She softened his brutalized mouth with hers, fitting to him as she stroked her fingers over his jaw and neck.
"Christine, no," he murmured against her kisses, "you should not be here." But his mouth mauled hers with tenderness, as though he knew he'd never taste her again, and she heard the dull clank of metal as he reflexively attempted to hold her. "He told me you'd gone off with Raoul," he said, nudging her aside so that he could press his lips to her cheek and huddle his face into her neck, breathing deeply, shakily, and then releasing a long exhale in a low shudder.
"I thought you were dead," Christine replied, pulling away from him and, despite Madame's warning, tugging at the heavy iron cuffs, shaking and rattling them in search of a weakness. "He told me you were dead, but I would not go with Raoul. I never will, Erik. Even if you were gone."
"Thank God," he murmured, bending his face toward her. "I thought perhaps… it would be so much easier for you, Christine," he told her. He brushed his good cheek along hers, rubbing gently like a cat, caressing her in the only way he could. Over the dampness of the dungeon, amid the must and gloom, she smelled his familiar scent mingled with sweat and blood and breathed it in as their faces cuddled. "I cannot—"
"Do not say it," she told him, pressing her fingers against his mouth. "I would rather live in the darkness of danger with you than in the sunlight with anyone else. You've taught me what no other has… how to really love, how to bring my music back… how full life can be. How not to be lonely." She looked up at him, looked into both of his eyes—the thick-lashed one, the sagging, half-hooded one—and took both sides of his face into her hands again, feeling the scrub of his whiskers, the stickiness of oozing blood, the unyielding texture of mangled skin. "I love you, Erik. I'll find a way to set you free."
"Save me again, will you?" he said, pulling away with sudden force. His voice was low, raw, as he buried his face in his shoulder, only the angry, mutilated side showing. "Why must you always be the one to sacrifice, to risk, to choose? Why can I not take care of you?"
"Erik… don't! Don't, my love," she said, smoothing her hands over his beloved shoulders, up onto the strained, smooth rope of his biceps. "You are so much stronger than I. You've risked your life coming here… I've done so little in comparison."
"So little?" He heaved in a great breath, turned his face to look down at her. "The giving of your person, of your very most intimate self, to my brothers is a greater sacrifice than this dark life. I'd eagerly give my life for you, Christine… but you've given so much more. And I cannot think that I deserve it, for I've done nothing but pull you into the middle of this. You should never have gone with them that night, Christine. You should have let them take me."
"Erik, Erik," she said, blinking away gathering tears. "You are a fool. You've lived too long alone. Do you not know that this"—she slid her hands down along the ridges of his torso, then up and around as she pulled herself flush to him—"means nothing without love?"
"Christine—" But she stopped whatever foolishness he was about to say with her mouth, standing tall on her toes so she could kiss him full on the lips. She gently told him how much she loved him, how much he meant to her, and how much she trusted him, with the adoring slip of her tongue over his half-open mouth, with the soft nibbling on his upper lip and the bare brush of lip against lip.
So easy, so sweet and slow, the kiss was, as if they were learning each other for the first time. As if they had all the time in the world, and there was no danger of being discovered, separated.
Christine felt the welcome swelling of deep lust, real love, move through her body, tightening her nipples and spiraling in a tingling curl down past her belly. She moaned, pressing her hips against his, shifting her arms around the back of his neck to bring his face to where she could really taste him, and pull his mouth close to tangle her tongue with his hot, greedy one.
Again Christine heard the clink of metal as Erik moved, and the groan of frustration vibrating through his chest when he could not touch her. She removed her hands from his neck, sliding under the ragged, dirty shirt to feel the sleek muscle, smooth skin, and wiry hair.
He could do nothing but breathe and tremble as Christine pulled away the edges of his shirt, scratched her nails gently down along his chest and down to the sagging waist of his trousers.. She kissed him on one tiny, hard nipple, bit at the edge of his pectoral, and then sank to her knees on the floor in front of him.
"Christine," he said in a tortured breath when she pulled at the fastenings of his trousers. "Nnn…"
She felt his powerful thighs trembling next to her, warm and solid against her arms as she pulled apart the sagging breeches to free his erection. Taking him in both hands, she kissed the soft head, licked around it, and slid him deeply into her mouth, once, twice, then back away to love the tip again.
Erik was breathing as though he'd run for miles, his muscles tense and shaking from effort, from being slung up by them for hours. Christine stroked her hands along his massive legs, around to the back, and up to his buttocks, fitting her fingers between muscle and rough, damp wall. She couldn't get enough of touching him, of the solidness of him, of the smell and the taste.
Despite the always-present danger, she took her time; she feasted, licked, stroked, scratched, sucked, beneath torn shirt, ragged trousers, around manacled legs and wrists. Her breathing matched his; they both sounded, there in the cavernous stone room, as though every last bit of air was being taken from them.