He said nothing for a long moment, simply looked at Christine as she pulled herself up from her trembling knees. When she was standing, she backed away from him and watched warily, heart ramming in her chest, as he appeared deep in thought.
"Oui, ma chère," he said at last, "I am unable to choose. Shall we play the game of pursuit, after which I shall have you as you kick and scream and fight… or shall I make you comfortable"—at this, he gave a brief nod toward the Y-shaped bed—"so that I can play with you until you beg me to take you?" He stepped toward her now, his salacious expression sending renewed fear tumbling in her belly. "Or, perhaps, a combination of both?"
Christine took her eyes from the comte just long enough to look around for something she could use as a weapon, then returned her attention to him as he came toward her, stalking, as if he were the sleek barn cat that lived in the Opera House's stables and she but a mouseling.
There was no one to help her.
Raoul was gone, ostensibly to save her from what he perceived as a horrible fate. Erik was beaten and chained, and Madame, if she was alive, was also chained to the ground. Even Rose, who might have helped, had run off to the village, leaving Chateau de Chagny well behind her.
"What is your choice? You wish to fight?" Philippe asked in an indulgent voice. "You do not wish to make use of my comfortable furnishings? I promise you, if I wish you to have pleasure, you will do so. All of my women do."
"And then you kill them," she spit, having spied her weapon of choice. The entire arsenal of whips hung behind Philippe, out of her reach… but there was one long, slender dowel lying on the edge of a table nearby. She dared not contemplate what that dowel might be used for in Philippe's warped chamber; instead, she lunged for it as he replied to her taunt.
"That is only when I have become bored with them." He lifted a brow as she turned back, wielding the stick. "My, how enterprising." He gave a little laugh. "But do not worry yourself. I do not expect to become bored with you for quite some time, Miss Daaé. It has been quite the chase, and I mean to make the most of it now that it has ended. And then there is, of course, the comtesse, my wife. She found you most enticing during our lovely dinner the other night. Unfortunately, she is off to visit her sister for a bit, so she won't be able to sample your charms until she returns, but I do know that she intends to. Did you perhaps think she might be of assistance in helping you run away? No? Surely the thought crossed your mind, Christine." He stepped to one side, his eyes never leaving her. "You must be frantically considering all possibility of escape."
He looked at her again. "And perhaps you had hoped your dear friend the ballet mistress might help you. Well, ma chère, she has helped you enough. I have been spying on her visits to your chamber since her first, and it was she who unwittingly led me to your lover Erik."
Christine braced herself, holding the dowel in front of her like a clumsy sword. The closest she'd ever come to wielding a weapon was when she and Franco had played at sword fighting one day whilst he was putting away the props from Don Carlos.
Philippe turned and she saw that he had a whip in his hand. It lashed out and she ducked away, but the snap of leather did not cut into her skin. Instead, it easily wrapped around the edge of her own weapon and with a flick of his wrist, Philippe jerked it out of her fingers. Then he threw the whip behind him and advanced another step toward her.
"Let us keep this to what they call hand-to-hand combat, ma chère," he said with an easy smile. "I want to feel you fighting me with your nails and teeth… I want our bodies to roll together on the floor, or the bed, or wherever, as you kick and struggle beneath me, your heart pounding, your lungs screaming as they heave."
He lunged and snatched at her arm, his fingers closing over the silky fabric of her sleeve. Christine shrieked and jerked away, and the sleeve tore from her gown.
She whirled and bumped into the wall, and felt him coming after her again, easy and calm as if he were indulging a playful toddler. The wall was behind her, and to her left the corner of the room where she would be trapped—and to her right, a narrow space through which she might pass.
Philippe was grinning wider now, and he canted to one side, giving her an even larger space through which she might slip past. "Come now, Christine. I had expected more from you than to see you cowering in the corner. Why, you are making this no fun at all. Erik would be quite disappointed in your lack of ferocity. After all, you are the only thing standing between him and a very unpleasant trial and execution."
She ducked and dashed toward freedom, staying as close to the wall as possible, but his arm reached out when she'd nearly gotten past. He grabbed her wrist and used her momentum to jerk her toward him, pulling her off-balance so that she fell into his person.
He grabbed her other wrist and pulled her arms straight down, bringing her body flush with his. Christine knew he wanted her to struggle, that her helplessness aroused him, but she couldn't stop herself. She tried to kick out under her heavy skirts, but succeeded only in driving her foot between his wide-legged stance and falling toward his body even more.
His greedy smile filled her line of vision as he swooped down, pulling her closer by her arms, and seeking her lips with his. Twisting her face away, Christine struggled to pull free even as his mouth slid across her jaw and cheek. Hot, moist breath blasted her skin as he mauled her face, nipping at her tender earlobe, then sliding across her jaw as he forced her backward with the brunt of his mouth until he at last covered her lips with his.
She tried to bite him, tried to kick out, but he crushed his mouth harder against hers, laughing into her as her foot swung clumsily, harmlessly between his legs. She tasted blood, felt the invasion of his slick tongue and the sharpness of his teeth at the edge of her lips as she tried to twist away.
Tears streamed from the outer edges of her eyes, and her arms and wrists had gone numb from his relentless grip. She jerked at the hips, slamming into the bulging arousal that was horrifyingly evident even beneath the many layers of clothing between them, and felt his groan of pleasure when she did. At last she pulled free from the kiss, turning her face away, and felt the scrape of teeth and the slickness of his lips and tongue over her cheek.
Suddenly, the grip on her arms loosened, and she was falling backward, tumbling to the floor. She landed sharply on an elbow and a hip, her hand slapping so hard on the wood that her fingers tingled. Tangled in a mass of skirts, Christine rolled frantically to one side, watching the shiny black boots as they stood, planted wide, just out of her reach, and she tried to scramble to her feet. Her gown was not made for fighting or running, or any sort of quick movement, and she tripped again as her foot caught in its hem.
"You seem to be having quite a bit of trouble with your gown, Christine," Philippe said. His voice was still easy, but she heard the deeper gust of his breath. When she dared to glance up, she saw that his lips were full and moist and red, and that his blue irises had shrunk as his pupils swelled. "Perhaps I can help you with it."
He dived toward her, and she felt the tug on her skirts, and then heard the tear as he yanked the fistful of fabric away. The front two pieces of her gown came loose, and the lace and tulle from her crinolines tore in a long, white froth. She felt the weight lifted from her legs, now nearly bare, covered only in stockings and a light lawn chemise, and when she twisted away, the fabric tore even more.
Christine rolled on the floor, her skirts pulled from her bodice, her feet able to move more freely. Using the cabinet next to her, the one with the long, slender, pointed objects of ivory, to pull herself up, she turned and saw, not Philippe lunging at her again as she'd expected, but him standing there, watching her, a large frothy mess hanging from his fist.