The door was just to his right. He hadn't locked it. If she could just slip past him… Christine looked in the opposite direction and saw a large, studded club, leaning against a chair leg. She pretended to stumble, throwing herself toward the club, and she managed to grab it before she fell.
Hearing him behind her, she pushed to her feet, clutching the nasty weapon, and swung blindly as he lunged toward her. Amazingly, it connected with flesh—she didn't see where, for she was already turning toward the door. Without looking back, she darted toward freedom.
Carlotta crept along the narrow, jagged hallway at the back of the chateau—the passage that connected to the lowliest of the servant quarters. The lowliest of the servant quarters, where she, La Carlotta, had been banned for two days, barely conscious and hardly able to move. No one had dared nurse her other than to bring her clear broth and tea, and a bare crust of bread, so she had no use for any of them.
Her legs were still weak, her arms bruised and aching, one wrist screaming with pain, and her throat… she dared not think about it, dared not let herself think that she'd never sing again. Instead of the terror of having no voice, having had it squeezed from her by the violent hands of the Comte de Chagny, she made herself focus on the anger, the terrific, blinding, galvanizing anger she felt for the man who'd dare use her so. How foolish she had been to accept his invitation to the château after the Opera House had burned!
But there would be time to grieve and mourn later. Now she would have her revenge.
There'd been enough whisperings among the servants for her to guess what had occurred. Despite the comte's claims of secrecy, there were certain things that did not go unnoticed or unseen. Perhaps his pathetic brother might have believed that the comte had allowed Christine Daaé to escape, but Carlotta was not so stupid. After all, she had been there, watching him as he watched the girl through the small hole in her room. She'd seen the crazed light of obsession and salaciousness in his eyes.
The comte had been careful not to let the servants know where he kept the keys to the dungeon, but Carlotta knew. She'd seen him put them in a small cupboard in the room in which he'd tortured her after they'd spied on Christine. He thought she was unconscious when he hid the keys beneath one of the lewd paintings on the wall, but she'd been watching him through slitted eyes.
Yes, he'd hurt her, but she'd had worse at the hands of her father, growing up in the dirty streets of London. She'd learned how to feign unconsciousness, and how to bury her screams deep inside so he'd stop hurting her.
No one would have thought to look in that room, anyway, for it was not the chamber the comte usually used for his sexual activities. The room from which he and Carlotta had spied on the Daaé girl wasn't used as frequently, although he'd outfitted it with a small clutch of instruments—as Carlotta had cause to know.
She saw no one as she walked awkwardly along the hall on trembling legs, then to the small door that led to the dungeons. She at least knew where the captive was, the man called Erik. It had been a shock to learn that the so-called Opera Ghost was actually the natural brother of the comte. Chagny's vitriol and hatred toward the man had spewed forth during that horrible night she'd spent helpless and abused under his hands and body, and she'd learned enough to know that whatever sins Erik might have committed at the opera, the fact that his brother both hated and feared him meant that he was her most obvious ally.
Christine had the knob in her hands, smooth and cool, before Philippe's grasping hand jerked her back. Not hard enough that she tumbled to the ground, but enough that she lost her grip on the metal and jolted backward. Another shove from him and she spun around, this time keeping her balance as there were no heavy skirts to set her off-kilter or trip her.
But he came toward her before she could celebrate that little victory, his eyes ferocious and his hands reaching toward her. "So you want to play with the club, do you, Christine?" he asked. "I'd be most happy to accommodate you. But first…" He didn't grab at her arms as she'd expected; no, again, he surprised her, his fingers sliding into her cleavage and rending away the triangle of her bodice in a loud tear.
Christine pulled away, whirling, but he came after her again. It appeared the game was over; her blow, however ineffective, had angered him. His footsteps were hard and fast behind her, his breathing more harsh. He grabbed at her shoulder, pulling her back with a head-jolting snatch, and suddenly she felt herself falling.
Unable to control a surprised screech, she tried to brace herself for the fall. But instead of hard floor, she found herself slamming onto something soft. Before she could roll away, Philippe's heavy weight was there, over her, stretching her wrists above her, as she lay on the bed, or whatever it was she was on.
His hips jimmied between her legs, which somehow had become splayed beneath him, and he paused to look down at her. His mouth was twisted in a combination of pleasure and greed, one side tilted up and curled—reminding her of Erik for a bizarre, horrific moment. He breathed heavily, but it was not from exertion. As he looked down at her, pinning her with his violating gaze, one of his hands moved from where it had held her wrist, to slide down over her throat.
One hand free, Christine slapped and scratched, dug her nails into his other arm, the one that held her wrist so tightly her fingers began to tingle. But he ignored the pain; perhaps he reveled in it, for his pupils swelled and his free hand slid down… slowly, excruciatingly slowly, over her sweat-moist skin to cover her breast, thumbing her nipple back and forth contemplatively. Then he fitted his palm over the whole swell, like a lover, molding, lifting, squeezing through the protection of her corset.
Still she batted at him, struggling on, though she was becoming weary and out of breath. He moved his hand from her breast and slid fingers down between corset and skin and gave a sudden pull that nearly jerked her shoulders from her neck, making the edges of the corset cut into her skin. Her breasts fell free, but the corset stayed in place, rubbing against her tender skin.
Christine moaned, kicking in earnest from under his weight and grasping a handful of his hair as he bent to suck roughly on her nipple. She gave a hard yank, twisting and bucking beneath him, and Philippe pulled up suddenly, his eyes glinting angrily. Grabbing her free wrist, he pulled it above her head and captured it with his other hand, leaving her pinned by the arms, and one of his hands free.
"Now, my dear," he gasped, pressing his weight into the vee between her legs, his face glistening with moisture, "kick and cry all you wish… It's better that way." He bent to her breast, his breath rasping against her skin as he rammed his hips against her. She fought him when she felt his hand slide down between them, where he ground into her; she felt him pull at his breeches even as he kept her nipple between his teeth. The pain stung, down from her breast to the heavy weight on her, and though her legs shook from fatigue, and his grip above her head numbed her wrists, she roiled and rolled beneath him, gasping for air, tears streaming from her eyes.
His hand brushed against her sex; she felt the shift as his trousers opened and fell away; then his pounding cock was free against her chemise-covered thigh. His breath was out of control, his eyes closed and face tight with pleasure and concentration. He moved against her; she struggled to pull away, her legs and hips moving frantically against him, trying to keep him off-balance. Suddenly, he stiffened, stopped, and groaned against her chest. Something wet and warm seeped through the light fabric of her chemise, soaking through to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.