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She always seemed to be looking at him. It was insufferable. Those big blue eyes of hers, always fixed on him with an expression he couldn’t read. Maddening. The worst thing about it was the idea that he would never quite know what she was thinking. The hardest thing was seeing her look away every time he caught her watching.
Guilty. Like she had been caught. He was used to outright disdain. Not study. Not Christine watching him without a hint of discernible emotion.
She watched him during lessons, she watched him over tea, she watched him as he did the dinner dishes on the nights she stayed. He didn’t know what to make of it, even after three months of uneasy acquaintance. No longer her angel, just a teacher.
Just her maestro, as she had purred one night after two glasses of wine–a sound that still haunted the moments before he fell asleep.
Now as he played, he felt the weight of her gaze upon him, even as her voice never faltered as he led her through the final measures of her aria. She watched.
Surely it was the remembered horror of his scarred visage. She must be seeing his face, the twisted monstrosity of his skin. Yes, that must be why Christine stared at him. He could not bear the thought of asking her, to have that last whisper of deniability snatched from his hands.
So he endured. Christine’s gorgeous voice rang out in a final sustained note that was enough to drive him to ecstasy. He hoped that she could not see the way his fingers shook as he moved them from the keys.
She watched. Oh what a torment were her blue eyes! What a torment to see the way she ducked her head as she waited to hear his judgment of her skills. She was so very lovely, there in her pink morning gown. Delicate lace at the sleeves, ribbons on the bodice trailing down in ways that would tempt better men than him to sin.
She watched him, leaning forward on her elbows over the piano. He would scold anyone else for treating an instrument so. She smiled at him, and he was even more baffled.
“Christine, your voice is a marvel–but I sensed your distraction. You were focused on things beside the music.”
“What do you mean, Erik?” She frowned, an expression that creased her forehead and made her lips part with confusion. Ripe. Pink. Glistening.
“You didn’t project your emotions to the audience.” Nonsense, of course. What audience? Yet he could hardly say: you kept watching me.
“You were my audience,” she said. “You’re being absurd. Is this because I didn’t stay last night?”
Bold. Her folded arms seemed to mock him. Was she not afraid of the angel of death that stood before her? She was so maddening. He loved her. He hated her fear. He wanted her. He could not bear it when she looked at him.
And she kept looking at him. “It was Meg’s birthday. I didn’t get back until late…Though I suppose you would know.”
“What–”
“I could smell you.”
“You could what?”
“Your cologne. Spices and old paper. I–I recognized it right away.” Her cheeks went pink.
He remembered the way that she and Meg had swayed down the cobbled street, singing songs they shouldn’t know. Bawdy, raucous songs. Two beauties wine-lipped and laughing, whispering to each other. Christine had been so carefree and beautiful. But monsters lurked in the dark. They feared him, but that mattered little if it meant keeping her safe.
Spices and old paper! He must be more careful, and yet there was something thrilling in the familiarity of her knowing him without seeing him. Pleasure curled in his chest without permission.
“You need to be more careful,” he said, cursing himself when her face fell. He watched her as she seemed to flicker in and out of an emotion–a cursed thought he couldn’t glean. If only he could read her mind, but no–surely then he would be witness to her derision, her horror, her–
“Thank you for keeping me safe,” she said, and before he could collect himself she was right in front of him with her hands on his shoulders. This was new. Unprecedented. Unbelievable.
The sweet pressure of her touch as she leaned forward. He thought he might die seeing the curve of her smile so close. To feel the way her lips–Christine’s perfect lips–pressed against the curve of his unmasked cheek.
He still felt their brand as she pulled away. She was watching him again. Eyes bright, cheeks aflame with delicious red that spread down her pale neck. Perhaps even lower.
By god, she would be the death of him! If he had not already died.
He opened his mouth to speak, but found he had no words. He was reduced to nothing more than a gasping carp in her presence. Undone by a chaste kiss. Not even to his lips. He was pathetic. She must be laughing at him.
But when he looked up at her, she was only smiling.
“Christine–”
She squeezed his shoulders before letting go. And she was still watching him.
“Why?”
“I wanted to.”
Wanted to?! Wanted to press her lips to his face? Wanted to! The very thought was absurd, unfathomable. Just wild enough to bear a semblance of truth.
“You are always watching me,” he said, for surely if she had kissed him then he was dead and therefore entitled to answers on life’s mysteries.
“Oh,” she said with a shrug. “I wanted to do that too. Do you mind?”
“Do I mind…? Why…what satisfaction do you derive from watching me? If I may be so bold as to inquire… I am…not very pleasing.”
Christine blinked. “I think your form is very pleasing.”
“My form,” he replied weakly. He didn’t have a form. He had a scarred and brutalized body hidden under exceptionally expensive garments. He had a silk-lined mask and a murderous persona. Monsters didn’t have forms, let alone forms to be admired.
“You are quite tall, and rather dashing. I like to look at you. I find myself rather captivated.”
“Captivated,” Erik said, wishing that he had a stiff drink for the shock. Captivated. “Are you laughing at me?”
“No, I’m watching you.” Her hands settled on his shoulders once more, bringing with them a swell of hope that even he could not ignore. She swept closer, the brush of her skirts at his knees. “Is this disagreeable?”
“There are few ways you could touch me that I could ever find disagreeable.” Clearly shock had made him stupid. Or maybe it was that she had tipped his chin upwards so he was forced to see her. Watching him. Eyes soft. Beautiful Christine.
“And now, I’m taking Meg’s advice.”
“Meg’s advice?”
“She said that men require actions.”
“Actions,” Erik repeated, though he could hardly remember that Meg existed when he could feel Christine’s breath upon the unmasked side of his face.
“Mmmmm.” Her hands crept to his cheeks, thumbs stroking at his cheekbones. She pulled aside the mask and revealed his face. For a long, horrible second he thought that this was the end of everything. Not only had he died, but he had gone to hell, and this–Christine’s scream of disgust would be his eternal punishment.
But she did not scream. She kissed him.
Actions indeed.