Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Erik placed the last chest in the center of the room, watching as another laborer picked it up with a grateful nod before heading upstairs. He wiped the sweat from his brow—imaginary, as the perspiration beneath his mask trickled down his face and chin.

“Erik, I believe you have done more than enough. Come, I prepared lemonade.” Christine's voice carried warmth as she handed a glass to a gentleman who appeared equally exhausted. The man accepted it with a smile of gratitude.

Erik’s gaze lingered on the man, his jealousy unmistakable. “You are correct, my dear épouse ,” he replied, emphasizing the word wife with deliberate weight as he walked over to take his own glass of the refreshing drink.

The red-haired gentleman looked startled at Erik's tone and discreetly stepped away. “I-I… I must assist upstairs. Pardon me, Monsieur,” he stammered, returning the empty glass to the tray before bowing slightly and retreating quickly.

Erik’s piercing gaze followed him, noting the man’s unbuttoned shirt. How indecent, Erik thought, pressing his lips together. His home was brimming with men, a necessity he found increasingly irksome. But there was no alternative; some tasks required additional hands, and if he wanted this work completed promptly, he had no choice but to endure their presence.

A gentle touch on his shoulder startled him. Turning, he saw Christine’s sweet smile. “You frightened the poor boy.”

“ Boy? He was nearly as tall as I and had more hair on his chest than I have on my head,” Erik muttered, earning a soft laugh from Christine at his jest.

“Erik…” she murmured affectionately, raising her hands with the grace of someone who had no strength left for arguments. She began undoing the cords of his white, ruffled shirt.

Erik stood still, holding his breath so as not to interfere with her movements. At last, Christine opened the shirt and, with a playful assertiveness, spread it apart to reveal his chest. She then smiled triumphantly. “There! Now you may compete with him,” she teased, a giggle escaping her lips.

“Ugh.” Erik raised his hand to cover his mouth, attempting to conceal his laughter, but his reddening ears betrayed him.“C-Christine… do not be ridiculous. I am no baboon to pound my chest and roar to assert my dominance,” Erik protested, his voice indignant yet tinged with amusement.

At his words, Christine couldn’t contain her laughter. It bubbled up uncontrollably, and she doubled over, holding her stomach as the giggles overtook her.

“What? What is so amusing? Tell me!” Erik demanded, his voice rising in both frustration and curiosity. His eyes, sharp and piercing, searched her face, but she only laughed harder.

The truth was almost too absurd to share—Christine had imagined Erik as a comically oversized monkey, his elegant ruffled shirt replaced by thick fur, his proud chest puffed out as he thumped it with dramatic fervor, and a roar escaping his lips. The mental image was too vivid, too absurd, and it sent her into another fit of giggles.

Erik tilted his head, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “You are hiding something. I know it. What is so funny, Christine? Tell me, I insist!” His tone, usually commanding, now carried a trace of desperation, which only made her laugh harder.

“It is nothing, mon ange. You are my joy—I cannot help but smile when I am near you.” Her gaze sparkled with mischief as Erik narrowed his eyes, clearly skeptical of her explanation. Yet he couldn’t suppress a smile in return.

She leaned in to embrace him, and he held her close, his touch tender. Is this what my life will be like? he wondered, breathing in the scent of her hair, nearly groaning in satisfaction. This must be paradise. He marveled at the thought. How could other men leave their homes, abandoning the soft, fragrant comfort of their beloved wives?

His arms tightened instinctively, and Christine let out a playful protest. “Oh, Erik! You will crush me!” she teased.

“Oh… forgive me,” he murmured, releasing her gently. His eyes lingered on her face before he glanced around the room. “It is a beautiful house that Gérard found for us.”

Christine followed his gaze, her expression serene. “Yes. It is cozy—large enough for two couples, yet not so vast as to become a burden to clean. Was this the final delivery?”

Erik nodded with satisfaction. “Yes. But… are you certain we should not have a larger house? We have a fine plot of land; perhaps we could expand it.”

“Erik, we have not even finished furnishing it, and you already wish to tear it apart?” Christine chuckled, picking up the tray of empty glasses and heading back to the kitchen.

Erik sighed, watching her figure disappear through the kitchen doorway. Turning to the window, he noticed the sun beginning to set. His throat tightened as he watched the blazing orb dip below the horizon. The transition to life above ground was still foreign to him. The upper world —his term for this outside world—was unpredictable, scorching during the day, cold at night, sometimes wet with rain or whipped by winds.

With a final deep breath, Erik stepped out of the house to pay the men who had assisted him throughout the day.

Ascending the stairs, Erik walked toward the master bathroom, seeking to cleanse his face beneath the mask. Passing one of the bedrooms, he noticed Émilie sitting inside, her shoulders shaking as she wept softly. She had been doing that often. Three months had passed since Gerard’s imprisonment, and her growing belly was now unmistakable. Erik, unsure of how to console her, left such delicate matters to Christine.

With a sigh, he moved on, glancing briefly into the other rooms. They stood empty, save for trunks holding items yet to be arranged for decoration. The music room and library caught his attention—the largest room in the house. Erik felt a rare warmth in his chest. Christine had created it for him. For him. A soft smile graced his lips as he turned to their bedroom.

Upon entering, Erik swallowed hard. The bed was vast, the soft linens inviting, and the room carried the faint, comforting scent of jasmine. He lowered his gaze to the floor, his nervous thoughts overwhelming him for a moment before continuing to his destination: the bathroom.

There, he removed his prosthetic mask carefully, placing it gently on the counter. Turning the tap, he washed his face with soap, sighing as the cool water touched his scarred skin. Drying off with a soft towel, he whispered to himself, “Ah, what a relief.” Speaking aloud to himself was a habit he had yet to break.

Reaching for the mask again, Erik half-closed his eyes, focused on his meticulous routine. Using a cotton swab, he applied the cleaning solution to the mask’s interior, wiping it thoroughly before sprinkling a light dusting of talcum powder over the surface. He tapped the mask gently to remove the excess, watching the fine particles fall into the basin. Finally, he reached for the medicinal ointment prescribed by the doctor. With one finger, he scooped out a small amount, murmuring as he concentrated.

“I enjoy seeing you smile,” a voice spoke softly behind him.

“Gah!” Erik let out a startled sound, trembling as he turned his gaze toward the mirror. Christine stood behind him, her presence reflected there. Instinctively, he grabbed his prosthetic mask, holding it over his face as he turned to her, his eyes wide with indignation.

“Are you certain you are not the Phantom of the Opera, woman?” he demanded, his tone sharp but his voice trembling slightly as he tried to maintain his composure.

Christine covered her mouth with one hand, suppressing her laughter. She did not wish to offend him, especially after startling him so. “Forgive me, Erik. I did not mean to startle you. I suppose you were simply distracted. Besides, I thought it was acceptable to approach—you left the door open, remember? Doors.”

“Ugh. Yes, yes. Doors. I must close the doors,” Erik muttered, more to himself than to Christine, recalling how she had gently scolded him before about neglecting this habit—particularly in a house shared with two ladies, one of whom was his stepmother.

Christine quietly closed the door behind them, her expression softening as she stepped closer. Her hand reached for his mask. “Let me help you,” she said tenderly.

“No, please…” Erik turned his face away, his voice low with reluctance.

“You need to apply the ointment properly—from the outside inward. Allow me.” Her tone was patient, maternal, and insistent.

Erik tensed, but slowly, he yielded, allowing her to remove the mask. He closed his eyes tightly, as he always did, unwilling to meet her gaze when he was unmasked. Christine’s heart ached as she looked at him. His disfigured face told a story of pain and rejection, but she dared not speak of it. Even a passing remark about his features could ruin his mood for days, and he would retreat into his silence, avoiding her entirely.

Christine worked efficiently, knowing his preference for speed. She applied the ointment with practiced care, her touch light yet deliberate. “There. All done,” she said with gentle relief, stepping back as he reached for his mask.

Erik placed it on his face, adjusting the delicate wire to secure it beneath his hair. With a small brush, he combed his false mustache and beard into place. “Ah, much better,” he thought with a sense of quiet satisfaction. He loved his prosthetic; it made him feel whole.

Christine stood watching him, her cheeks flushed, her gaze filled with admiration. Erik noticed her expression and became keenly aware that they were alone in the bathroom. His heart swelled as he leaned down to kiss his wife.

Kissing his wife. The words felt like an angelic hymn. Would he ever grow accustomed to this? The freedom to simply lean in and press his lips to hers whenever he desired, to cherish the sweetness of his muse, his savior, his Christine.

Christine accepted the kiss shyly, her lips warm and soft against his. Erik placed his hands gently on her waist, pressing tender, chaste kisses to her lips. The soft sound of their affection filled the quiet space. “I love you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice trembling with emotion. His earlier anxiety over her seeing his bare face melted away in the warmth of her closeness. No, not melted more like faded.

“Hm,” Erik sighed, a low hum of pleasure escaping him as he felt her hands rest against his chest, exposed by his open shirt, which he had forgotten to button. Her touch sent a rush of warmth through him, and he instinctively pulled her closer. He felt her breath against his lips, and when her tongue brushed lightly against him in a silent request, he surrendered, timidly opening his mouth to deepen their kiss.

His hands traced the gentle curves of her body, marveling at the fullness she had gained since their marriage. Her hips were softer, her arms more delicate, and— mon Dieu! —her bosom swelled against the modest dresses she still wore. Christine pressed against him, her warmth setting him aflame. Trapped against the wall, he felt her softness press against his lean chest.

Shamelessly, Erik moaned, his head tilting back in surrender. His desire pressed against her, even through the layers of fabric.

“Oh, Erik…” Christine whispered breathlessly, tightening her hold on him.

A shiver, primal and electric, coursed through him. Yet he gently held her arms and pulled back slightly, breaking their kiss. 

“Ahem… w-we shall be late for dinner,” Erik stammered, averting his gaze. “And tomorrow… I must rise early. It is best that we go, yes? Certainly… yes.” He answered himself hastily and, opening the bathroom door, stepped out into the hallway, making his way downstairs.

Christine sighed, placing her hands on her hips. What a difficult man! she thought. Should it not be the opposite? Turning back toward the mirror, she examined her reflection. She did not believe herself to be the most beautiful woman in the world, despite Erik’s fervent declarations. Yet she did not feel plain, either—especially now that she had gained some weight. Her cheekbones no longer stood out so starkly.

She placed her hands beneath her bosom and lifted them, imitating the way the opera’s ballerinas often adjusted their corsets. A giggle escaped her lips, amused by the sight of herself looking so unexpectedly alluring. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure no one had witnessed her playful moment, she let out a soft sigh.

Tonight, he shall not escape me, she thought with a mischievous smile.

Dinner was served: pasta, Erik’s favorite. He could consume it daily, reveling in its warmth, softness, and rich flavor.

“Hummmm,” he hummed contentedly, savoring the first bite with closed eyes.

Émilie laughed gently, resting her hand on the table. “Gerard loves pasta as well,” she said, her voice soft with nostalgia. “Perhaps I should bring him some during my next visit. Do you think it would still be good by the time I arrived?”

“Hmm, perhaps if we prepare it al dente,” Christine offered, her expression thoughtful. “That way, it could finish cooking in the heat of the sauce. But… I do worry it might not stay warm enough,” she added with a sympathetic tone toward her friend and newfound family by the marriage of her with her father-in-law.

“Mm-hmm,” Erik interjected, speaking with his mouth full. “He’ll—hmmph—eat it happhmm, no doubt abouff it. Migh’ even lhhk his lips after—he’sh alwaysh been a big eaterrh, tha’ one!”

“Erik!” Christine exclaimed, half-laughing, half-scolding as she dabbed his cheek with a napkin. “Do not speak with your mouth so full. Eat slowly, for goodness’ sake!”

Giggles erupted around the table. “Like father, like son,” Émilie remarked with a grin, making Christine laugh aloud alongside her. Erik’s ears turned red at their teasing, though he felt a small flicker of pride at having brought a moment of levity to the somber Émilie. He glanced at Christine, her head tilted back in laughter, her expression so carefree and open.

She is lovely like this, he thought, his heart softening. Unburdened by decorum, just… herself.

The meal concluded with a warm nice tea for digestion. Erik insisted on washing the dishes, Émilie dried them, and Christine carefully put them away. Émilie excused herself first, yawning as she climbed the stairs, her growing belly and the fatigue of pregnancy weighing her down more each day.

Erik lingered by the window, gazing at the night sky. The stars shone brilliantly, far more numerous than those visible from the city. It reminded him of the nights he had spent on the roof of the opera house, staring upward on clear evenings. Here, in the countryside, the sky seemed infinite. Christine had told him that in the deepest forests or far out at sea, the stars multiplied until the sky was bright as a river of light.

How wondrous that must be, he thought with awe, longing for the day when he might journey to such a place with her. She had traveled so far and seen so much, and Erik admired her for it.

Turning, he found Christine watching him, her gaze soft and intent.

“Oh—oh,” he stammered, startled. “Is there… something on my face?” His lips curled into a small, self-deprecating smile. “I cannot help it—you cook so well. Madame Greta gave you many fine recipes. Monsieur Pierre warned me I would not escape unscathed.” He added the jest lightly, hoping to mask his awkwardness.

Christine’s lips curled into a knowing smile. Tilting her head slightly, she clasped her hands behind her back, her posture drawing attention to her décolleté. Erik’s eyes flickered downward—unbidden and brief—before returning to her face. Embarrassed, he hoped she had not noticed.

“I am pleased you already know,” she replied cryptically, turning gracefully toward the stairs.

Erik stood rooted in place, bewildered. He watched her ascend, her movements deliberate, her expression carrying a glimmer of mischief. What is she planning? he wondered, his thoughts swirling. Christine was often an enigma to him.

Later, climbing the stairs slowly, as though to avoid some inevitable conclusion, Erik noticed the sound of running water. The bathroom door was closed. Realizing he, too, required a bath, he entered their bedroom. Opening the wardrobe, he retrieved a freshly laundered pair of pajamas. He paused, marveling at the neat folds. He had neither washed nor pressed them, nor even placed them here.

It was still strange to him—this notion of being cared for so diligently. A soft smile spread across his face as he held the fabric to his masked cheek.

“Thank you, God,” he murmured against the cloth. “Thank you. Thank you.”

Erik felt loved. It was a sensation he had never known, yet it enveloped him daily. He felt loved when his wife prepared his favorite meals. Loved when she cleaned his mask or set out his slippers at the foot of the bed. Loved when she tucked small notes into his sheet music, each one adorned with her whimsical sketches of hearts.

He cherished them all, keeping them in a small box to reread in private, his cheeks burning at her silly jests and affectionate doodles. He even felt loved when she scolded him—whether for failing to finish his meat, for tracking mud into the sitting room, or any of the countless ways he tested her patience.

“Ugh,” he groaned softly, resting his forehead against the bedroom door, careful not to harm his precious face. Then why… why can I not simply allow her to love me and love her in return? The question pressed heavily on his mind, filling him with both yearning and hesitation.

Erik sat at the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped as he stared blankly ahead. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he murmured, “Father… I wish to speak with you.” The words barely left his mouth before they were swallowed by the stillness of the room.

Yet, he knew he could not. Prison visits were limited to once a month, and only one visitor was allowed at a time. How could he take that from Émilie, the poor woman carrying a child whose father languished behind bars? God, what should I do? Erik whispered, his voice tinged with anguish as he lowered his gaze to his bare feet.

He frowned at the sight. His toes were long, almost grotesque in his eyes, their tendons taut, with a light scattering of hair atop them. Erik thought of Christine’s feet—delicate and graceful, so unlike his own. He briefly considered shaving his toes.

The sound of the door opening startled him, and he leapt to his feet. Christine entered, her skin glowing faintly from the heat of her bath, her hair neatly pinned into a dry chignon. She wore her robe loosely tied at the waist, and her cheeks were flushed from the warm water.

She is breathtaking, Erik thought, swallowing hard as he struggled to compose himself.

She offered him a soft smile as she passed him. “Your turn. I only used the shower, so there’s plenty of water left if you wish to use the tub,” she said lightly, seating herself at her vanity. With practiced ease, she let down her hair, the golden-straw strands tumbling over her shoulders as she began to comb them.

Erik stood motionless, clutching his pajamas tightly against his chest. His gaze was drawn to her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were closed, her lips curved in a contented smile as she hummed a gentle melody. Her lashes, still damp from the bath, framed her serene expression. She was so lovely it hurt.

“T-thank you,” he managed to say before hurrying from the room.

In the hallway, Erik felt an unfamiliar unease. Christine had been smiling all day—not at him, but to herself, as if privy to a secret he could not fathom.

Entering the bathroom, he set down his pajamas and examined his face in the mirror. With a resigned sigh, he shaved the patchy stubble from his scarred skin, running his hand over the smoother surface afterward. “Much better,” he muttered, nodding faintly.

Then his eyes fell to his feet again. On impulse, he propped one foot on the edge of the basin and quickly shaved the hairs from his toes. Inspecting his work, he mumbled, “Hmm… not bad.”

He decided against using the tub and opted instead for the shower. The hot water enveloped him, soothing his tense muscles. The boiler had been a worthwhile expense, small as it was; it could only support this single bathroom, but one day he intended to construct a better system himself.

He washed his hair and hurried through his ablutions, conscious of leaving enough hot water for Christine—or even Émilie, he thought with a flicker of guilt. He often thought only of Christine. Christine… Her name was ever-present in his mind, from the moment he awoke until the final thoughts before sleep claimed him.

He leaned his head against the cool tile, letting the water stream over him. Why must love be like this? He had read so much about the concept, imagined it as a balm for a wounded heart. Yet, it was a torment—a constant fear of failure, of her withdrawing her love.

“Do not start this again, Erik!” he hissed aloud. He slapped his face, trying to snap himself out of his spiraling thoughts. “Focus,” he muttered, smacking both cheeks to summon resolve. For a fleeting moment, he felt a burst of energy, but it quickly faded. His shoulders slumped once more as he leaned against the wall.

“Why… why was I born so hideous?” he murmured bitterly. “It is not fair…”

Drying himself, Erik ran a comb through his damp hair and began his nightly routine. The cream he applied to his scarred skin was painstakingly formulated to strengthen the fragile tissue, and he used it diligently. As his fingers worked it into the intricate grooves of his face, he sighed.

How can I believe she loves me when I must see this wretched face each day? Once, he had avoided mirrors for weeks, sometimes months, sparing himself the shock of his own reflection. Now, the sight was unavoidable, and the doubt it sowed festered.

But then, a voice in his mind argued back. She does love you, you fool. She married you. She cares for you. She even kisses you—on the lips! He flushed, his mind awash with memories of her affection. You share the same bed every night. You are her husband. You must… consummate this marriage!

His fist struck his own head lightly, a gesture his father had once used to snap him out of foolishness. Yet, it did not carry the same weight. Erik sighed again, feeling the futility of his self-scolding.

As he pulled on his pajamas, his frustration mounted. Thoughts of Christine stirred an involuntary reaction in his body, one that filled him with equal parts shame and yearning. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to ignore it, and busied himself at the vanity, preparing his prosthetic mask for the night.

The cream cooled his skin, and he applied it with precision. Yet, as he caught his reflection, a wave of insecurity washed over him. If she truly wished for this marriage to be consummated, she would have sought me out, would she not? he wondered, his doubts creeping in once more.

But then, a memory surfaced, vivid and undeniable: their first night in their new home as husband and wife. Christine had worn a white chemise, her hair loose, her expression soft with invitation. She had been waiting for him in their bed. And what had he done?

He had extinguished the candle and stammered a hasty goodnight, retreating like a coward.

“Idiot,” he muttered bitterly to himself.

“Ugh!” Erik tugged at his hair, his fingers twisting into the dark, damp strands. “I know! I know! But… but I don’t have the courage! What if I hurt her? What if… what if she realizes this was a mistake?” He dropped his hands to his lap, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She could still annul the marriage… leave me… go to the Viscount. He’d take her back. Of course, he would.”

His lips curled in a snarl. “That perfect fairy-tale prince. He’d probably accept her even if she were pregnant with another man’s child, give it his name, and raise it as his own.” Erik’s fists clenched as envy and bitterness surged within him. His teeth ground together.

A soft knock knock knock at the bathroom door startled him. His head jerked toward the sound.

“Erik, darling?” Christine’s gentle voice carried through the door. “Are you all right? Are you feeling unwell? I told you to eat slowly... Shall I make you some tea?”

Erik flushed with shame. “W-what? No! No, I’m fine. I… Wait!” He grabbed his mask hastily, fumbling it into place, and snatched up his pajama top, hurriedly slipping his arms into the sleeves but leaving the buttons undone. He opened the door awkwardly, his damp hair clinging to his forehead.

“I wasn’t feeling sick,” he stammered, trying to find his footing. “I just… I took a bath, and then I was putting on my night cream, and…” His gaze fell to his freshly shaven feet, inspiration striking. “Look! I shaved my feet.”

Christine blinked, her eyes traveling slowly from his face down to his feet. She covered her mouth with her hand, barely concealing a laugh. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“Why?” Erik echoed, flustered. “Well, because… it seemed wrong not to! I shave my face, so why not my feet? Yours don’t have hair,” he added as if it were the most logical thing in the world. He pushed past her, escaping toward the bedroom.

He could hear her soft, stifled laughter trailing behind him as she followed. Erik’s fists tightened in shame and frustration. Why couldn’t he act like a normal man? Why was everything so unbearably awkward?

In the bedroom, he hurried to his side of the bed and slipped beneath the covers, pulling them up to his chin. The familiar routine brought some comfort, though his body remained tense. He heard Christine enter and close the door behind her, the click of the lock oddly final. It no longer made him anxious—he’d grown used to it. “A woman’s habit,” she had explained once.

But tonight, she was quieter than usual. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she moved around the room. She drew the heavy curtains, blocking out the pale moonlight. Only the flickering glow of her bedside candle illuminated the space now, its warm light casting soft shadows across her figure.

Erik felt his pulse quicken when she began to untie her robe. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to look—but his resolve crumbled almost instantly. He opened his eyes just enough to see her out of the corner of his vision.

Her shoulders were pale and softly rounded, the straps of her nightgown slipping delicately into place. The fabric clung to her form, and though it was modest, Erik could see the faint outline of her curves in the dim light. His throat went dry, and he pulled the covers higher, his body burning beneath the layers. Calm down. This is every night. There’s nothing new here, he told himself, though his heart raced treacherously.

Christine stood by the bed, glancing down at her husband. He looked as though he were bracing for battle, the covers tucked so tightly around his form that she almost laughed aloud. But she felt a flush of her own, her face heating with nervous anticipation. She had spent all week gathering her courage, bolstered by Émilie’s advice.

“It seems to run in the family,” Émilie had said with a knowing smile over their shared tea. “Gerard was the same way. Shy as a lamb. You’ll need to take the initiative. Don’t let him escape,” she added with a wink, making them both dissolve into laughter.

The memory gave Christine strength, even as her hands trembled slightly. This is my marriage. This is my husband. I love him. I want to make him happy.

Taking a steadying breath, she stepped closer to Erik’s side of the bed. “Erik, darling,” she began softly, “could you sit up for a moment? I’d like to talk to you.”

Erik stiffened under the covers. “T-talk? But it’s late! Surely, we can save it for tomorrow?” His voice wavered with poorly masked nervousness.

Her smile faltered, but she pressed on. “Please, Erik. Just for a moment? Sit up?” Her tone was gentle but firm.

Erik hesitated, his mind racing. Why does she want to talk now? Is something wrong? His instinct was to retreat, to avoid the confrontation. But Christine’s quiet persistence wore down his resistance. Reluctantly, he sat up, the covers falling to his lap.

Christine’s expression softened as she saw the nervous tension in his posture, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. She reached out and placed a hand lightly over his. “Thank you,” she said simply.

He avoided her gaze, staring instead at their joined hands. Her touch was warm, her fingers delicate. Erik’s mind swirled with questions, doubts, and a growing dread.

“What… what is it you want to talk about?” he asked hesitantly, bracing himself for whatever she might say.

Erik felt a knot tighten in his chest as he slowly sank onto the bed, his long legs hanging over the edge, his feet brushing the soft carpet beneath. His hands folded in his lap, his head bowed, and he could already guess what the conversation would be. Was it now? Had she finally realized that this marriage was a mistake?

He could almost feel her presence beside him as her fingers gently touched his cheek, coaxing him to lift his gaze. Reluctantly, he met her eyes—his expression a mixture of sorrow and uncertainty—when she leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. A wave of relief washed over him, softening his rigid posture.

“The doctor said you shouldn’t sleep with your mask,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ugh. Erik’s shoulders sagged in resignation, and he grasped the prosthetic with both hands, hiding his face once more.

Christine moved closer, standing between his legs, pulling him into a tender embrace. “I know… I know you don’t like me seeing your face, Erik. But now we’re married, this is going to happen. And I don’t ask you to do it as a proof of love or selfishness. I’m just worried that you’ll hurt yourself.” She paused, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “You’ve been sleeping like a corpse, face up, hands together over your chest. At first, I thought it was amusing, but it’s been months, Erik. Did the silk mask I made for you turn out that badly?”

“Ugh,” Erik muttered, feeling a pang of discomfort. But despite his embarrassment, he allowed himself to accept her embrace. He gestured to the headboard. Christine moved to the drawer, retrieving the delicate silk mask she had sewn for him—white and designed for sleep with his face covered, as advised by the doctor after Christine had written a concerned letter about his nightly use of the prosthesis.

“I look like a masked bandit,” Erik said, his voice laden with frustration. “And besides… this one doesn’t have a nose. I look like a flat board.” His tone was half jest, yet the seriousness of his words weighed heavily between them.

“But Erik, you don’t have a nose,” Christine replied gently. “Even if I made one for you, how would you breathe? You didn’t even let me see how it looks on you. Please, let me see.”

“Christine…” Erik protested weakly, but despite his hesitation, he obeyed, meeting her gaze with a mix of apprehension and trust. Christine sighed softly, turning her face away slightly to avoid looking directly at him as he removed his prosthesis. Reluctantly, he placed it on the bed and slipped the silk mask over his face, securing it behind his head. He adjusted the openings for his eyes and mouth, a V-shaped cut in the fabric to allow for breathing. The cool fabric was undeniably soothing, though it left him with no visible face, a constant reminder of his isolation.

“There,” he said softly, his voice muffled slightly by the mask. He glanced at Christine, who smiled gently in response.

“It looks very good!” she said, her smile radiant. She ran her fingers through his hair, making him close his eyes, savoring the simple touch. He felt his chest tighten in a wave of emotion, as if her touch could heal the wounds he bore beneath the mask. Christine adjusted the silk behind his head.

“I wasn’t sure whether to do it this way, or leave a bit of fabric for you to tie it yourself. But I thought the knot might be uncomfortable while you’re sleeping. How does it feel?”

"Hmm..." Erik opened his eyes, placing his hands over hers as they rested upon his gaunt cheeks. The fine silk shielded him from her gaze, protecting him from being seen. "I feel faceless. How could you—" He hesitated, unable to bring himself to say the words. "How could you stay with a faceless man?"

Christine lovingly caressed his hair, observing his deep insecurity. Would he ever believe in her love for him? She could not fault him for his doubt; she understood all too well how it felt to be unworthy of love. They had discussed this many times before, but today, she would not rely on words. She would show him, through her actions.

She slowly released him from her embrace, stepping back just enough to allow Erik to look at her. His confusion was evident, his gaze pleading, unwilling to see her distance himself from him. She took a small step backward, the distance between them growing, and her knees now resting on the edge of the bed between his legs.

She placed the hard prosthetic mask on the headboard, her eyes never leaving Erik's, and he, too, did not dare avert his gaze.

"Tonight, it must be with the silk mask," she thought to herself. This, she realized, was the mistake she had made: insisting so strongly that he remove it at night. For now, she would have to be content with this. Perhaps, with time, he would… eventually remove the mask himself, she thought, as she gently slid a strap of her nightgown down.

Erik gasped, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide in shock. "What… what are you doing…?"

She could not see his face, but she could see the vulnerability in his eyes—the raw honesty and fear now reflected there. "It is all right," she whispered, her voice low and soothing, as she removed the strap from her other shoulder and let the nightgown fall to the floor in a delicate heap.

Chapter Text

She could not see his face, but she could see the vulnerability in his eyes—the raw honesty and fear now reflected there. "It is all right," she whispered, her voice low and soothing, as she removed the strap from her other shoulder and let the nightgown fall to the floor in a delicate heap.

The dim light of the room was sufficient to cause Erik’s pupils to dilate, but now they were as wide as those of a contented cat. His mouth hung open as he gazed upon his wife’s naked form—this, the first time he had ever seen her thus.

Shocked, he did not realize he was staring at her body. His eyes lingered on the curve of her breasts, which seemed to beckon him. He swallowed the saliva that had gathered in his mouth, his gaze trailing down to her abdomen, where a small navel rested, adorned with a faint beauty mark to the side. Was it strange to find such a mark appealing? His eyes continued their descent, past her soft curls, to where her womanhood was hidden beneath. He swallowed again, the dry sensation a stark contrast to the overwhelming sense of injustice he felt—she was so beautiful, so perfect, and here he was, a distorted mannequin with long, hairy legs.

He whimpered, his shoulders tensing as she began to rotate slowly, presenting her glory to him in its entirety. Her thighs were thick, and on the left, a long scar marked the skin. What had happened there? He placed his hands over his face, now flushed with heat, his gaze inadvertently drawn to her back. Her perfect buttocks were revealed as she pulled her hair forward, exposing her full, rounded back, with a valley dividing her scapulae.

"Oh, God," he whispered softly to himself, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. She gazed over her shoulder, her face flushed, even her ears pink.

"Do I please you?" she asked.

He wanted to respond, but all he could manage was a strangled whimper. He cursed himself internally for his awkwardness. She stepped closer, her breasts nearly brushing against his chest as he instinctively recoiled. She gently took his hands, which had been covering his face, and placed them upon her breasts. Her hands trembled, and he could feel the perspiration on his palms, but his knees shook with anticipation.

"Touch me," she whispered, leaning closer, her eyes fixed on his, her lips hovering just above his. "Please, Erik," she implored before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

Erik trembled violently, his mind racing. "Oh God, oh God," he thought, as his hands awkwardly moved to explore her form, pressing gently, then releasing, only to slide over her skin, following the contours until they reached her breasts. He pulled his hand back slightly, pressing more firmly this time, his body responding involuntarily, as he moaned softly when Christine kissed his ear.

"Does it feel good?" she whispered, her voice gentle, and Erik shivered almost painfully.

"Oh, heavens, Christine… it is too much, I will surely die," he gasped, his breath heavy and ragged.

"It is all right, I shall care for you, mon ange," she soothed, her voice tender. "Lie down." She commanded softly in his ear, and he could only obey, groaning as he released her and slowly reclined onto the bed. His body was stiff with nervousness—had he become so distant from the bed, or was he simply moving far too slowly? Before his internal debate could reach any conclusion, he finally lay back, his legs dangling over the side, his arms placed at his sides as he tried to steady his breathing, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling of their bedroom— their bedroom. The bedroom of a husband and wife. His throat tightened as he felt the weight of Christine’s knees on the mattress, drawing nearer.

Christine noticed how the front of Erik's pajama trousers was now raised, forming a tent. Any doubts she had about whether he was still reluctant disappeared. Still shy about being fully exposed, she looked down at her husband, who seemed to have forgotten to blink.

"I will open your pajamas now, is that all right?" Christine whispered, her voice uncertain. He could only nod slowly in response, his eyes tracing the line of her body, his lips barely parting. She carefully undid the buttons of his pajama top, revealing his pale chest, with a hint of hair in the center. She slid her hand down his skin until it reached his navel, where a trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants.

"Hmm..." Erik moaned quietly, pressing his lips together, trying not to let the overwhelming sensation of her touch escape him. His chest rose and fell rapidly as his trembling hands began to explore the thighs that straddled him on the bed. They were soft and covered in a fine layer of fuzz, resembling warm peaches. His thoughts raced as he struggled to maintain control. His cock twitched painfully in his pants, but he was too cowardly to act on the desires running through his mind— imaginary desires he would surely feel ashamed of later.

His hands moved up to her waist, gripping her tightly, and she smiled. "See? It was good that I made you ate more," she teased, though her words were kind. Erik blushed, aware that his ribs were no longer so pronounced, but still unsure whether he was truly beautiful to her. He longed to ask, to know for sure, but as her face drew near, he shut his eyes in anticipation of a kiss. Instead, her lips found his chest.

He gasped as she trailed kisses along his collarbone. His hand gripped her waist, and his hips bucked involuntarily. She slowly sat on his belly, pressing her breasts to his chest, kissing his neck, which arched back to allow her easier access.

"Oh God, mercy," he whispered, feeling the fire of her kisses on his skin. He was on the brink of losing control, like the night in the Château—an animal, a beast without restraint.

Do not dare! Do not move, Erik Carrière! Damn you, do not move! Erik screamed in his head, but he bit his lip to stifle the sound of the terrible pleasure coursing through him as his naked wife filled him with kisses and caresses.

He moaned, his body bucking against her skin, the thoughts swirling in his mind.

Christine became frustrated, believing that this would be enough for him to understand what was expected. But he remained stiff beneath her, as unyielding as a statue. With a soft sigh, she pulled away, much to Erik's disappointment, as he longed for the warmth of her body upon his. She repositioned herself on the bed, kneeling closer to his chest, abandoning his throbbing member, which was now pushing against the waistband of his trousers. Yet, her womanhood was now so near that he could not help but stare. It was so much more elegant, so much more beautiful than he could ever be.

He thought anxiously, but his thoughts were interrupted as her hand guided him to touch her there.

He snapped, his gaze distant, a heavy silence between them now. "God," he murmured, his thoughts scattering as he beheld her—her exquisite form before him, her face, her hair like a cascade of fragrant chestnut. What was this? What should he do? He asked himself, finally finding his voice, though it trembled.

"I... I do not know... Just touch me," Christine whispered, her face turned away, unable to meet his gaze. She was on the edge of her courage, afraid to push beyond it.

Breathing heavily with excitement, he let his trembling fingers glide through her curls, his thumb daring to part the delicate folds of her intimacy. A gasp escaped his lips as his gaze fell upon the flushed hue within. His other hand, equally unsteady, joined the first, his second thumb aiding in revealing more of her to his awestruck eyes.

"Stop now, Erik. You risk erring gravely and losing everything," a voice whispered within the depths of his conscience. Yet, his hands, governed by instinct rather than reason, refused to obey. He observed his actions as though he were a mere spectator at the opera, unable to intervene.

Awkwardly, he allowed his thumb to caress the tender folds within, testing the texture with cautious strokes. It was warm—soft and glistening. His mouth filled with the anticipation of forbidden indulgence, his thumb moving gently yet insistently along her.

"So beautiful..." he murmured, unaware the words had escaped him, his voice reverent as if he were gazing upon an ethereal vision. He was entranced, hypnotized by the delicate curves he touched and the marvel of her response beneath his touch.

Her hips shifted abruptly, her body arching instinctively. Erik’s lips parted as he froze, his wide eyes drinking in her visage. She was aglow, her flushed cheeks radiant, her brow adorned with a sheen of sweat glistening like morning dew. She looked like a creature of enchantment—a fairy born of moonlight and mist.

"Did I do this? he thought desperately, his mind ablaze with questions. Was this because of me? I must know—I must know. "

Erik paused momentarily, his hand stilling as though the weight of his thoughts anchored him. Yet, his resolve faltered as his palm slid downward, nestling between her trembling thighs. His thumb pressed upward, his fingers brushing against the growing dampness there.

At that moment, his index finger was enveloped in a warmth that made his breath hitch. She arched her head back, her body yielding to his tentative exploration.

"Oh..." he exhaled, repeating the motion with bolder intent. His hand, now dividing her softness, the length of his index pressed with gentle insistence. Her movements became fluid, synchronized with his touch. His palm open simply going in and out between her legs.

A low moan escaped his lips, a sound of pure exultation as he realized he was the source of her response. "Am I doing this correctly?" he ventured, his voice scarcely above a whisper.

Christine offered no words, her shyness rendering her silent. Instead, her body answered, moving in time with his ministrations.

"My God, Christine..." he murmured, reverently, his voice trembling with awe and yearning. He longed to do more—needed to, though he scarcely understood the boundaries of his actions. Is this what they call bringing pleasure to a woman?

The space between them felt impossibly small, every movement charged with unspoken emotion. Turning his wrist carefully, he adjusted his fingers, his middle one pressing deeper into the delicate folds now damp with her essence.

The intoxicating scent, reminiscent of the sea, filled his senses, dulling all rational thought. For the first time, the voices within him fell silent, drowned by the overwhelming reality of her presence and the sheer wonder of what he had created in her.

He gasped along with her as the tip of his middle finger slipped within her. For a moment, both remained frozen, time suspended, until he felt her hand upon his, her delicate fingers trembling as she nodded shyly. It was all the permission he required. Slowly, with painstaking care, he pressed his finger further inside her, until it was fully enveloped.

"Oh... I wish to see. Please, Christine," he whispered breathlessly, his voice heavy with reverence and desire. His finger moved within her, tentative at first, withdrawing and returning in slow, deliberate motions. She merely nodded again, her body arching slightly, adjusting herself to grant him better access. Her hips tilted upward, allowing him to angle her perfectly, guiding his hand as he marveled at the way her folds yielded to his touch.

He was enraptured by the sight of his fingers disappearing within her, his breath hitching with every motion. The soft sounds she made—those gentle, vulnerable whimpers—undid him completely. A dark whisper echoed in his mind, insidious and consuming: "More. Make her melt. Unmake her, only to rebuild her again."

Unable to resist, he pressed a second finger inside her, her body stretching to accommodate him.

"Oh, Erik!" she cried out, her voice trembling as her hips moved against his hand, her body instinctively seeking more.

"Show me. Show me more, Christine," he hissed, his voice low and fervent as his hand began to move with greater urgency. Her lips parted, her breath catching as her body shivered beneath his touch.

But then her frame tensed, and fear gripped him. His fingers stilled, withdrawing in alarm. Had he hurt her? Her expression, however, was one of frustration rather than pain.

"No... please, do not stop," she implored, her voice trembling with need.

A sharp, resounding crack echoed in his ears, like the snapping of a taut string. The sound seemed to rend through his very soul. Before rational thought could intervene, his trembling hands reached for the mask that had concealed his monstrous visage for so long. He pulled it away in one swift motion, baring the face he had hidden from the world.

Without hesitation, his hands seized her soft hips, drawing her closer to him. His lips descended, pressing reverently against the core of her being.

"Erik—stop," she gasped, her voice thick with shame and confusion as she weakly attempted to push him away. Yet his hands held firm, his desperation drowning out all else.

"Please, Christine... please! mercy! I beg you!" he murmured, his words trembling with need as he kissed her folds clumsily, almost reverently.

Christine's hands flew to her face, covering it in embarrassment as her thighs trembled violently. She tried to still herself, waiting in anxious silence while the indecent sounds of his lips against her filled the air.

"Enough… enough," she tried to speak, her voice tight with the strain of their shared intimacy. Yet her words faltered, a gasp escaping her lips as she felt something unbearably warm against her. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but his hands held her firmly in place.

A long, primal stroke of his tongue over her folds drew a trembling moan from her. His head moved rhythmically, his mouth widening to explore her with a fervent hunger that seemed almost unearthly. The sensations overwhelmed her, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed her weight to settle entirely upon him. Beneath her, she felt him groan deeply, the sound reverberating through her thighs.

"Oh, merciful God… thank you," he murmured reverently, his voice muffled against her skin as his face pressed against her most intimate place. His tongue delved deeper, sending shivers of forbidden pleasure coursing through her body.

"Oh, Erik, please!" Christine whimpered, her hands grasping at his hair as she tried to rise from his relentless embrace. Yet he held her firmly, refusing to relent.

Her breaths came faster, her lips bitten to stifle her cries as an unfamiliar, overwhelming sensation began to build within her. "Oh... I am going to die," she whispered to herself, trembling as her body tensed. A wave of warmth surged through her, a crescendo of pleasure that broke over her like a storm.

"Oh! Oh! Oh, my stars! Oh!" she cried out, her body shuddering against him. When the storm subsided, she blinked, dazed, her fingers still tangled in his hair. Only then did she notice the pressure of her grip, pulling his head insistently against her core.

Relaxing at last, she released him, attempting to gather her composure. Her eyes traveled downward, her breath catching as she realized he was trembling—not just his hands but his entire frame. Following the tremor's source, her gaze fell to his lap, where his hand was wrapped around himself, stroking with frantic desperation.

Christine gasped and turned her head away in mortification, her cheeks aflame with shame. She attempted to lift herself from him, her voice quivering. "Please, Erik… you must breathe."

Her attempt to rise was met with resistance as he clung to her, a symphony of moans spilling from him, his face buried between her thighs.

"Erik!" she called again, this time with more force. Summoning her strength, she finally managed to free herself, rising shakily and turning to face him. In the dim light, she saw his unveiled face, its ghastly contours glistening with dampness. The sight struck her, but she forced herself to focus.

He bared his teeth, a low growl emanating from him as he propped himself up on his elbows. For the first time, he seemed to halt his actions, to Christine’s immense relief.

"I… I shall fetch a cloth for you to clean… to clean your face…," she stammered, her voice timid as she sought an escape. Rising from him, she turned to leave, but the moment she did, he lunged forward, pinning her beneath him once more.

"Oh, Erik?" she asked anxiously, but he seemed not to hear her. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, which still glistened faintly with her essence, before he leaned forward to claim her lips in a fervent kiss. Christine’s face flushed a deeper shade of red, her heart racing at the intimacy of his actions. She had worked so hard to convince him to consummate their union that she dared not risk asking him to stop now.

Abruptly, he broke their kiss with an audible sound and began pressing his lips against the delicate curve of her neck. His large hands moved to her chest, cupping her breasts reverently as his mouth traveled lower, lavishing kisses upon her skin.

"Oh, Christine! Christine! My love! I love you, I love you, I love you," he murmured, his voice trembling with emotion as he joined her breasts together with his hands and buried his face between her breasts, rubbing his cheek against her flesh as though seeking solace. "Thank you… thank you!"

A lifetime with that damned mask over his cursed face. Now there were finally much better things covering his face. Glorious things!

Christine bit her lip, overwhelmed by the intensity of his adoration. It was all so new to her, and she found herself both flustered and unsure. Gently, she ran her fingers through his hair in a hesitant gesture of comfort as he fondled her chest with growing fervor.

She gasped when his lips closed around her right breast, the sensation sharp and electrifying. He suckled with an almost desperate hunger, as though feeding on her very essence. His hips bucked unconsciously, and she felt the undeniable presence of his arousal against the bare skin of her thighs. He was shamelessly taking all she offered, utterly consumed by the moment.

With a wet sound, he released her right breast, only to shift to the left, his mouth latching on with equal intensity while his hand continued to knead the other. His attentions were unrelenting, each movement drawing new sensations from her that she had not anticipated.

"This is too much," She didn't expect all of this. Not at all. Just though he was going up her, put it inside move it a bit and finish. Like cats and dogs do.  She thought, her neck arching back as her fingers clutched the sheets tightly. She had expected something far simpler, a brief and perfunctory act. "He was not stoping!"   she mused, her mind racing. 

"Please, Erik… that’s not fair," she whispered faintly, the words meant more for herself than for him.

He released her with another poping sound, his lips parting from her now reddened and swollen breasts. He gazed at them with an almost reverent expression, licking his lips as his eyes darted around the room. Finding what he sought, he reached for his silk mask and slipped it back over his face.

"Much better," he murmured, his voice steadier now, as though the mask afforded him a newfound confidence. Rising to his knees before her, his trembling hands slid down her body, his touch light yet deliberate as he reached her thighs. Slowly, he parted her legs, his movements almost reverent as he positioned himself between them.

Christine covered her face with her hands, her shame burning hot within her, yet she could not help but peek through her fingers. Her breath caught as her gaze fell upon him—his manhood freed from the confines of his trousers, standing proud and elegant, its tip flushed an angry red and glistening with evidence of his arousal.

He let out a soft, shuddering breath as his eyes roamed her body, his gaze lingering on her most intimate place. With his thumbs, he gently parted her folds once more, his expression a mixture of awe and longing. He whimpered softly, unable to contain his reaction.

"This is so embarrassing! Stop staring," she whimpered, her legs instinctively closing in reflex.

Erik looked at her, his expression almost wounded, as though her reaction had struck him to the core. His lips parted as though to speak, but instead, he reached out with trembling hands to part her legs once again, his touch as gentle as it was insistent.

"Oh, my Christine," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "if you only knew… if you could feel what I feel. I am so… immeasurably… blessed… to behold you… and your… beautiful… beautiful… precious… rose like cunt."

His breath caught as his gaze fell to her again, his words trailing off into a reverent silence as he became utterly lost in the sight before him.

Ignorant of how her reaction only deepened her embarrassment, Christine felt her cheeks burn. The words he had spoken—so daring, so risqué—echoed in her mind. She had never heard him utter such things before and hadn't imagined he even knew such language. Frustrated, she covered her face with her hands, bracing herself for what she knew would inevitably come.

"Yes…Don't look, Christine. It will be all right," he murmured, his voice shadowed with an unfamiliar darkness. This was not her sweet Erik; this tone, this presence, was foreign. Yet, as her tightly shut eyes waited for the moment to pass, nothing happened. No sudden movement, no overwhelming act—just the sound of Erik's labored breaths and the faint creak of the mattress beneath them.

Curiosity overcame her, and she dared to peek through her fingers. What she saw made her breath catch. There he was again, doing that . His hand moved slowly over himself, stroking his manhood with measured intent, while the other gently spread her folds. His gaze was riveted upon her, raw and consuming.

Her own gaze betrayed her, wandering over his form. His muscles, taut and defined, glistened faintly in the dim light. His chest heaved, his disheveled hair fell in unruly yet elegant strands over his faceless white mask. The sight of him—so unabashedly vulnerable, so unrestrained—sent a forbidden heat coursing through her. He was a spectacle she found impossible to resist.

Then, emboldened by the sudden rise of a fire she could not explain, she lifted her leg, pressing her heel against his shoulder. The act left her utterly exposed, and the sound he made—a guttural groan—only heightened her daring.

He leaned closer, dangerously near her entrance, but as if overtaken by reverence, he turned his face to kiss her foot, pressing tender lips to her skin. His head rested against her ankle, his movements below growing erratic. The rhythm of his stroking quickened, almost frantic, startling Christine for the violence he was using.

"Wait," she gasped, sitting upright.

Frustrated, Erik stilled, his hands moving instinctively to cover himself. The sudden vulnerability etched on his face, a mix of shame and irritation, was unlike anything she had seen.

"What?!" he spat, his tone sharp with impatience. She had provoked him, driven him to this edge. Was this some form of punishment? Some cruel game? He couldn’t decide if he adored or despised her for it.

"No... no, it’s not like that you need to put it.. put it here…" she stammered, her voice trembling. Her face burned as she tried to summon the courage to speak plainly, but the words failed her. Instead, she shifted closer to him, her hand hesitantly covering his trembling ones.

He froze, his gaze piercing hers, suspicion flickering in his eyes. She could see it—the hesitation, the silent plea for reassurance.

"I won’t look," she whispered, her voice as soft as a prayer. Keeping it a secret that she had already seen his manhood and that his shyness was unfounded.

Holding his gaze, refusing to break the connection, she guided him. Her touch was delicate yet firm, a silent promise that she would not retreat. Erik’s hands quivered as he surrendered to her, reluctantly let her touch him seeing that she wasn't looking at his cock. Afraid of what she would think of it.

Christine’s hands trembled as they traced the length of Erik’s long shaft. It was incredibly soft while also being hard, warm and she could feels what she he concluded that it was a high vein that was pulsating. His labored breaths, deep and uneven, betrayed the storm raging within him. “Oh, Christine…,” he groaned, his voice thick with restrained desire as his hips bucked instinctively under her touch. She saw his eyes roll shut, surrendering to the flood of sensations her fingers provoked.

She studied him for a moment, her heart pounding with uncertainty. For months, she had wondered if Erik truly understood the nature of intimacy or if his hesitation stemmed from ignorance, cloaked in the pride of a man too ashamed to admit his inexperience. Gathering her courage, Christine positioned herself, seeking the alignment of him on her entrance she instinctively knew would bring them together.

Yet, the task was more difficult than anticipated. She bit her lip in frustration, the intimate act seeming elusive. As she adjusted her movements, without really understanding what she did she was rubbing the tip of his cock on her wet softness. Erik gasped sharply several moments when a long guttural moan, that he clearly tried to hold down, escaped his lips. Suddenly, his body tensed, long white ropes of warm release spilled over her, even reaching her face.

Christine froze, startled, as Erik’s trembling form and his breath came in short, desperate bursts as he gradually relaxed, only to widen his eyes in horror at the scene before him. Without a word, he grabbed the hem of his nightshirt, his hands shaking violently.

“M-me… forgive me, ” he stammered, his voice cracking as he began wiping the evidence of his passion from her skin. “I ruined everything—everything! Forgive me. This was vile, wasn’t it? Please… do not despise me. I won’t— I’ll never do this again, I swear. Please…”

He rambled in a frantic whisper, his words a chaotic jumble as he cleaned her with trembling hands. Christine, still too shocked to react, finally placed her hand over his to still him.

“Erik,” she said softly. He looked up at her, his face a portrait of terror and confusion. “ Christine, I—” he began, but her fingers moved to his lips, silencing him. His wide, haunted eyes stared into hers as she removed his nightshirt away from her body.

“ Do you love me? ” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Erik’s expression shifted to one of profound offense, his lips trembling. “More than anything in this world,” he said earnestly. “I love you.”

“Then show me,” she replied timidly, her hand sliding back to his trembling form, still rigid. She met his gaze as she guided him, this time succeeding with his help. 

He hissed sharply, his body shaking as though torn between ecstasy and fear. “I… I can’t, What if I hurt you?” he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut in torment.

“It’s all right. Look at me,” she urged gently.

He shook his head vehemently, refusing to meet her gaze.

“Erik,” she said again, her tone tender yet firm. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, his eyes fluttered open, darting to her face. “You won’t hurt me,” she reassured him. “Make me yours.”

Her words seemed to strip away the last of his resistance. With a trembling hand, he drew her close and pressed his lips to hers. Slowly, their bodies joined, and he gasped against her mouth. Christine bit her lip, bracing against the sharp pang of pain, which quickly ebbed away.

Erik froze, his breath hitching, unable to move. Sensing his hesitation, Christine took the lead, rolling her hips with tentative movements. He groaned, his hands gripping her waist as though to steady himself. “It’s too much,” he rasped, tears pooling in his eyes.

“You’re doing beautifully,” she whispered, her voice soothing and encouraging.

As she moved, his restraint faltered. His hips surged upward, meeting her rhythm, each thrust a declaration of his surrender. She moaned softly, her voice a symphony of delight that spurred him on. When her small hands reached for his mask, he barely noticed, too lost in the overwhelming sensations coursing through him.

“Christine! Oh, Christine, this—this is your doing!” he groaned, his voice raw with emotion. His movements grew frantic, desperate, as if trying to merge their souls entirely.

Her lips brushed his ear, her breath warm and uneven . “It feels so good, Erik. Please… don’t stop, ” she murmured, her words igniting a fire within him.

His arms wrapped around her, hugging and  pulling her tightly to him as he thrusted deeper, his body seeking hers with an intensity that bordered on madness. The wet sound of ther encounter and the sensation of being held so hopelessly by his strong arms made her moa, simply being held in place and used to pleasure seemed so wrong to think but it was pure bliss at the moment. When she gasped, trembling with her release, Erik followed moments later, his cry muffled against her neck. His body convulsed as he poured the last of himself into her, leaving them both trembling and spent.

As the haze lifted, he held her close, her weight resting comfortably atop him. For the first time, he felt whole, as though the jagged pieces of his soul had finally aligned. “Thank you,” he whispered fervently, pressing a kiss to her neck. “Thank you, my God.”

Christine giggled softly, the sound like music to his ears. “That tickles,” she murmured, amused by his pious gratitude.

When she rolled off him to meet his gaze, she found him smiling shyly, yet his eyes held a hint of apprehension. He reached instinctively for his mask, which she had set aside. Christine handed it to him without hesitation, her expression kind.

“Better?” she asked, her voice laced with exhaustion but touched by affection.

He nodded, his voice hoarse. “Yes… forgive me.”

She leaned closer, brushing her fingers against his cheek. “There’s nothing to forgive, ” she said with a weary smile before allowing sleep to claim her.

Erik watched her in silence, his heart heavy with awe and trepidation.

Christine's soft voice pierced the stillness of the chamber. “It’s all right… Everyone carries their insecurities. You don’t have to prove anything to me, Erik. When you’re ready, remove the mask. When you need to wear it, wear it. But know this—I love you. Exactly as you are.”

She leaned in, her lips pressing gently against his. He returned the kiss, though a wave of guilt swept over him. How could he deserve such love? Was there any left in the world beyond what she was giving him? Surely not. He murmured, almost to himself, “No, Christine… It is I who love you. I love you.”

As he held her tightly, a curious thought flitted through his mind. Had he ever felt this content? God, he mused, he now understood why his father had sired children out of wedlock. Such joy was too profound to be denied. Perhaps he, too, would have many children—a large family, maybe even a choir. The ridiculousness of the notion made him chuckle.

“What is it?” Christine asked, her brow arching with curiosity. “What’s so funny? Tell me! I know you’ve thought of something.”

He grinned mischievously . “Ah, but earlier, you didn’t tell me your thoughts when you laughed. So now, I shall keep mine a secret!”

She feigned offense, grabbing a pillow and swatting him playfully. “Oh!” he cried out dramatically, pretending it hurt, before breaking into laughter. As the pillow dropped from his face, his breath hitched. Christine was slipping out of bed, her form illuminated by the soft glow of the candlelight. She bent to retrieve her nightgown, and he couldn’t help but stare, biting his lip. How long must I wait to see this again? he wondered, frustration stirring within him.

Christine dressed swiftly and crossed to the pitcher, pouring herself a glass of water. “Would you like some?” she asked, her voice light.

“Yes, please,” Erik replied, sitting up. He downed the entire glass in one gulp, prompting a soft giggle from her.

“More?”  She said alaredy filling his glass with some water.

“Ahem... Yes… Please.” His ears flushed red as she poured another. This time, he sipped slower, his gaze darting nervously around the room in search of his discarded shirt. The vulnerability of his bare chest unsettled him. Christine noticed and snatched it up before he could reach it.

“This can’t be worn tonight. I’ll wash it tomorrow,” she said matter-of-factly, placing it on a chair before extinguishing the candle. Returning to bed, she nestled beside him, her exhaustion evident.

“No… I— I will wash it. Please, Christine. Please...it is dirty.” His voice wavered with embarrassment. The memory of his earlier outburst, and all that had transpired, haunted him. He hid his face in his hands, mortified by everything—his words, his actions, the primal release he hadn’t controlled. Yet, the comforting darkness around them eased his shame.

His eyes adjusted slowly, and he felt her settle against him, her warmth pressing into his chest. Her touch, delicate yet deliberate, traced the contours of his torso, her fingers brushing through the sparse hair and circling his nipple. Erik exhaled deeply, a soft purr escaping his throat. For months, he had avoided this closeness. What a fool he’d been.

Relaxing under her caress, he allowed himself a fleeting thought. Why had he acted so animalistically earlier? Why had he licked her so fervently, like a beast savoring its mate? He touched his own swollen lips, struggling to reconcile his actions with his identity. Had he hurt her? he wondered anxiously. What if she hadn’t enjoyed it? But then again, what if she had…?

“Stop,” Christine murmured sleepily, her arms tightening around him.

“What? ” Erik whispered, startled. He glanced down, though in the dark, he could only make out the crown of her head resting against him.

“I know you are doing that thing... you do that when you gets too quiet. Stop overthinking things that aren’t real,” she murmured. “You’re here. You’re loved. This is our home. Our family. You just made love to your wife for the first time, Erik. And you did wonderful. And I’m not going anywhere.”

A long silence enveloped the dark, and Erik's breathing, slow and relaxed, made Christine believe that it had finally ended, that she could at last rest.

"Did I do wonderful?" Erik whispered into the stillness.

Christine felt the heat rise to her face, irritation and embarrassment mixing as she realized he had focused only on that. "Go to sleep, Erik..." she snapped, her voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and something deeper she couldn’t quite place.

His only reply was the faint shudder of his chest as he stifled a soft laugh. He pulled her closer, wrapping her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he could, as though he were trying to keep her in his embrace for eternity. Even though he dreamed of angels now, he knew he could never be as sweet as the angel of music he held in his arms. But if he could not avoid it, so be it. Closing his eyes, he finally stopped hearing that voice, that damn voice one that were always saying that he was not enough.