Bonus Scene A Burning Theater In Paris
Bonus Scene
A Burning Theater In Paris
Trigger warning: suicide ideation
Christine left with him.
She pressed the ring I gave her into my hand, her mournful eyes begging for my forgiveness, and she followed Raoul down the passage to freedom…
I wish I could say that I’m happy for Christine and the young viscount. But I hate them for the life they will have, and I hate them for leaving me here, and I hate myself for driving them to it.
It’s all crumbling now, falling down around me in the most literal sense. The place that has been my playground and my sanctuary for years is burning, as hot as the wretched anger that inflames my heart.
I could run. I know at least two other ways out of the cellars of the opera house. Neither route is certain, and neither leads to any kind of life I want to live.
Remaining here could bring one of two ends.
I could die, devoured by the flames or crushed by the collapsing walls.
Or perhaps the police will reach me first, drag me into the light, question me in ugly rooms, and parade my disfigured face before the high courts of Paris for the grim pleasure of the people.
None of those ends appeal to me. I do not wish to escape if I can’t have her. It is better to perish here, to feed myself wholly to the flames. It is a poetic end, one I deserve for the torment that I forced Christine and Raoul to endure.
Even as I pinned him to the water gate, threatened to choke out his life, and demanded Christine’s devotion, I could not help but admire Raoul’s defiance.
I’d thought him weak, the spoiled offspring of nobility, but he let me glimpse the fire within him when we fought in the graveyard.
Tonight he showed me that rebellious spirit again when he came to save Christine from my grasp.
I can see him now, his profile a breath from mine, water gleaming along the hard line of his jaw and slicking his white shirt to his chest. His lips were wet and soft, parted over his clenched teeth, and his eyes burned into mine.
In that moment, I understood why she wanted him.
But she wanted me, too. She did. When we sang together this evening, the very air vibrated with desire, with passion. Society dictates that she cannot have both Raoul and me, and even if she were willing to defy its customs, my pride and cruelty ruined every chance of that.
The fire has reached the edges of my lair. It licks at the farthest curtains, at the armchair, at the rug. I will go and lie down in its hellish embrace. It is better than existing in the inferno of my own head.
I take a step toward the greedy flames.
Thin fingers wrap around my wrist, and I glance down, startled to see Christine’s white face. There’s determination in the set of her mouth, a bright violence in her eyes.
“Come, Angel,” she says.
I lift my gaze to the passage. Raoul stands at the entrance, his forearm braced against the stone. There’s a soft heat in his gaze—mercy and something more.
“What are you waiting for, Ghost?” he says crisply. “Dépêche-toi.”
“He’s offering you sanctuary,” Christine explains. “I suggest you accept.” She coughs on the hazy, heated air, and for her sake, I don’t linger any longer. I’m not sure what sanctuary means in this case, but it can’t be worse than the other fates I envisioned for myself.
As we run down the stone tunnel, five words repeat over and over in my head.
They came back for me.
That truth transforms the burning pain of my heart into a new kind of heat, something warm and hopeful.
We emerge from the tunnel smoke scented and wheezing.
Raoul has lost his coat, his walking stick, his papers, and his money, but he has his rings and a certain aristocratic air that cannot be learned, only ingrained from birth.
Despite the disheveled state of our trio, he secures a cab for us easily.
Christine sits on the rear seat with me, while Raoul faces us. I don’t have my cloak or my mask. Without them, I feel naked and vulnerable, especially since Raoul won’t stop staring at me.
“What?” I snap at him.
His stare eases, and he gives me a wry half smile. “You’re so rude. No manners at all.”
“Forgive me if I wasn’t born to a life of silk sheets and silver spoons,” I growl. “Everything I ever possessed I had to take. Every item I cherished belonged to someone else and had to be stolen. That’s why—” I break off the sentence, my throat too tight to speak.
“That’s why you took me,” Christine says softly.
“Forgive me.” The words crack from my parched lips.
“I came back, didn’t I?” She lifts her hand and sweeps the black hair back from the disfigured side of my face. “What happened here? They look like burn scars.”
“I don’t know. I’ve looked like this ever since I can remember,” I reply. “As I told you, I do not recall any moments of kindness or love from my childhood, only disgust and rejection. I had to wear a mask—or a bag over my head—whenever my mother was around.”
“The cruelty of that,” Christine whispers. “I can’t imagine it.”
“Am I to be a pet for the two of you now?” A caustic bitterness tinges my words. “The object of your pity, kept behind walls and stared at occasionally when you want a bit of novelty in your lives?”
“I don’t pity you,” Raoul says bluntly. “Many people have horror in their past, and yet they choose to be good anyway. You suffered, but you made bad choices, and they led you here. What I want to know is, are you ready to follow a different path in the future?”
“Who are you to instruct me, pup?” I snarl.
Raoul leans forward with a grin more wicked than I’ve yet seen from him. “So your pride isn’t entirely gone, then. Your spirit is not yet broken. It’s incredible, really…the resilience of you.”
It feels like a compliment. I’m overwhelmed by it all—his smile, the heat in his eyes, the touch of Christine’s fingers, the soft push of her breast against my bicep.
“I propose an arrangement,” Raoul says. “The two of you will live with me. My ancestral home is solely mine, and there is no one to interfere if I choose to bring a friend or two within its walls. You will be safe, and you will have anything you want—supplies for music, for writing, for invention.”
“And in exchange for this generosity?”
Raoul’s tongue traces his lips, and he glances at Christine. She nods, her hand moving from my hair to my chest. My shirt, like Raoul’s, is still damp, and I feel the heat of her palm like a scorching sun through the fabric.
“There is no obligation,” Raoul says carefully.
“You could remain safely at my house for years and never see either of us, unless you wish to. But as Christine and I were leaving your lair, we both paused, as if our minds were synchronized, and we confessed a certain discomfort with leaving you to your fate.”
“I told Raoul that although I love him, I love you, too.” Christine presses her hand over my heart. “You frighten me, Angel, but I understand you. I want you.”
My breath catches, and my heart thunders beneath her palm. My eyes meet Raoul’s.
“She loves us both,” he says simply. “You and I have done nothing but fight over her, and I must admit that I’ve enjoyed our conflict.
It’s the most excitement I’ve had in a long time.
That swordplay in the graveyard—I’d like to do it again.
What do you say, Ghost? How would you feel about crossing our swords? ”
There’s no mistaking the seductive suggestion in his voice, the beautiful depravity in his eyes.
My cock was hard when I fought him in the graveyard. I thought it was simply the rush of battle, but perhaps it wasn’t. I’m certainly reacting now, both to Christine’s caresses and the lecherous suggestion in Raoul’s gaze.
“No obligation,” he says again. “You will be safe and cared for either way. But as far as Christine goes—you must learn to share or never see her at all.”
“And is she willing to share as well?” I ask, turning to her.
Christine’s cheeks are flushed rosy, her lips curved in a coy smile.
“I don’t have much experience with…certain things,” she says.
“But I think perhaps I could share and be shared. I propose an experiment—a test, if you will, to see if this could work.” She leans back against the cushioned seat of the cab. “Give each other a kiss.”
A growl of protest rumbles in my chest, and Raoul turns crimson.
“He won’t do it,” I say with a gruff, mocking laugh.
“Who says I won’t?” he exclaims, bristling.
“You’re such a stiff, proper, straitlaced lord, you could never—”
He lunges for me, grabbing the back of my neck and yanking me forward until our lips meet in a swift crush.
His mouth is as soft as it looks. His breath is tobacco scented, hints of whisky and honey. I open for him out of sheer surprise, and his tongue slips inside me, tentative and sweet.
I haven’t kissed anyone except Christine, though I’ve watched many couples take each other’s mouths in various ways. Perhaps kissing Raoul should feel awkward to me, but it seems like the most natural thing in the world.
My hands move up to clasp both sides of his face. I invade his mouth, my tongue swirling between his teeth. Jaws stretched wide, we empty hidden desires into each other, spilling sinful breaths into the sweet darkness of our throats.
My cock swells in my trousers. They were already tight, and the added pressure is both a delight and a torture.
Raoul’s mouth parts from mine with a gasp, and I hold his face a moment longer, examining his expression before I let him go.
He sits back, breathless and flushed, his eyes shining.
There’s a startled euphoria in his gaze, an understanding that I share—the conviction that he and I are indeed linked by something more than our mutual desire for Christine.
Silken fingers touch my face, and my darling muse angles my face toward hers. When I meet her eyes, I melt.