Unmasqued

He released her mouth but held her upper arm with a grip so tight that her fingers tingled, and with the other hand, he held the tip of the knife to her throat. Christine walked as he directed, but when she thought to turn toward the chamber she'd occupied, he steered her in a different direction.

"No, my dear. I have much more comfortable accommodations available for you now where the walls are thick and padded. It is in my private quarters."

Her stomach pitched and a wave of fear swept over her. He must have seen her wide eyes and panic-stricken look, for he smiled. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to know we won't be disturbed."

For a moment, Christine thought she would prefer the knife slitting her throat to the certainty of being locked away in the comte's private chambers, but then she remembered Raoul. He, despite the obsessive light in his eyes, at least meant her no harm. He wouldn't allow his brother to hurt her; he wanted to marry her.

Philippe wouldn't dare to keep her from him. He wouldn't dare hurt her. Much. Christine's stomach churned, but she swallowed back the nausea. And, if there was a chance that Erik was still alive, she would find out. She'd endure anything, make it through anything, if there was a chance to see him again.

But when Philippe opened the door to his chamber and thrust her in so hard she stumbled to her knees, Christine felt another wave of panic. She saw things that made her want to take the knife to her throat herself.

A row of ugly-looking whips, neatly arranged on the wall.

Three abnormal pieces of furniture: one in the shape of a Y, one X, and a board slanting from ceiling to floor-each with dangling cuffs.

A tall pole, studded with spikes, and decorated with two cuffs hanging far above her head.

A table with metal and wooden implements in long sleek shapes, pointed lethal ones, and round studded ones.

And a naked young woman chained to the wall, legs spread, mouth stuffed with a large white ball, and bulging eyes.

Christine couldn't breathe, and the room began to close in on her. She heard a low chuckle, then the clink of metal, and she let herself slide into black.

"I so hate to be the bearer of bad news, my dear brother," said Philippe as he stood in front of Erik. "But I don't believe it's fair to allow you to hold on to lost dreams. You see, the woman you love, the one you've risked everything for, has made a most pragmatic choice."

Erik said nothing; he reacted not at all. Not a hitch of breath, not a flicker of an eyelid. Most of all, he dared not lift his face to meet his brother's eyes, for fear the man would see the deep hatred there and cut him down right at the moment. He had to prevent that. As long as he lived, there was the hope of escape and finding Christine.

"She's come to her senses and decided that her fortune would be better served by aligning it with the vicomte instead of the bastard Chagny brother. They ran away to marry early this morning. So, you see… there is really no reason for you to hold out any further hope. You can crawl back into your dark dungeon and wallow there for eternity. Oh! But forgive me… You already are in a dark dungeon, aren't you?"

He laughed and Erik gritted his teeth, felt them grind dully near the edge of his jaw. His arms were numb from the tight metal around his wrists, attached sturdily to the stone wall above his head. His legs had been treated in the same fashion, manacled near the floor so that he had to alternately stand on his toes to relieve his arms or hang by his wrists to rest his feet. His mask was long gone and the fact that his face was naked only increased his sense of vulnerability.

He'd been this way since late last night, not long after Maude left the small cottage. Perhaps a quarter of an hour after her departure-which gave him the hope that she'd gotten safely back to the chateau unseen-the door burst open and five burly men stormed in, attacking with fists and feet and clubs.

Even then, Erik would have escaped but for a sixth man waiting outside the window he tumbled through, hands grabbing for his hair, ready with a large stick to slam across his shoulders with a force that sent him driving into the ground. Moments later, in a whirl of blows and kicks, he succumbed to the pain and the world went black.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself here, chained in the damp cold cellar of Chateau de Chagny. He recognized it immediately; his initials had long ago been carved into the stone, remnants of days spent here when he angered his father or brothers.

A bitter thought, that he'd come so far only to return to this hell.

This was the first he'd seen of Philippe, although he'd been brought food and water-in an effort, he supposed, to keep him strong for the pain that was sure to come.