RoseBlood(88)

His jaw clenches tight. An incongruous blend of unease, guilt, and loyalty tinges his aura—blue, dusted with brown and gray. “I’ve said all I can for now. You need to find out how your ancestors got the instrument, and how it found its way back to the Phantom. Then . . . then I’ll know how to answer that question.”

My throat lumps. “But you’re the one with the violin. You’ve been playing it all these years. Not the Phantom.”

Etalon stares at his hands fisted in the cloak, retreating not only behind his mask, but within himself. “He gave it to me as a gift. Someone had to return it to him first.”

Grandma. I clutch my chest. A bleak darkness shadows my heart—memories of Grandma Liliana trying to kill me now intertwined with my aunt’s efforts to scare me. Is there no one in my family, other than Mom, who I can trust?

Etalon raises to his knees, prying my fingers from their death grip on my sweater. He takes my hand in both of his, sheltering it. “It will be all right,” he promises. “Speak to your aunt. There’s more to her than you realize, and it’s not all bad. If she’d planned to harm you, wouldn’t she have already done it?”

His logic is sound, but it’s the energy ebbing and flowing between us that calms me. Warmth and light hum through my skin, making me stronger.

“I’ll have to visit my grandma in Versailles, too,” I manage, though it’s the last thing I ever wanted to do, and I know he senses the hesitation I’m trying to hide. “She mailed the violin here to Paris.” Etalon begins to respond, but I interrupt. “Wait. For you to have started playing the instrument when you were nine, to get it as a gift, to have these personal pictures of the Phantom, you’re more than just an employee at his club. You’re—”

“His family.”

Astonished by the confession, I turn to the sketch curled on the roof beside him. Somewhere behind the Phantom’s desolate face hides the rest of Etalon’s past; the parts I’ve never been able to see. New questions awaken inside me, but only one clutches my ribs and rattles them like a cage. I choose my words carefully, trying not to be insensitive. “Is the deformity inherent? Is that why you wear a mask?”

He squeezes my fingers. A current passes between us—sparking through my chest and bouncing along my spine, titillating and musical. He guides my hand to the covering on his face. “If you want the truth about the man behind the mask, you’ll have to unveil him yourself.”

There’s a seductive undertone to the request that makes my skin tingle, reminds me that I’m here on the roof alone with an incubus who towers over me when he stands, who knows how to command the ancient instincts I’m struggling with, and who lives in the shadows mastering abilities that border on sorcery.

Yet I’m not scared, even when I probably should be.

I slide off the bench and kneel beside him on the cloak. He eases down from his knees, sitting so we’re eye level. His gaze holds mine—an intense optical coupling that renders me immobile, anchored by the significance of what’s about to take place. The aura surrounding him deepens—dark red and searing, passionate and sensual—and his scent overpowers the roses along the walls: a heady mix of musk and pheromones that kicks my pulse into overdrive.

I inch toward him until our breaths mingle in the air between us. Biting my inner cheek, I curl my left hand around the mask’s brittle form. My stomach clenches, overtly aware of how close his face is to my chest as he bows so I can work the ties free from around his head. Nervous anticipation radiates to every extremity, leaving my right fingers clumsy and quivering. His hair sweeps across my palm, softer than the velour Madame Fabre chose for the nun’s habits in the opera. I drop the strings in front of the mask, so it’s only me holding it in place when he looks up.

I’ve been waiting a month for this, but now I’m hesitant. Not for me, though. Etalon’s palms flatten against the cloak on either side of him—a submissive pose—while his fingers dig into the fabric, visibly tense. I’m taking away everything that makes him feel safe. How would I feel, to be stripped of all concealments, with my flaws hung out to dry?

“Are you afraid?” I ask, overcome with compassion as I study the bared side of his face.

“Are you?” He flings the question back, slapping me with the truth: I’m every bit as vulnerable in this moment as he is.

The Phantom’s tragic face from last night intrudes on my mind’s eye. Seeing his disfigurement didn’t scare me, not like I would’ve expected. I pitied him and the life he must’ve known, but there was no fear or disgust. With Etalon, I’ve had weeks to prepare myself. No matter what’s on the other side of his mask, there will be no fear or pity. We’re linked through our music and our memories, and I’m grateful for all the years he played for me in my dreams. I don’t care what he looks like. I just want the obstacles gone and the isolation to end—for both of us.

“No,” I finally answer his question, then pull the cover away. A whimper snags in my throat and I drop the mask. It clatters outside of the cloak, its fragile surface cracking.

Neither of us stops to inspect the damage. We’re too busy watching each other. His impenetrable gaze tracks my every feature, taking measure of my reactions.

I was right . . . he is his own foil: two polar opposites, a contrast of masculine angles and elegant curves. Every delicate feature rests symmetrically atop a strong bone structure: rugged jaw line, shapely lips, straight nose, a falcon’s eyes—alert and piercing—buried in myriad lashes, and a flawless olive complexion almost celestial beneath the filmy lights.