The dignity he'd drawn up around himself lent itself to the authority he commanded of the music - and between the two, generated that same sense of power that he'd called up around him before first stepping onto the Grand Staircase earlier this evening. It was his finest armor and best defense against the light draw of her hand across his back. He focused on the anger instead of the longing, reminding himself that if he turned this girl inside out with his music tonight, it was the least she deserved for her damned blasted innocence! And her cursed warm hands!
His eyes had closed; he'd dropped himself and his intent deep into the creation of his song. It was turning from its gentle, tripping, wending wistfulness into a stronger rushing thrum of urgency, of half-named, troubling desire that even he did not want to approach. This was a sweet and terrible song, with currents that pulled and drew and tugged mercilessly down, down, spiraling its victim into a ---
By some perverse instinct to see her face, he'd turned toward her and opened his eyes. The next second, the piano fell into abrupt silence and he was on his feet several steps away. Victim. He'd thought of her as his victim, and he wanted - oh, just so briefly - to make her feel something she shouldn't feel, just so that he wouldn't have to feel it alone.
Erik was fairly certain it had worked.
He set his naked hands in the air in front of him - a sign of surrender or a sign to stop her or both, both, it was both. The lamplight caught on the deep white scarring around his wrists. He dropped his hands again.
"This wasn't meant for you," he said, his voice hollow.