Her name from his lips, as always, sounded heavenly. But she had to ignore the flip in her stomach and focus on him. He needed her to listen that much was certain and as much as she wished he would understand that she loved him it would appear he would not. Not quite yet. And although the shock of hearing him admit his murder so freely still settled within her she was not willing to pull away from him. She had given her word. She would not run. And never would. How she wished he did not remove her hand and yet she let him do so, her arm falling to her side.
His tale had been tamed for her? How that worried her. What else had the man she held so dear been through as a child? What could be so bad he wished not to share it? Perhaps he was still haunted by those events. After all, what happens in childhood greatly influences the adult. She believed that was perhaps why she was as she is now. Her father had been kind and loved her dearly as she had him. She shook her head. No. He was no monster. He was not the pure man as the term angel would imply but he was no monster. Surely if he were she would have been a victim by now? He had been given many opportunities to do what he wished with her. And yet he was more inclined to speak the truth with her. To inform her of those thoughts and the life he had been forced to live.
Once again, the mention of his talents had her smiling. Oh how she wished to see those buildings her had made. His home under the Opera House had been enchanting but he had not built the entire building. Perhaps, one day, he would be willing to draw a creation for her. Give her the opportunity to see how skilled he was. She had no doubt that he was. The continuation of his story caught her attention. Love. A sharp stab of jealousy hit her even though she knew this was long before they had met. Hope also sprung up once again. He had loved once. He could love again and he could love her. Unless his heart had never belonged to anyone but this Luciana. How she wished to tell him he was not to blame for the poor girls death but he was continuing before she was able to.
His skill was developing. He was clearly gaining more standing in the world by this point in his life and she continued to listen eagerly. But, as before, the conversation turned to death and even the brief description made her feel slightly ill. Christine was not innocent entirely but when it came to such pain she was. Torture and blood. Things she had never thought of and had never intended on doing so until now. Her already pale skin paled more. And he had found peace in such horrible ways. A habit he claimed to have not broken yet. Christine found herself determined to wean him from that if given the opportunity. If he allowed her close to him again.
Another attempt on his life and in such a horrible way. She had to place a hand on the wall to steady herself once more at the thought. He was alive so she should not worry and yet she did. Someone had dared to try and take his life from him and it upset her greatly. Oh how she wanted to protect him. Hold him and take the painful memories away but she still could not. She could tell how he felt about this particular death and after righting herself so she was no longer leaning she stepped forward once again.
"He tried to kill you. Many men would seek revenge as you did. But you are not to blame for those deaths. The wife, though she loved him, had a child to consider. Only she is to blame." He was flexing. And yet she knew he would not rest. She stepped away, finding the brandy she knew he had in here and poured a small measure into the glass. She did not give it to him. Simply placed it near by.