"Hannibal has a singular talent," Erik said, but it did nothing to soften the emotion in her eyes. He considered his little dove in a breath of silence, then shook his head. "But I give far more of myself to you," he assured her, "Than I ever placed in any composition."
His music drove him, his music snapped at his heels, his music burned and demanded and keened inside him -- but Christine brushed through all that noise with the very sound of her voice. Did she know that he was her slave? She had to. Everything she wanted, everything she even hinted at, he gave her. He actively sought out those things she loved, and he had changed himself so that she could wear him every day and be comfortable.
There were no dark moods around her. Not just because she drove them away from him. He also hid them away, kept them far away from his diva, refused to let them touch her. Touch. He'd learned to endure physical touch -- in fact, craved hers, now. He'd learned to give it in all the ways she enjoyed. He learned that she wanted his hands on her as often as possible, even if it was to guide her through a door or down a street. She was a miracle and his mistress all at the same time.
And she'd worried about Hannibal.
His hand dipped tenderly into the dark waves he so adored, the mass of coils that had become something of an obsession. "Love," he whispered. And because words would not convey the depth of feeling in his chest, he cradled the back of her head and led her up, up until he could taste the tender bow of her mouth, the fullness of her bottom lip. How could anyone take so much of him without destroying him in the process? But she'd given him a strength and a faith he'd long ago thought he'd lost. He loved.