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Raoul yelped as icy fingers wrapped around his chest and pulled him into the walls.

He had been planning on congratulating Christine on her latest performance. Things had calmed down since the whole disaster with the ghost, and the national opera was celebrating its 100^th performance of Aida. Christine had been magnificent.

But now the flowers he had purchased fell to the floor, tattered and forgotten, as that horrible death grip yanked him through hidden passages. He took in a breath to cry out, but a skeletal hand clamped tight over his lips. His heart pounded in his chest. Was Christine’s infernal ghost finally going to kill him?

Breathless, he was pulled into a small annex with room enough to stand and pace. The icy grip vanished. He stumbled, bent over, hands bracing against his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. When he had sufficiently recovered, he stood and turned to face his kidnapper and his likely death.

Erik stood there, in all his horrific glory. Suit impeccable as always, mask firmly in place, cloak billowing behind him. Raoul hated everything. How could he live on the fringes of society and still manage to be this put together? God, he was insufferable.

Raoul took a step forwards, intending to give the man a piece of his mind.

With a flourish of his cloak, Erik threw out his arm in a display, and Raoul turned his head, words dying in his throat.

There, gagged and bound in a chair, was a man. Quite a good-looking one too, though his fine features were marred with terror.

He turned back to Erik who was standing there looking quite pleased with himself.

“What did you do?”

The masked man tilted his head. “Christine said I should apologize. For how I treated you. For the incident with the rope down in—well—you were there. I thought I would get you something to as a token of my gratitude. I do so appreciate not needing to strangle half of Paris’s police force.”

Raoul blinked. “I’m sorry, I must be missing something. What does any of that have to do with this poor gentleman tied up in a chair?!”

The gentleman in question made a muffled grunt of agreement and strained against his bonds. Poor man. There would be no breaking Erik’s bonds. The opera’s ghost had quite a way with rope.  

“Vicomte, meet Anatole Garron! He is a baritone who came to Paris as a guest to star in an upcoming production of Faust. I have personally vetted his singing ability to ensure that he would be suitable, both to sing with Christine and to be your lover.”

Raoul choked and bent double, coughing.

“Vicomte?”

Raoul righted himself, his face burning, whether from the coughing or embarrassment, he could not say. “My what?!”

“Your lover. From my observations around the opera house, I concluded that you did not seem to discriminate between the sexes when looking for a romantic partner. Was I mistaken?”

This time the heat was definitely embarrassment. He avoided glancing at the man tied to the chair. “N-no, but—”

“Don’t worry. Monsieur Garron has the same preferences. I checked that too.”

Okay. No. This needed to stop. “Erik. You can’t just… You can’t just kidnap people and tell them to fall in love! That’s not how any of this works!”

The ghost cocked his head, a small smile quirking his lips. “It worked out just fine for me.”

Raoul pressed a hand to his temple and closed his eyes. “No! No, it did not work out ‘just fine’ for you! You spent weeks trying to make it up to Christine, months working things out with her. It has been three years, and you are still trying to make things up to me.” He gestured to Anatole. The singer was struggling against his bonds again. “Does Christine know anything about this?”

Erik focused on the wall behind Raoul’s head.

That would be a “no.” He sighed. For the love of— “Come on. Help me untie him, and I won’t say anything. Just… Don’t do it again. Please. I don’t need any help with my love life. And I certainly don’t need any more of your…apologies.”

Raoul walked over to the chair and began working at the ropes. Ugh. There was no way he was going to get these knots out without help. He regretted not bringing his knife. But cool, slender fingers met his, deftly working the ropes. Soon the knots slackened, and the man sprang from the chair.

He pulled the gag off of his mouth, glancing back and forth between Raoul and Erik. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. His eyes widened.

Raoul glanced at Erik, but the ghost had vanished. Great. Leave Raoul to clean up his mess. He stepped forwards, his hands raised in front of him.

Anatole stepped back.

“I’m not going to hurt you. He’s gone, and he won’t be coming back. Not for a while at least.”

The man relaxed, shoulders going slack. “Thank God. I thought he was going to kill me.”

“Oh, don’t get me started. One time he strung me up by my neck in the opera house basement.”

Anatole glanced at him, eyes wide. “Truly? And they just let him have the run of the place?”

Raoul shrugged and nodded. “There’s no letting him do anything. He practically runs the place. Has a box and a salary and everything. He’s courting the prima donna, Christine Daaé. You’d have met her in the rehearsals for Faust. She’s a good childhood friend of mine.”

“She’s going with him?!” Anatole’s voice jumped an octave in disbelief.

“I’m afraid so.” Raoul sighed. “It’s a rather long story. Perhaps I can fill you in over dinner? I had made reservations to take Christine, but I have a feeling she’s going to be otherwise occupied tonight.”

Anatole raised his brows and gave Raoul a once-over. For a moment, Raoul feared he would refuse.

But gradually, his face softened, and his eyes lit up. “Don’t mind if I do, monsieur. Now, how do we get out of here?”

Raoul grimaced. “I honestly haven’t a clue. But I’m sure between the two of us we can figure it out.” He offered his arm and a smile to the other man.

Returning the smile, he looped his arm through Raoul’s. “Quite right you are.”

Raoul’s heart fluttered. Maybe, just maybe the insufferable ghost might be right.