Every day Brahms listened to his music. Laurie had come to understand that without it, he was more morose and less communicative. It not only seemed to soothe him but imparted a definite therapeutic effect. Most of what he listened to was classical, but bit by bit she introduced melodic, gentle songs or orchestral tunes that didn't grate on sensibilities unaccustomed to modern music. She guessed that this was probably the only aural stimulus Brahms had experienced in all his years of incarceration. That he was intelligent and well educated was beyond doubt, she'd seen his writing, the same beautiful copperplate as his mother's; and his creativity in carving wood. He was well spoken and articulate when overcoming his shyness. Often though, he would disappear for an hour or two and she'd yet to see the coming and going of him.

Today, she sat reading in the library. It was 3pm and he'd been gone for just over an hour. Laurie stared at the wood panelling. I know he's behind there...somewhere.

She thought back to the times she'd pressed her fingers to the wood, talking to him, believing him to be a dead child, and all the time he'd been standing there, a few inches away, listening...wanting her... The thought of that still disturbed her deep down.

Leave it, Laurie. Where he goes is none of your business.

Slowly, she approached the wood panelling. He'd come through the broken mirror. Come to save her from Joel. Come at her summons. There were passageways behind here, she knew it. Another world hidden away. His world before her. Her fingers skimmed the woodwork, searching for a way in, a hidden slat or false panel. Behind her came the whisper of his footwear on the flooring.

"Brahms!" She turned, pulling her hands to her sides in a ridiculously guilty way that made her look like a kid caught with its hands in the cookie jar.

He stood there, dressed in black. The mask is back on.

"Where have you been?" she asked.

He regarded her silently, immobile but for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Laurie gave a shiver; part fear, part anticipation. She could feel him from right across the room, and what he wanted to do to her. She played her part by standing absolutely still as he slowly approached. He did this sometimes. Played this game. This game of restrained and voiceless foreplay. She wasn't sure if it was a thing that turned him on, or if it was just his way. But whatever it was, it put her in such a state of desire and confusion it never failed to blow apart her defences. She'd tried pushing him away the first time he'd done this; tried to mask her discomfiture with laughter, but he'd gripped her wrists and made her stand there, staring up at him while he just stood and stared down at her, the oakmoss eyes boring into hers. It had been weird and disturbing and so erotic she'd wondered at her own sanity and how on earth she was so firmly in his thrall.

Now, he was doing it again. Only this time he wore the mask.

Laurie waited until he was close enough to kiss, then took two steps backwards and away from him. She saw his eyes behind the mask flicker down to her breasts, then up again to her face. Slowly, he moved forwards. Now, the oak panelling was behind her blocking further retreat. This was the point where she never quite knew what he'd do. Sometimes, he just walked away, leaving her hormones and disappointment raging. More often, he'd take her; gently, passionately, tenderly, roughly. Each time was different; and each time she'd surrender to him with a carnality she'd never felt with any other man.

This time Brahms came in really close, thrusting his chest against her breasts, his head craned down so that the mask brushed against the crown of her head. In a reflex response, Laurie pushed her palms against him, feeling his masculine strength, knowing he could crush her, so easily hurt her. A thrill of excitement ran down her spine. His breath rasped behind the mask, amplified and distorted. Slowly, she raised her head until her mouth was inches from his porcelain one.

Why do I let him do this? She wondered. This isn't me! This isn't how I am!

She felt his hands grip her hips, then travel upwards, crawling beneath her tee shirt. "Brahms?" She exhaled breathlessly as he slipped the garment over her head and tossed it aside. Laurie felt his fingers pulling apart the ties of her sarong. She was naked beneath, as he knew she'd be. He towered over her and the feeling of utter vulnerability set her teeth chattering and her nipples erect.

The cold mask slithered down her face, over her breasts and across her belly as he sank slowly to his knees. Laurie felt him pull her thighs apart, both hands reaching behind to cup her buttocks, pulling her upwards to meet that unyielding surface. She stared down at him, at the dark curls, his muscular arms cradling her body, forcing her hips apart. Laurie's heart hammered now, as Brahms held his face inches from her, teasing her. Tentatively, she thrust her hips forwards until her lips found the hard porcelain. Her hands gripped his shoulders, the nails digging in, dragging on his clothing. She found the rhythm and worked herself against him. He was allowing her the control, yet she was totally out of control, beyond caring how bizarre this was; how grotesque it must look. Finally, she gave a sobbing cry as she came, shuddering against him.

While she got her breath, Brahms got to his feet, removing the mask. At her post coital panting, he regarded her solemnly for a long moment...before his face split into a satisfied grin.