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Never, ever forget: You are loved. You are wanted. You matter.
“If I am the phantom, it is because man's hatred has made me so. If I am to be saved it is because your love redeems me.”
People worship the heroes protecting them until they realize the cost of their safety.
My little muse is my addiction, and her voice is my drug. If there is a cure to my madness, I don’t want it. I’d rather welcome blissful oblivion.
“You’re my pretty little muse, Scarlett. I worship your voice. Your body, mind, and soul are no different.” “Even the darkness in my mind?” I ask, not sure why it matters if my phantom accepts my madness. “Especially your darkness.”
“Okay, but why do you know so much about me?” “Because you are everything,” he answers simply.
“I’m not good, little muse. My obsession with you is the only pure thing about me. Never forget that I’m your demon of music, Scarlett. You can’t expect me to behave like a gentleman when you beg like my whore.”
A possessive glint in his sparkling eye catches me, reminding me of the look he gave me when other men allegedly dared to glance at me in Masque.
“Am I hideous?” he asks in a hoarse whisper, and my heart skips an aching beat. This huge, strong man—the Phantom of the French Quarter, a King in New Orleans, and my demon of music—is kneeling before me, trusting me with the pain of his past.
“You are my moonlight,” I whisper against her shoulder in a kiss. “And you are my midnight,” she murmurs back,
“Who the fuck hurt you, little muse?”

