Page 61 of Her Creation

His head quirked slightly. “It seems I have not lost much time.”

Victoria surmised he meant the time in which he had been dead—which, by her own accounts, had only been a few short months.

“You’re a doctor?” he asked. His accent was soft, only present enough to give his words a dark edge of firmness.

She shook her head, her mouth still full of bread.

“How can you not be a doctor? I just watched you work. I know what you’ve done to create me.” He waved his hand across the laboratory.

“I learned from my father,” Victoria said quietly. “My mother passed when I was nine. I’ve been helping him ever since. And when my father became sick, it seemed only natural that I take his place.”

“How did I come about?” he asked. “It’s my understanding from your notes that we are in the Holy Roman Empire. My last memories are in Russia.” A cold, storm-laden expression crossed his face.

She swallowed her final bite and leaned, feeling an unexpected satisfaction settle in her chest. “We are in Glen Shire,” she answered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of how closely he was inspecting her face. The way his eyes studied her made her feel as though he saw straight into her soul.

“My father was—is—the best surgeon in all the Holy Roman Empire. Possibly the world. He achieved that greatness by experimenting, sometimes in unusual ways. He was so renowned that the noblemen of the area granted him this castle, so that all who needed him could find him.” Her voice faltered, but she pressed on. His hand moved as if to reach out to her, but he pulled it back after a beat. “After my mother died, I became obsessed with making sure my father wouldn’t die and leave me forever.”

He leaned forward in his chair, hanging on her every word. “But you didn’t?” he asked. “Are there others like me?”

Victoria hesitated before answering. “No. My father forbade me from ever bringing him—back.”

He leaned back slowly, as if the truth had settled something inside him. “Would you have killed him?” he asked. “If you had brought him back, would he have been nothing more than an experiment?”

A sharp scowl tightened Victoria’s expression. “Of course not,” she said defensively.

“Then why must you kill me?” he asked softly.

“Because…” She trailed off. The truth was, she had never wanted to kill him. That had been her father, not her, but she understood Alphonse’s reasoning now better than ever. The man was dangerous.

“Because I am not God,” she finally said, repeating her father’s words, “and you were an experiment to see if life could be returned to the dead.”

A small grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “So you must kill me so you are not sitting in defiance of your God.”

“I suppose so,” Victoria answered. “But mostly because it was a part of my father’s instructions, and I will not go against his wishes. You are dangerous, I can tell. It’s not safe for me to keep you alive.”

“But have you not already committed the sin?” he asked. “And I would never hurt you. Only for you.”

She shifted in her chair and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, suddenly craving the small comfort of containment. “I do not care about God’s opinion of me or how I sin. That was my father’s reasoning—not mine,” she lied. The truth was, she needed Innominatus away from her and out of her life. Her love for him had already cost her father’s life. She would not allow herself to go against his final wishes. “Then what was your reasoning for killing?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre that pressed into her body.

“I didn’t want to kill you,” she answered honestly.

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, the silence between them taut and breathing.

“Then why do it now?” he asked.

Victoria stood abruptly, unsettled by how comfortable she had grown speaking with him. “Because despite how you look and feel, you are not human. You do not belong with humans.” She gathered the plate and moved to her father’s desk, setting it down. She longed for a bath and a change of clothes. Her father’s blood was still dried on her skin, and the dress she’d grabbed in haste was dirty and itched her skin.

“I do not belong with others because of how I look?” he asked. “Because of how you made me look?” He squinted, his yellow gaze sharpening. It was easy to see how intimidating he could be if he ever wanted to be.

“Not because of how you look,” she said carefully, sensing his anger rising, “but because of what you are.”

“And what am I?”

She turned—and he was suddenly in front of her.

Her breath caught. She swallowed her words, overwhelmed with his nearness. “I don’t know what you are!” she shouted, her patience finally snapping. “You are a monster—a monster I made!”

His hands moved to rest on her father’s desk, caging her in with his body. “You call me a monster, but I have been made purely from the materials you chose. If you deem me grotesque, it is because you’ve built me from unworthy materials.” His warm breath ghosted across her face.