Page 80 of Her Creation

“Yes. Very much.” Victoria grabbed a book off the nearby table, fanning herself with it almost absentmindedly. “Could we speak of anything else?”

“You do fancy him. I knew it. Oh, please! You must bring him to the ball so that I may see the two of you dance.”

“No,” Victoria panted, her chest tightening. Her mind swirled. The thought of bringing him into the glare of the baronial court, the chance to see all those eyes on him, made her pulse race. And yet, she could not stop imagining him there, poised and flawless, every move calculated to anticipate hers just as when he had assisted her. Everyone would see that she’d been chosen by someone. That she wasn’t just the odd, anxious woman they all knew her to be. She was doted on and loved. Her stomach fluttered with the audacity of her own thoughts.

Helena stood from the bench with a wide, bright smile and collected a nearby book, beginning to fan her friend. “Yes, you seem quite unaffected by this Mr. Creatura. The baron will be absolutely vile if you do not attend. It’s my understanding he aimed to impress the Viscount Klein with your father’s attendance. If Mr. Creatura does not attend, I can only imagine the wrath the baron will unleash—you know how little it takes to set the man off. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t march the entire party over to the castle.”

Victoria had begun pacing Helena’s parlor. “The attendance of my father’s assistant cannot be that important to him.”

Helena snorted. “Do you recall the last time? When he used the new priest, the one he’d brought in to benefit his goals, and the priest refused to be a part of it? The baron ended up shutting down the church until he agreed.”

Victoria’s chest filled with cold air. “Then he built him the new, larger church when the priest did what he wanted.” She remembered. It was why her mother was buried in the yard of the abandoned church.

“Exactly. So what are you wearing to the ball with Mr. Creatura?” Helena grinned. “I hope he is a good dancer.”

The last thing Victoria needed was to be on the baron’s bad side. Already, he had shown up and threatened her with imprisonment. Innominatus could behave for an hour…she hoped. She had no other choice.

“I think I should be going home,” Victoria said.

“Oh no! I’ve frightened you off. I take it all back. Stay with me,” Helena begged.

“Do you have any spare fabric? Mr. Creatura is of a rather…rare build and will likely have nothing for the occasion as he traveled so light,” Victoria said, panic lacing her voice. How was she ever going to sew something for him that would pass a noble’s inspection in time? She was adept at sewing, but not enough to make something so grand. Where would she find supplies?

“Lucky for you, my brother, the tailor, stayed in this home before me. Let’s go look. It’s a shame you don’t have Mr. Creatura’s measurements. I’m quite quick with a needle.”

Victoria could have cried. “I—I do happen to know his exact measurements.” She had worked on his body for hours a day, for months; she knew every detail of Innominatus inside and out…except for his living personality, the latter more her fault than his.

Helena grinned. “And you expect me to believe you’re not completely in love with him?”

She didn’t expect her friend to believe that, as Victoria wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

Late that night, Victoria returned home. The two women had worked diligently, creating a fitted black coat, waistcoat, and breeches for Innominatus to wear to the ball. Helena had been modest when she said she was quick with a needle. She was as skilled as any tailor Victoria had ever met.

On the ride back to the castle, Victoria’s mind whirled. What fresh hell had she been placed in that she would have to parade her resurrected experiment to all the surrounding nobles and pass him off as her father’s skilled assistant? What if he accidentally slipped up and gave them away, or worse, what if someone was awful to them? She couldn’t ensure he wouldn’t hurt someone—and if he did, it would be her head that fell first. That was if they somehow didn’t notice he was a massive, stitched-together, half-dead experiment. Victoria held her pounding head in her hand. She had no choice but to take this risk. To trust that they would get through this together.

Victoria lit a candle and made her way straight to the laboratory door, the freshly sewn clothes draped over her arm. When she opened the door and stepped down, her foot landed on something soft. She let out a small scream and flung herself backward, landing on the sitting room floor as Innominatus rose from the top step where he’d been nestled.

“What are you doing?” Victoria shouted, kicking herself away from the yawning door.

Innominatus remained standing, towering over her. He reached a long arm to help her up but did not leave the step.

In shock, Victoria accepted his hand and let him pull her to her feet. At the touch of his hand, a current of electricity pressed into her skin, and by the look on his face, his too.

“I couldn’t hear you, and—” he began, shaking his head slowly. “I was hungry. You said days ago you would leave my food on the step, and you haven’t.”

Guilt flickered through her. “You must be starving.” She hesitated to suggest he follow her into the kitchen; the thought of him leaving the basement terrified her, but not because she didn’t trust him. In truth, she trusted him more than she would ever admit—she had trusted him before there was breath in his lungs. She didn’t trust herself not to cross a line that was forbidden. A line she could never, ever cross. Despite how her heart longed for him, he wasn’t even really a man; he was a beautiful monster, created by her own two hands. “I was mostly worried about you. I couldn’t hear you, and you’re never out this late,” he said, gazing toward the parlor window.

“How would you know when I’m here?” she asked, collecting the clothing from the floor.

He turned his gaze back to her, scanning her to make sure she was all right. “There’s a shortage of entertainment in the basement. Your footsteps provide a fair portion of it.”

Victoria had no words. The weight she struggled to ignore pressed down in front of her, suffocating. A high-pitched gurgle echoed from her stomach.

“I need you to put these clothes on—wait.” Her head fell back, eyes closing. “You are filthy. We must bathe you first, or you will dirty the fabric.”

“Bathe?” he asked with a tilt of his handsome head.

“Please, for the love of God, tell me you remember how to bathe.” Her arms dropped to her sides in frustration. She absolutely refused to bathe him herself. Being that near his powerful, naked body would lead to nothing good. Or a lot of good. Her face heated.