Page 81 of Her Creation

His yellow eyes searched her face. There was a flash of something wicked in his eyes, but it was gone in an instant. “Bathe?” he repeated, leaning back slightly, a spark of amusement on his face.

“Yes. Bathe,” she choked out, throat tightening with each word as she realized he was joking. “Surely you bathed after a long day as the Wraith of Serbia?”

His lips pursed and his eyes squinted. “Why do you say ‘as the Wraith of Serbia’?”

She struggled for words. “Because, well, I imagine it’s quite hard to go unnoticed if you reek. Or are covered in blood.” She shrugged. His sudden smile caught her off guard, forcing her to step back. God, he was handsome. Her stomach made another sound. Thoughts of seeing the body she had crafted naked again swirled distractingly in her head.

“So you haven’t fed yourself either. Why?” he asked.

Victoria’s mouth fell open. It wasn’t true, but she was too embarrassed to admit to him that she had eaten quite well at her friend’s, and the sound he heard from her stomach was not from hunger. “It’s been a very busy day. I spent the entire evening sewing this for you with Helena. I didn’t have time.” Lies. She’d eaten so many sandwiches and so much strudel that her stomach was revolting, telling her to go to the garderobe as quickly as possible.

His foot lifted, his body swaying slightly as if restraining himself from stepping forward, forcing him to remain on the top step of the basement. “You lie to me. Why?”

Victoria forced her mouth closed. “Unfortunately, as you’ve witnessed, I don’t care much for food, but I’m getting better.” She felt her cheeks heat under his scrutiny—it had been ages since anyone had truly noticed her.

His face was solid, unmoving. “So you lie to yourself also,” he said softly.

She glared at him. “Go back down to the laboratory. I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“It stinks down there,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m unsure I’d be able to keep my meal down in the case you actually provide it this time.”

Victoria bit her lip. “The ground is thawing, and my father needs to be buried. He needs to rest in peace.” Her fingers dug through her hair, searching for grounding pain.

“You both do,” Innominatus muttered.

“Go back down to the laboratory,” she pleaded. Loving him was lethal and dangerous, and the farther he was from her, the easier it would be.

“What about the bath?” he asked.

Silence filled the room. As much as she wanted him to go back out of sight where it was easier to fight against her urges, he was right. He couldn’t go to the ball smelling like death.

“Come into the dining room. I will grab you some cold meats and bread to eat and then set up the bath for you. Unfortunately, I need to see how these clothes fit before tomorrow.”

She moved toward the dining room, exhausted, bracing herself—then stopped when she realized he hadn’t followed. When she looked back, he was still standing on the top step, half swallowed by shadow, as though the darkness itself had fingers hooked into him.

“I can…leave the laboratory?”

The question wasn’t loud or demanding. But something in the careful way he said it—measured, restrained, almost reverent—sent goose bumps skating over her skin.

She hated how much she liked the thought of him out of the laboratory and loose in her space, filling all the echoes of loneliness. The thought unsettled her in a way she refused to examine too closely. But she was tired—bone-deep, marrow-weary—and she still needed to speak with him about the ball tomorrow and make certain that he would be able to handle it. It had occurred to her that he might not know how to dance or make polite small talk, things that would draw unwanted attention.

“Yes,” she said, her voice tighter than she liked. She watched him carefully as she spoke, as though afraid he might test the limits, might ask for more.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stepped out of the stairwell slowly and deliberately—like a ghost unsure if it was permitted to haunt the living. The soft sound of his heavy feet against the floor sent an odd ripple through her chest.

Reluctantly, she turned and continued toward the dining room, pointing to a seat along the side of the long, empty wooden table as they walked in the room. “Sit. I will return with food after I fetch some water for your bath. It will heat while you eat.”

“I’d prefer to help you.”

The ease of the offer, the assumption made her hesitate. It would be easier. He could carry twice what she could, move faster, spare her shaking arms. But the thought of him wandering the house tightened something sharp and unreasonable in her chest.

“No,” she said too quickly. “Stay here. I will return shortly.”

His jaw tightened, but he obeyed, lowering himself into the chair with controlled restraint.

By the time she returned—arms aching, kettle heating, platter of cold meat and bread balanced precariously—Victoria looked on the verge of collapse. Half her hair had come loose from its pins, dark strands clinging to her damp temples. Water and sweat stained the front of her dress. She set the platter in front of him with trembling arms.