Page 84 of Her Creation

Silence fell, broken only by the hiss of the water and the crackle of fire. The terrifying world outside the kitchen, the ball, the nobles, Wilhelm—they didn’t exist here. There was only him, only this heat, only the aching, impossible tension that promised everything but dared nothing.

Why did his protectiveness bring her so much comfort?

Perhaps it was his size, the undeniable knowledge of how lethal he was if provoked. Perhaps it was the quiet certainty in his voice, the way his presence alone felt like a barrier nothing could pass through without his consent. Or perhaps it was simply that she had not felt protected in a very long time—had not felt held, even in the abstract, by another soul.

To release her burdens onto someone who would not recoil, someone who did not ask her to be more feminine, more normal, or someone else. Someone who, despite being far from safe, had always been her safest place. And now that safety inhabited the same body as a mind that wanted to protect her, that chose kindness and restraint, it was proving to be too much. Far too much to resist.

“Wilhelm threatened to ruin my father and I if I didn’t—” Her words faltered, dry in her throat as she stared at Inno and his impressive form.

“Finish your sentence, Victoria. He threatened to ruin you and your father if you didn’t what?” He settled back into the water, slowly bending to submerge the other knee.

“If I didn’t,” she said, her voice breaking, “do whatever he wanted—whenever he wanted.”

There was a menacing softness in his eyes. Like he was fully comforted by his decision. “He will die for hurting you. Everyone will.” His voice was real, raw, unguarded.

Victoria reached for the bucket, needing movement, needing something to anchor her before she shattered. She poured the water over his head, guiding it down his shoulders, over his chest, rinsing away the last of the soap and grime. Her vision blurred as tears welled and spilled, until she could no longer see him clearly at all.

She felt the bucket leave her hands.

He took it from her gently. She barely registered him stepping out of the tub. Her fingers fumbled uselessly as she searched for the linen sheet to hand him through the haze of tears, her chest tightening until she could scarcely breathe. After a few futile steps, she turned away, defeated.

He found the linen. Wrapped it around his body, covering himself without being asked—an act so small, so considerate, it nearly undid her.

She felt him behind her then, not touching but close enough that his humid heat seeped into her back, solid as a wall. The awareness of him there sent a tremor through her, her body overriding her upset with longing.

“And you endured this alone,” he said, his voice thick with something dark and burning.

“No. You see, I wasn’t alone.” She turned around. “I had you.” Her chest brushed against his. They were so close now, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his mouth, the way his lips seemed to hover, waiting for her. His head lowered a fraction, and she felt her head tip up. Her hand pressed against his hard stomach, and the bolt of lust that shot into her suddenly sobered her and she stepped away.

She could not cross that line. They could not be together. This love had already stolen her father. It was lethal. She chose him once and her father had died. How many more would die if she chose him again?

Her throat made a broken sound as she wiped her face. “Put these on,” she said, thrusting the new clothing toward him, suddenly needing to put a wall back up between the two of them. “You aren’t here for me to love. You can’t be. You are an experiment. A dead man. You are nothing but a beautiful monster and a memory of destruction and loneliness.” Her hands shook violently as she lifted them before her, examining them as though they belonged to someone else. A tear slipped down, tracing her mouth before dripping from her chin.

“Then tell me,” he said, his jaw hardened, humorless now, “why would a memory of destruction and loneliness need a waistcoat such as this one?”

“The ball the baron spoke about when he was here,” Victoria whispered. Saying it aloud made it real in a way she had been trying to avoid, and panic thudded painfully behind her ribs. “I thought we wouldn’t be missed. But it seems you have no choice but to make an appearance.”

“I—I get to leave?” His voice caught, naked with hope.

Victoria’s head bowed. The purity of that hope twisted painfully in her gut. He sounded almost…young. As though the world beyond the cellar was something fragile and long denied.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “And I need you to behave as my father’s assistant would.” Her words began to rush, tumbling over one another as her anxiety climbed. “You must have manners enough that you do not draw attention. You must be quiet. You must only speak when necessary, and even then only with the barest, most intelligent conversation. Do not insert yourself where you don’t belong.” As she spoke, she folded and tucked bits of fabric against him, smoothing seams, adjusting where the cotton pulled too tightly over his broad chest. It was different now—everything was different. He smelled clean. He was warm. Dressed. Handsome in a way that made her breath catch painfully in her throat. God was punishing her, and it was working. Aching pain scraped at her soul like the tip of a dagger.

Her hands had never touched a man like this. Not without medical necessity. Not without revulsion. Not without fear. Her fingers lingered, traitorous, feeling the firm heat beneath the shirt. The realization sent a dangerous pulse through her body.

“I will be going outside,” he said slowly, as if tasting the words, “in public. With you, to a ball?”

“Yes,” she replied, forcing her focus back to the task. “And you will be under a great deal of scrutiny. The baron was impressed by you and will use you to make himself appear important.” She grimaced as she made another mental note of what needed altering. “It will pass for one night. That is all we need.”

“What shall I do if they ask me about medical procedures?” he asked. “About things I do not know?”

“They won’t,” Victoria said with certainty. She had attended enough of these events with her father to know better. “They don’t care about you. They will not ask questions they cannot answer themselves. Ask about them. The people at these parties love nothing more than the sound of their own voices.” She exhaled sharply. “Be vague about politics. Speak as little as possible. Be friendly but not overly familiar. The women will be fighting over a dance with you, no doubt.” Jealousy flared inside of her.

“Will you not be at my side?” he asked. “Why do you seem so worried?”

She turned away abruptly, breath unsteady. “Take it off, please. But do not put your old clothes back on. They are filthy. I will wash them and return them to you tomorrow.” Her voice softened, just barely. “You will need to wrap yourself in a blanket. There is a pair of drawers over there—they are clean. They were my father’s. They will not fit well, but they will suffice.”

Innominatus followed her into the hallway, then into the sitting room, his presence filling the space behind her like a chain tied to her ankle, reminding her of things she couldn’t ever fully ignore. “I will help you dress and tidy your hair tomorrow,” she continued. “Please do your best to remain clean.”