Page 47 of Her Creation

“Why not?” She didn’t look up. “Suppose he is good and kind? You’ve already said that with the heart of a saint, he would be pure as an angel. Which I still deserve to know how you came to possess,” she added, finally glancing at him, watching the discomfort flicker across his face.

“You do not need to know where I acquire the supplies for our experiments,” he snapped. “And Inno could reanimate with angel wings and I would not hesitate to kill him. I have warned you repeatedly, Victoria, not to grow attached. I have heard you speaking to him as though he were already alive. He is not your friend. He is an experiment.”

Heat rushed to her face, burning scarlet with embarrassment. “I enjoy a captive audience,” she muttered, attempting to disguise her mortification. Silently, she prayed he hadn’t overheard the moments that had begun as gentle venting and ended with her unraveling completely. It happened at least once a week. What would he think if he knew how frequently she let her hand sit atop Inno’s just to bring her comfort?

“I thought, in your state, that a bit of venting might do you some good,” Alphonse continued, frustration sharpening his tone. “But you’ve already grown attached. He is a dead body, my dear; he is not your friend.”

“He is my friend. I love him.” Victoria’s hands clamped over her mouth.

The whisper slipped from her mouth before she could stop it. Her eyes widened as it echoed back to her, absurd and exposed. Her shoulders folded inward, chin dipping as mortification swallowed her whole. How foolish. Father or not, he would surely believe her mad now—befriending and loving a dead man. She shook her head, horrified.

“Victoria.” His voice softened, pity threading through it. “I will make certain you are not involved. But if we are successful, he will not remain alive longer than twelve hours. I will make it as painless for it—him—and for you as I can.” He cleared his throat.

Embarrassment burned through her body as she nodded silently. A grotesque, heavy ache drove into her ribs. The hollow lightness in her stomach had turned to lead, bleeding downward into her legs, rooting her to the floor like one of the leafless old oaks outside the castle walls.

“The saint’s heart will be ready to prep tomorrow,” Alphonse continued. “And the brain should be ready as well. When Inno awakens, he will be as pure and innocent as Adam.” Then, as though discussing something trivial, he added, “Speaking of which—etch your name onto his lower rib with that blade.”

“What?” Victoria tilted her head. The candlelight caught in her glossy black hair, crowning her briefly in a soft, haloed glow.

“God created Eve from one of Adam’s ribs,” Alphonse said. “By all accounts, you are the god of this Adam. He is your creation.”

Though the idea felt preposterous—almost obscene—something about it wrapped around her like a silk ribbon. She couldn’t explain why, but the thought of Innominatus—this passive companion, this near lifelong project—bearing her name within the very structure of his body stirred a quiet, unsettling pleasure. Before her father could reconsider, she reached for the sharpest blade within reach and carefully etched Victoria into the rib bone. He belonged to her and only her now.

“There,” her father said, a proud glint in his eyes as he surveyed the body, “now your work is almost complete. Sew up his chest tonight, but leave space to work on his heart tomorrow. It will be a long few days if our boy is to be ready by Saturday.” He fought a yawn, pressing his lips together as fatigue tugged at him.

Her gaze drifted across the unmoving form. “It’s a shame he will have so many scars and patches on him.” Her eyes traced the contours of his beautiful face. “I did what I could with the burns on his face—you can hardly tell now, except for the several lines of scars…until you look at the burns on his ear and the side of his neck…”

“He looks like a calico cat,” Alphonse replied coolly, “and it’s not a shame. He cannot survive.” His voice hardened. “People, above all else, hate things they don’t understand, things that are not like them. They would not take well to what we have done. If we did not kill him, they would kill all of us for our crimes against nature—if he did not beat them to it and destroy us himself.”

Victoria’s hands stilled over the body. She hadn’t thought about the implications of what the world would think if the experiment succeeded. What it would mean for the three of them. Few people were comfortable with death. Fewer still with power. And this experiment manipulated both, pushing them to the furthest edges of possibility.

Her gaze returned to the cadaver. To the intricate tapestry of flesh she had so carefully stitched across his chest, his shoulder, his neck, and parts of his face. She found it beautiful. She knew that most who would look upon the great mosaic of his body would judge him, recoil from him, treat him cruelly for his appearance. But in Victoria’s eyes, he had become a living painting. As though every piece of another life was a brushstroke, each patch of skin carrying the quiet imprint of the person it once belonged to. It was as if all of mankind had been placed within him, the pieces of others forming the hand-hewn platforms and bracings of the great scaffolding of human existence itself. There was something wildly unique, unsettling, and profoundly beautiful in that omnibus of mankind. She would never let her father kill him. Once Innominatus was alive, her father would view him as family too, she knew it. They would all figure it out together.

The next day, the staple was fastened into the stone wall. Two bulky links of chain hung down from the U-shaped iron fastener, coiled in a heavy pile on the laboratory floor. The metal cuffs lay open, still and ominous. As Victoria took in the sight, she stepped backward, away from them—as if the latches would grow teeth, snap shut, and clamp around her wrists and ankles like the spring-loaded, serrated jaw traps Wilhelm used.

But as the day of the experiment drew closer, the saddest realization of all settled into her bones and into her heart: The man would come alive with no knowledge of who she was. No recollection of their time together.

He wouldn’t know her. And what was worse—she wouldn’t know him anymore.

The silent companion who had been as steady as stone beside her for the last four months would be gone, transformed into a man destined to live only fourteen hours.

That night Victoria stared at the ceiling after throwing the covers from her body, unable to find comfort. She rolled onto her side. Cold air struck her back like a knot of ice pressed against her skin. With a shiver, she tucked her hand between the heat of her thighs. The cold touch reminded her of Innominatus’s icy flesh. The thought of his large hand between her thighs sent a unique flurry of tingles to her lower stomach and the core of her womanhood. The sound of her cold breath filled her ears as she closed her eyes and moved exploratory fingers over the soft skin of her upper thigh, all the while imagining it was Innominatus.

“Everything they said about me is a lie,” his lips whisper in her ear, their smoothness brushing against the sensitive shell. She doesn’t need to look at them to know the details of them, every line and swell of pink lip is ingrained in her head. “I would never hurt a soul, especially not you, my Victoria,” he says as he presses his lips to her throat gently, his voice light and silvery with a bright, airy tone.

“Do you hate me for what I’ve done to you?” she asks as he shifts on the bed until he’s above her. His muscular arms flex as he holds his upper body up, inches from her body. Her eyes trail over his familiar body, naked and hardened with a need for her that cannot be hidden.

“I love you, Victoria,” he says as his lips smash to hers.

She kisses him back, and it sends a wave of euphoria over her body, down to her toes, which clench and curl as she tries to pull him closer, needing to feel him after not feeling his responding touch for so long. His palm skates up her thigh until he’s touching her where she tingles the most. He moans in sync with her as his hand slides up under her nightgown, touching her most tender parts with his cool fingers, leaving a ghost trail of sensations in their shadow.

“Please,” she moans between tender kisses. “Please, take me.” His hardness is pressed against her body, driving her mad with a passion she’s never felt. He needs her as much as she wants him. They are the only two people in the world and no one can judge them.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks, but his hand is already greedily rubbing over her wet center.

“Yes, please, Inno,” she moans. Two fingers slide over her slickness, and she has to bite her lip to stop from crying out. Her needy hands roam across his chest and stomach, feeling every rigid dent and bulge of hard muscle, but it’s never enough. Her hands and mind are frantic and unsatiated as they touch all of him. She feels his touch in her bones and in her soul.

He lets out a groan as she grabs his huge member, and she’s immediately drunk with lust. His hardness notches at her entrance and presses in a little.