Page 5 of Her Creation

I slapped my hand over my mouth to cover my horror but didn’t make it in time. “My God.”

“Saint’s alive…” Mick mumbled.

“I’ve never witnessed anything like it,” muttered Dr. Brox.

It wasn’t just his chest, covered in scars and patches of skin, that was unusual and alarming, but the dense amount of muscle that lay quietly under the man’s nearly translucent skin was unbelievable. His chest rose in rounded pectoral muscles that resembled twin shields, masses of muscle rolling with each breath, each sinew sharply defined and impossibly taut. An abdomen of corded lattice, carved and prominent in a map of power, lay beneath the skin.

“Look at this,” the doctor added, almost to himself. “Someone opened him up, flayed him…and burned him. Look at these burns.”

“Holy shit,” muttered Mick as he covered his mouth with a calloused hand.

“How could anyone have survived all of that?” I asked.

Dr. Brox looked at me with wide eyes. “They couldn’t,” he whispered. Suddenly he abandoned his calm, stoic demeanor and grabbed the man’s shoulders and gave them a hard shake. “You there, what is the meaning of this? Who’s done this to you?” Panic infused his words.

Mick and I locked eyes.

“Wake up! Speak! Explain this!” Dr. Brox yelled as he grew more and more hysterical.

“All right, I think you need some fresh air,” Mick said, steering the doctor toward the door. “Miss Bulkley will stay with the man. She’ll let us know when he wakes.” Just before they left the room, Mick left the doctor to come speak to me quietly. “Here, it’s all I’ve got on me. I’ll get you a flint if you’d prefer.” He pressed a small blade with a leather cover, used for filleting fish, into my palm.

I tried to push it back, but Mick closed my palm around it before leaving.

“No—this—I don’t need…” I tried to refuse, my mind jumbled. I’d never touched more than a knife for my clotted cream or roast, and it felt wrong and disastrous in my hand, like having it would spark an issue more than solve it. I appreciated the sentiment, more than he knew, but I doubted I had the wherewithal to use it even in the worst of scenarios, so I quickly placed it on top of a crate in the corner, away from me.

Ruffled with irritation, I grabbed an overskirt from the pile of supplies I’d brought in and moved to the bed to dress the man. I knew I was probably supposed to clean him first and check for any fresh wounds, but I refused. Dr. Brox should have done that before he got all odd and jumpy. My feet stopped at the side and refused to take another step until I reminded myself that Captain Sheamus would no doubt check in soon and think me a weak, girlish ninny if I didn’t at least have a fresh shirt on the man.

I pressed forward, grabbed his heavy arm, and stuffed it haphazardly into the sleeve of the dirty but dry shirt I was certain wouldn’t fit him anyway. His skin was warmer than I’d expected it to be—I’d expected him to be as cold as ice.

“Gods above…” I grumbled when I could barely hold his heavy arm up enough to slide the shirt up. My hand moved from the cloth to his chest as I tried to shove the shirt under his back.

“Do not touch me.” His yellow eyes flashed open. “Only my God’s hands may touch me.”

I recoiled and stifled my scream by biting my lips together. “If you are done pretending to be asleep, you can put your own shirt on,” I snapped, hearing the fear in my voice.

His stomach muscles tightened as he pulled himself into a sitting position. He freed his arm from the shirt and grabbed his old, wet one and put it back on.

“You need a dry shirt,” I said, feeling so annoyed and unsettled, my toes had curled under.

He ignored me as he lay back down.

“How long were you on that land? Did you see anything of interest?” I couldn’t help myself. I needed to know.

His curious, odd eyes shifted to me. “Why do you chart land?”

I was so caught off guard by his question, my mind went blank and I gave not the thoughtful, professional answer I preferred, but the honest one.

“Because my father and grandfather are experts in the field.”

“So?” he asked, pushing me to continue to justify myself.

Silence filled the small space.

“So I wish to be an expert as well. I want to make a name for myself far brighter than anything that could keep me in their shadows. I’m curious about what you saw on that land; can you tell me?” I shifted uncomfortably.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he said in his low rumble, and goose bumps covered my forearms.

I swallowed the dryness in my throat. “Satisfaction brought it back,” I clipped. I’d done enough arguing with men who didn’t understand why I did what I did. Their acceptance mattered little to me.