Page 54 of Her Creation

He stood to his full height and took a step back so that she could lead the way out.

Her foot trembled as she stepped forward, disbelief rooting itself in her ribs when he actually allowed her to pass him. The space he gave felt unreal, almost ceremonial, as though he were granting her permission rather than simply moving aside. At the top of the staircase, she stopped and looked back.

He followed a few steps behind, silent, his expression unreadable.

She turned forward again, the stone steps blurring as a knot cinched tight in her stomach, an image slamming into her without mercy: her father’s body tumbling down the steps of the basement. The memory flashed so vividly it felt less like recollection and more like prophecy repeating itself, letting her know she would be next.

Go.

Go, she commanded herself.

But despite having not descended these stairs since the incident, her body rebelled. The absence of pursuit gave her mind too much space, too much time to circle the wound. Panic crept in through the cracks.

Her hand locked around the smooth railing, and she lifted her foot, holding it suspended over the second step. The sound of her father’s fall roared inside her skull, echoing louder than the storm above. She could feel the man behind her waiting. Not rushing. Not retreating. Simply present. She needed to move, get him into the manacles before he realized what she was doing.

She glanced back, almost hoping his gaze would frighten her into motion.

Instead, it remained impassive, nonthreatening. His thick black brows pinched together slightly, not in anger but in something closer to concern or confusion. Still, he did not shout. He did not advance. Did not touch her.

Only waited and watched.

Finally, she tried again, and no vision of her father froze her. Each movement sent the cold stone rushing past her, echoing like a drumbeat in her chest. Once at the bottom, she sprinted through the sitting room, fumbling until the door to the laboratory swung open with a metallic groan.

She was so close. So achingly close. If she could just get him onto the table, she could slip the cuffs over his wrists and lock them in place. Her shoulders trembled at the thought of what would happen if he grew angry after only one manacle had clicked shut, but even a single tether would hopefully be enough to hold him against the wall long enough for her to decide what to do next. The men who had built them had been certain they could not be picked, so surely she must have not closed them properly.

The familiar metallic tang of iron and chemicals hit her face as a rush of cold air swept into the room, making her lungs ache with each breath. The dark stain at the bottom of the stairs seemed to pulse in rhythm with her own fear, a shadowed omen of what had happened. Every nerve in her body recoiled at the sight.

A gust of wind swept past, brushing icy fingers across her skin, leaving her momentarily weightless, poised on the edge of collapse. She braced herself for the impact—the sharp, crushing force of the stone steps pressing against her skull, the same unrelenting punishment that had claimed her father.

But instead of the expected agony, her body dipped into a surreal suspension. Light pressure pressed behind her knees, along her back, and the world seemed to tilt as the man lifted her with fluid, predatory grace, careful to tuck the sheet around her body. Halfway down the stairs, before she realized it, she was tucked safely against his chest, his head ducked low to avoid the ceiling, and she was carried as though she weighed nothing at all. “What are you doing?” She struggled to breathe, feeling the closeness of his chest and face upon her. The soft sound of her father’s heart pounded beneath his skin in a comforting lullaby.

Oakmoss, freshly dug soil, and petrichor.

That was what he smelled like. Not at all like a corpse, but earthy, like the branches of a hemlock after a heavy rain when the scent of the earth stretches up from the damp soil. She had expected him to smell like vinegar or decay, not like standing in the middle of a forest.

His eyes shifted to meet hers as she inspected the scar on his cheek. She remembered how careful she had been repairing the patches of flesh on his face, how many hours she had spent with his face held in her hands. Her eyes flicked off him quickly at the sudden intimacy she felt. She’d felt it before with him, several times—only now his eyes were open and returned the look.

This was not the same man, she tried to remind herself.

This wasn’t even a man.

“What are you doing?” she repeated.

He didn’t respond. Once he reached the bottom of the stairs, he moved a few feet into the lab, away from the staircase, watching her intently before he gently set her down.

Victoria grabbed a small oil lamp and lit it. Her heart slammed into her throat when the man leaped back with a small cry.

“The flame.” His eyes suddenly looked vacant and sad as he flinched away from it.

She replaced the glass around the lamp and turned the flame down. “It’s okay, look. It’s contained. It won’t hurt you. It’s just one small flame.” He nodded at her and relaxed slightly, remaining a good distance away.

“I don’t like fire.”

“I—uh—let me get my tools,” she muttered as she checked the nearby tables and noted the sharpest objects and how far away they were from his reach. A hook blade lay on the desk next to her stack of errant notebooks. As quickly as possible, she moved to grab it. He didn’t like fire? Was that why the flame of his brain apparatus had such strange reactions?

The familiar clank of chains sang through the air.

When Victoria turned back around, the man was latching the second cuff around his wrist, pressing it against his hard stomach until it clicked shut. The chain clanked against the cold stone floor as he held both his wrists out to her, awaiting the key.