Page 57 of Her Creation

The women gaped.

Greta was the first to recover. “Where is the master? I wish to speak to him.”

Victoria pulled the tablecloth tighter around her and moved out of the room, striding to the front door and opening it. “No. He has sent me to tell you both that your services are no longer required. Please be so kind as to inform the valets and the rest of the staff on your way out.”

Both women stood frozen at the edge of the entryway.

“Has he hurt you?” Rosamond whispered with wide, doe-like eyes.

“My father would never hurt me,” Victoria snapped. But it wasn’t true; he had hurt her more fiercely than anyone in the entire world could ever hurt her by leaving her all alone on this godforsaken earth. “I appreciate your concern. Your wages will be doubled for the month while you look for other work. Go to Helena’s—Lady von Schiller’s; she is always looking for companionable staff.” Victoria nodded, silently urging the women out the door.

She waited in the doorframe, watching until the last of the staff rode off. She had grown up with Greta, and it felt a little like watching the remaining strands of her family’s tapestry go up in flames. A sharp pain seared into her stomach. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d consumed anything but fear or anxiety. Somehow even the thought of eating alone, without her father, felt too permanent, too final. So instead of going to the kitchen for food, she threw on a dress and made her way back to the laboratory door, needing to see the evidence that she hadn’t made the horrors all up in her mind.

The door creaked open, and there at the bottom lay the darkened spot of dried blood where her father had inhaled his last breath. Where she’d failed to catch him. Where her stupidity and wet dress had killed him.

Numbly, she moved down the steps. The space glowed with the warmth of the lamplight, and for a moment she wondered if she had imagined everything and would find her father working by the candlelight.

Her eyes didn’t find her father. But upon seeing her, the creature’s eyes lit with excitement, and he closed the book he was reading, pushing himself off the examination table nearest her father’s desk. He stood to his full, towering height. Victoria noticed with horror the chains in a pile on the floor across the room, the cuffs once again open.

“You got free of your cuffs. How?” she asked in disbelief. “I have the key—I locked them, I remember it.”

His yellow eyes calmly appraised her from head to toe before the muscles of his jaw tightened. “I remained in this…hole,” he said as he looked around. “As you asked me to.”

Victoria found herself to be no less afraid of her creation but driven completely by recklessness. Anger had squirmed inside her amid the sadness as they fought for control. God had taken everything from her, and looking at her creation gave her a small sense of retaliation against her so-called savior. “Lay on the table; I wish to examine you,” she commanded and waited to see if he would do as she asked. She needed to take his vitals and track a few things, or else the whole experiment would have been for nothing. She couldn’t fail her father—not now. She moved to her desk to grab her notebook, and not finding it there, went to her father’s desk to look for it.

“Victoria, my goddess.”

She spun away from her father’s desk to face the creature. The book he was reading was…her notebook. “What are you doing with that?” she snapped, hastening to take it from him.

He let her take the book but gripped her wrists and leaned in, his face coming so close to hers their noses brushed. “How are you going to do it?” he asked softly.

“How am I going to do what?” she bit out as delicious adrenaline shot into her veins.

“Kill me.”

She stilled, their gazes locked for a moment before she shrugged away from him. She didn’t owe him anything. He was only there, breathing enough air to speak the words, because of her.

“Stick out your tongue,” she muttered.

He watched her for a moment, as if deciding exactly how appeasing to be, before he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

Victoria nodded softly as she added to her notes, doing her best to ignore his intense stare as she bent his elbow and wrist about, repeating the same motions on his other arm before jotting more down.

“I’m sorry. About your father.”

The goose quill slid up the page and out of her hand as her eyes lifted to meet his. There was no way that he could know her father had died. “How? How?” Her voice quivered.

His brows pulled together slightly; he looked genuinely sad, as if he’d known Alphonse. “I found him,” he said with a nod toward the cold chamber.

Victoria wanted to scream. To cry. She wanted to hit someone and have it hurt—hurt anyone, but mostly herself. Her eyes welled with tears.

He reached out and touched her forearm, squeezing lightly, just as she’d done to him a thousand times when he’d been a lifeless corpse. It was too much. Her body had grown too familiar with venting and crying to the man. Tears fell onto the stone table between his legs.

“What do you mean you found him? Why were you in there? How could you know who he was?” She fought to speak through the sticky saliva that coated her mouth.

“Do not cry, it pains me. I went looking around. I wanted to learn where I was—what was happening. Who exactly you were. I found him in the closet.”

Victoria shook her head, unable to see more than a familiar, blurry figure. “How could you possibly know it was my father?” She felt the gentle pressure of his hand still on her forearm and hated how much she liked it. How many times had she cried on him, wishing he could comfort her back? And now that he was, she was completely horrified.