Page 60 of Her Creation

Then came the sound.

A low squirming noise, followed by a wet, unmistakable gurgle.

Her gaze snapped to him as realization struck. “You’re hungry,” she said as she closed the door behind them.

She had not once thought to offer him food or water. The oversight struck her now with quiet horror. She was not even sure it mattered. The twelve-hour mark had already passed. The time her father had spoken of him needing to be dead by so casually loomed heavy in her mind.

“Yes,” he said. Only that. The word sounded almost reluctant, as though asking her for anything at all chafed him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it earlier. I’m not sure it matters now.” The room tilted as she said it, though.

She barely made it to the chair behind her father’s desk before her legs threatened to give way. She closed her eyes, pressing against the swell of thoughts that crashed in on her. It had been one thing to pull life back into a body. But it was another entirely to extinguish it. To snuff out awareness and continue breathing herself as if nothing had happened, going on with bloodstained hands and the weight of another soul.

She reminded herself that he had always been an experiment, that he was never meant to live a full life. But when she looked at him, she saw herself reflected back. Innocent. Lost. Struggling to exist in a world that had shaped him without his consent into something everyone hated. He had not asked for this body. This fate. And still, he offered her nothing but restraint. Nothing but patience.

As if sensing the storm inside her, he spoke again. “Perhaps a meal,” he said quietly. “Before you take my life.” His stomach growled again, deeper this time.

Victoria knew she should not agree. But the thought of more time, even minutes with the forbidden man, was irresistible.

She nodded. Her father had been right. She had grown attached to Innominatus. And in her solitude, the idea of companionship had rooted itself deeply and dangerously in a love that was wrong and forbidden.

She ordered him to remain in the laboratory while she retrieved bread and cold stew from the kitchen.

“May I not leave this hole and eat upstairs with you?” he asked.

“No,” she said sharply.

His jaw tightened, but he did not argue.

Back in the laboratory, she placed the meager food on her desk and gestured stiffly. “Please put your chains back on.”

He tilted his head, then turned away from her, lifting her father’s desk and chair with one hand and carrying them across the room and setting them neatly opposite her seat.

“Even in these chains you can’t stop me. I could leave anytime I want. I could crawl up the stairs and watch you sleep. Watch to see if you dream about me at night like I dream about you during the day.” He nodded toward the chair.

She crossed her arms.

“Sit,” he said.

The word struck her like a blow. Not loud. Not cruel. But absolute.

She shook her head. “Because I believe it is best that you remain chained. Eat.”

One dark brow lifted. “Sit. I will not eat unless you dine with me.”

“I’m not hungry,” she lied. She couldn’t remember ever being so hungry, but she knew the way her stomach handled anxieties—she’d never be able to eat now.

“Please,” he said quietly. “It is the least you could offer me before you kill me.”

There was a lightness in his voice that unsettled her more than anger ever could—he knew. He knew how close she was to breaking. Reluctantly, she sat.

Only when she lifted bread to her mouth did he begin to eat, carefully controlling his pace. She forced herself to chew, her stomach tight, aware of his eyes on her. At least, she thought distantly, she was not eating alone.

He used the spoon to scoop the largest chunks of meat and vegetable from the cold stew onto a piece of bread before pushing it toward her, nodding for her to eat it while he leaned back in his chair and ate the rest of the stew, which was now mostly broth.

“What year is it?” he asked.

“It’s February 1795,” she responded before taking a bite.