Page 65 of Her Creation

“Oh, I’m not certain he will be able to,” Victoria stammered, her hand tightening on the door as she pulled it inward, instinctively shielding Innominatus from further scrutiny.

The baron paused. “Then I expect to see the two of you there.”

“Not together, of course,” Wilhelm added smoothly, stepping closer. “Victoria, I’ve missed our carriage rides.”

He spoke to her—but his eyes never left Innominatus.

“Have you?” Victoria asked flatly.

Wilhelm’s smile tilted, preparing its usual cruelty, but she cut him off.

“You left me to walk home alone through the winter forest,” she said, her voice sharp now. “I was nearly chased by wolves.”

The baron grunted and Wilhelm’s expression faltered only briefly. “I’ve always admired your strength. There are so few women like you.”

The air shifted, as did something in Wilhelm’s face.

Victoria realized that Innominatus had stepped closer, his presence settling behind her like a closing door. His voice came low and even, vibrating through her chest and into her lower stomach where it tickled and teased.

“Do not trouble yourself,” he said. “The wolves no longer follow her home.” A pause. Deliberate and pointed. “They have learned there are worse things waiting in the dark around this castle.”

Wilhelm stiffened, then turned sharply and followed his father toward the waiting carriage.

Victoria closed the door and leaned against it, breath leaving her all at once as her knees threatened to give way.

“The Unnamed Creature,” Innominatus said behind her, contemplative. “Convenit ei quod sum. It suits what I am.”

She turned, frowning slightly. “You speak Latin. Russian. German. How many languages do you speak?”

“Plus linguas quam oportet,” he answered quietly. More than I ought to.

A shadow crossed his face, fleetingly, as though something old had stirred beneath the surface. In the evening light, she truly saw him. Golden eyes warmed by firelight, scars softened into something beautiful. He was unbelievably attractive. The kind of handsome that called to you from across the room. The kind of beauty that people died for.

“Thank you,” she said. “You saved me from prison.”

“Who were they?” he asked, stepping closer again, almost without thought, as if distance offended him.

She turned to answer—and stopped.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

The back of him was bare.

Her father’s clothes were an illusion for the front only, carefully engineered folds holding everything in place. From behind, his scarred back was entirely exposed. She could not fathom how the garments remained fixed, how the linen draped with such deliberate precision.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I had to ruin your father’s clothes.” His eyes searched her face closely, as if her answer mattered more than it should.

“It’s all right,” she managed. “He won’t be needing them anymore.”

For the first time, his certainty faltered.

“I suppose I should find you clothes that fit,” she said.

His expression brightened. “Now that my presence is known, I can accompany you into town.”

She turned sharply. “No. You will not.” Her voice steadied. “You saved me, yes. But it would take only one person learning what you really are for us both to be killed.” And he was far too good-looking to go unnoticed. Jealousy bloomed like a rancid corpse flower in her gut as she held his gaze.

He smirked. “No one will ever hurt you. Besides, if I am the first of my kind,” he said evenly, “how can you be so certain that I can be killed at all?”