Page 66 of Her Creation

Victoria spun away, flustered, retreating into the kitchen as though motion might steady the turmoil in her chest. She poured water into two glasses, the sound sharp in the quiet, and drank deep, long swallows, praying the cool liquid would ease the ache burning down her throat.

“I know you are not immortal,” she said at last, forcing steadiness into her voice.

“How shall we test it? Should you stab me?” His voice lowered, roughened as it slid across her skin like the brush of calloused fingers. “Would you let me bleed out, Victoria?”

The words crackled with a subtle electricity, igniting a tremor through her body.

Victoria seized the iron pan from the stove. “Perhaps I’ll strike you over the head instead,” she said. “Then we shall see if you are truly undead.”

Something dark passed through his gaze, but he seemed to will it away. Without argument, without protest, keeping his intense eyes on hers, he knelt before her on the kitchen floor, positioning himself deliberately, presenting himself as though offering his very life.

“Anything you wish of me,” he said quietly, “is done.”

Her breath caught. “I find it hard to believe,” she said, her voice tight, “that a man with your past would kneel before me while I attack him with a weapon—even if it is only a pan.”

There was something deeply unsettling about him kneeling there, submitting so completely. Wicked sensations stirred through her—unwanted, uninvited, but undeniable.

“You know very little of my past,” he said.

“How do you know what I know?” she challenged.

“Because stories are always twisted by the victor; the wicked are made noble in the telling, and the fallen are reduced to ghosts, their voices lost to darkness,” he replied. “You don’t know what happened.”

“Please,” she said suddenly. “Get up.”

“Why?” His voice was calm, curious. “Why does my kneeling devotion discomfort you? It should please you.”

“Because I do not require devotion.”

“I disagree.” He rose, straightening, and as he did, the top of his waistcoat slipped loose and fell open. Victoria’s eyes caught the exposed ridges of his chest, the rippling planes of scarred muscle beneath the firelight.

“Then tell me,” she said, forcing her gaze back to his face. “Tell me what happened.”

His jaw tightened, as though it were the one thing he might deny her—but he did not. “What do you wish to know?”

“Did they call you the Wraith of Serbia?” she asked quietly.

At the words, something dimmed in him. “Yes.” He drew a slow breath. “I grew up in a poor, isolated region of Russia. My sister and I were taken from an orphanage by a family of farmers. It was the easiest way for them to gain more labor.”

“An orphanage?” Victoria asked softly, sinking into one of the small kitchen chairs. “What happened to your parents?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Only that it was always me and my sister. My sister…Lyudka had bright red curls. Impossible to overlook. Her hair drew attention wherever we went.” He clenched his hands. “One day she returned from town with bruises—her face swollen, blackened lumps across her skin. I discovered who had done it.” He swallowed hard. “I was no more than ten but already twice the size of the other boys. I wanted to make them feel what she had felt. So, I went into each of their houses and beat them so badly they would never look at her the same way again.” A pause. His voice grew darker. “I had a gift for moving unseen.” He looked about the room, as if seeking to hide a memory, but then returned his gaze to Victoria. “It began with small tasks—businessmen placing coins in my hands for simple beatings. But it grew darker as I grew older.”

“Darker how?” she asked.

His eyes softened, settling on her. “I learned I could vanish, despite my size. Eventually, they hired me for killings instead of beatings. I did not care who paid me, nor who died. Some days I wondered why it never troubled me to take a life. Most days I did not think about it at all.” He exhaled slowly. “People assume they know you by your appearance. That they can know what you are capable of by the way you look. I learned how easily perception could be twisted to my advantage.”

“So what happened?” she asked.

“As I said, I worked for whoever paid most. I owed no allegiance. I killed men before they knew what had happened—women, princes, kings, thieves. Innocent or guilty—it mattered not. Whoever paid the most received my service.” His voice darkened. “Russia demanded loyalty. They wanted me to work for them exclusively. When I refused, they sentenced me to death.”

Without thinking, she reached across the table, placing her hand upon his forearm.

He froze. His gaze fell to where her small hand rested on his scarred skin, transfixed, as though the touch itself were a delicate, sacred thing, something wholly new and unfamiliar.

“I had created a powerful enemy,” he said slowly, his voice dark and low, “and they would have done anything to catch me—but no one could catch me. Over the years I became their torment. Men sent to hunt me down wound up dead before they even received the orders. It was a game to me.”

“And…how did they catch you?” she asked, her voice tight, remembering that it had something to do with them luring him out.