Page 83 of Her Creation

But in that instant, his shirt came off slowly, deliberately. The fabric slid from his shoulders, down his arms, exposing skin stitched and scarred and undeniably, devastatingly alive. Muscle shifted beneath it, powerful and controlled. Her entire focus collapsed inward, heat blooming low in her belly as her eyes betrayed her, tracing him without permission. He’d been walking around without his shirt in the basement, rather distractingly, until she made him a new, better-fitting shirt than her last, quickly sewn one. But this was different. Watching him disrobe was horribly seductive.

Realizing her mouth was hanging open, she snapped it shut and swallowed the exorbitant amount of saliva that had accumulated.

And in that suspended moment with water steaming, fire crackling, and his body bare beneath the touch of her gaze, the air between them felt so tight it ached, as though one wrong movement might snap it entirely.

His citrine eyes held hers as he waited for more instructions. Victoria’s pulse hammered, chest tight with a mixture of heat she didn’t understand.

His thumbs slid into his waistline, and before she could look away, they dropped, and he stepped from his breeches into the steaming water. Each contraction of his stomach muscles sent a wave of motion across the sinews of his body, every ridge and plane of muscle sharp beneath the firelight. Her head instinctively turned away, yet her eyes refused to leave him.

“Like this?” His voice was calm with a hint of teasing. He bent, fitting one knee under the water, glancing at her with an angle mercifully unflattering enough to allow her to peel her eyes away—briefly. “I can’t get everything wet at once.”

Victoria gripped the linen, grounding herself, needing to touch something that wasn’t him, and moved closer with the ash soap and cup. “I’m—” Her throat tightened. She glanced up at the ceiling for a beat. “I’m going to pour water on your head and shoulders, and—Jesus Christ—you have to stay crouched down.”

He turned, body a living sculpture in shadows and firelight, droplets sliding down him. His mouth curved at her reaction, then fell into seriousness as he knelt, dark head bowed in something like prayer, eyes tethered to hers until they vanished at the last possible second.

Her skin burned. Steam pressed against her, wrapping them together in heat and something far more dangerous. She poured the warm water over his massive shoulders, and her fingers trembled as they threaded through black waves of his hair. She had dreamed of running her hands through his hair. Over his body.

“Look up at me,” she whispered with a subtle note of command.

And he did.

Time slowed, the edges of the world blurring. Water trickled down his chest, and she pushed his hair back, heat radiating from her as her fingers worked the soap into his scalp. Each euphoric sigh from him sent a wisp of tension through her. She moved the rag over his cheek, finding herself suddenly too close to his face. Her other hand slid over his other cheek, into his hair. His mouth was suddenly closer, and she realized she’d moved closer, that her face was only a mere inch from his as she held his face, unable to comprehend anything but his magnetic pull over her. Every cell in her body seemed to inhale in anticipation as she hovered. When her eyes pulled away from his lips and found his eyes, they were filled with intense adoration atop something deeper, something hungry.

She focused all her thoughts on moving her body back, on turning, on anything, but she remained. Her lower lip touched his lightly, grazing over the softness before she pressed both her lips to his, her hands cupping his face. Everything faded away as her eyes closed and she felt what she had dreamed of feeling for so long.

He returned the kiss, his lips softly welcoming hers.

Her hands slid down his neck, her fingers lingered on the rag over the stitches along his neck and chest, and a shiver of awareness rolled down her spine as she pulled back. “My father did these stitches,” she murmured as she took a startled step away from him. She couldn’t kiss him. What was she doing?

“It’s an honor,” he said softly. “To wear memories that mean so much. But…does it ever hurt you to look at me?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Sometimes I hate you. Most of the time, I hate myself for all of this. I think he’d still be alive if we’d never tried to resurrect you. Sometimes I go to the basement, and all I see is the pain of losing him, knowing his heart now beats in your chest…knowing I lied, kept you, and chose you over him.” The words sobered her instantly.

“Me?” His voice, soft, drew her like a magnet.

“Yes.” She came around to the front, pressing the soap and rag into his hands. “Scrub the rest yourself. Rinse with the bucket. I’ll be in the dining room.”

“This is why you neglect your needs? To punish yourself?” The gentleness in his eyes undid her. She swallowed, watched as he didn’t push her, but continued to wash himself. She leaned on the nearby counter. “I’ve always been this way. Anxiety…sickness…I don’t know. My father’s illness worsened, and I had to learn everything he knew, as fast as possible…as if I lived two lives. During the day, invisible, useless, watching him fail…until Wilhelm saw me.” And for a second time, she told him the story of Wilhelm finding out she was performing surgeries.

The water sloshed as he stood to his full height, his expression the darkest she’d ever seen it. “I am going to kill him.”

Victoria leaped up, putting her hands out to stop him from getting out of the tub and covering his enormous cock that was now fully on display. “No! You can’t kill him. He’s the baron’s heir!”

“I’ve killed far more important.”

“No!” She waved her hands.

“I will kill him and you will resurrect him so that I can kill him again. More painfully,” he growled.

“No, that’s—you can’t kill him. I’ve handled it. He’s not a problem for me any longer. And you’re splashing water everywhere, and your…” She looked up at the ceiling as her cheeks heated. “Your cock is—everywhere.”

He leaned closer, and though the water separated them, the tension was nearly unbearable. “I will not allow him or anyone else to harm you,” he said, voice a growl now, each word tempered with the power to terrify or protect. “If he ever threatens you again, if he so much as breathes near you with ill intent, I will—” He didn’t finish; the promise of what he could do hung in the air, sharp, intoxicating.

Victoria’s chest tightened. The ache in her body, the fire between them, the knowledge of his overwhelming strength—it all collided with the warmth of his skin, the sound of his voice, the proximity, the steam. The protection. She wanted to faint, cry, and melt all at once. And somewhere deep, she realized how much she wanted him—not just physically but wholly. Eternally.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, you would.”

He nodded slightly, a hint of that rare, ghostly smile brushing his lips. “I always will.”