Chapter 13 #4
Victoria’s hands stilled over the body. She hadn’t thought about the implications of what the world would think if the experiment succeeded.
What it would mean for the three of them.
Few people were comfortable with death. Fewer still with power.
And this experiment manipulated both, pushing them to the furthest edges of possibility.
Her gaze returned to the cadaver. To the intricate tapestry of flesh she had so carefully stitched across his chest, his shoulder, his neck, and parts of his face.
She found it beautiful. She knew that most who would look upon the great mosaic of his body would judge him, recoil from him, treat him cruelly for his appearance.
But in Victoria’s eyes, he had become a living painting.
As though every piece of another life was a brushstroke, each patch of skin carrying the quiet imprint of the person it once belonged to.
It was as if all of mankind had been placed within him, the pieces of others forming the hand-hewn platforms and bracings of the great scaffolding of human existence itself.
There was something wildly unique, unsettling, and profoundly beautiful in that omnibus of mankind.
She would never let her father kill him.
Once Innominatus was alive, her father would view him as family too, she knew it. They would all figure it out together.
The next day, the staple was fastened into the stone wall.
Two bulky links of chain hung down from the U-shaped iron fastener, coiled in a heavy pile on the laboratory floor.
The metal cuffs lay open, still and ominous.
As Victoria took in the sight, she stepped backward, away from them—as if the latches would grow teeth, snap shut, and clamp around her wrists and ankles like the spring-loaded, serrated jaw traps Wilhelm used.
But as the day of the experiment drew closer, the saddest realization of all settled into her bones and into her heart: The man would come alive with no knowledge of who she was. No recollection of their time together.
He wouldn’t know her. And what was worse—she wouldn’t know him anymore.
The silent companion who had been as steady as stone beside her for the last four months would be gone, transformed into a man destined to live only fourteen hours.
That night Victoria stared at the ceiling after throwing the covers from her body, unable to find comfort.
She rolled onto her side. Cold air struck her back like a knot of ice pressed against her skin.
With a shiver, she tucked her hand between the heat of her thighs.
The cold touch reminded her of Innominatus’s icy flesh.
The thought of his large hand between her thighs sent a unique flurry of tingles to her lower stomach and the core of her womanhood.
The sound of her cold breath filled her ears as she closed her eyes and moved exploratory fingers over the soft skin of her upper thigh, all the while imagining it was Innominatus.
“Everything they said about me is a lie,” his lips whisper in her ear, their smoothness brushing against the sensitive shell.
She doesn’t need to look at them to know the details of them, every line and swell of pink lip is ingrained in her head.
“I would never hurt a soul, especially not you, my Victoria,” he says as he presses his lips to her throat gently, his voice light and silvery with a bright, airy tone.
“Do you hate me for what I’ve done to you?” she asks as he shifts on the bed until he’s above her. His muscular arms flex as he holds his upper body up, inches from her body. Her eyes trail over his familiar body, naked and hardened with a need for her that cannot be hidden.
“I love you, Victoria,” he says as his lips smash to hers.
She kisses him back, and it sends a wave of euphoria over her body, down to her toes, which clench and curl as she tries to pull him closer, needing to feel him after not feeling his responding touch for so long.
His palm skates up her thigh until he’s touching her where she tingles the most. He moans in sync with her as his hand slides up under her nightgown, touching her most tender parts with his cool fingers, leaving a ghost trail of sensations in their shadow.
“Please,” she moans between tender kisses. “Please, take me.” His hardness is pressed against her body, driving her mad with a passion she’s never felt. He needs her as much as she wants him. They are the only two people in the world and no one can judge them.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks, but his hand is already greedily rubbing over her wet center.
“Yes, please, Inno,” she moans. Two fingers slide over her slickness, and she has to bite her lip to stop from crying out.
Her needy hands roam across his chest and stomach, feeling every rigid dent and bulge of hard muscle, but it’s never enough.
Her hands and mind are frantic and unsatiated as they touch all of him.
She feels his touch in her bones and in her soul.
He lets out a groan as she grabs his huge member, and she’s immediately drunk with lust. His hardness notches at her entrance and presses in a little.
“Are you okay?” he asks, knowing he’s quite large.
She nods as she pants. She needs to feel all of him, needs them to be intertwined and connected.
Her fingernails press into his back with a low moan as he gently thrusts inside her.
His movements are slow at first, and she can feel every vein and ridge thrusting inside of her before he pulls back, and she’s crying out for more.
In he goes, and her eyes roll to the back of her head as her body softens around him.
His face is above hers, watching with tender eyes as she comes apart.
Their rhythms sync together, and they are a symphony of moans and panting.
Every nerve in her body catches fire and explodes as they finish together.
Victoria’s eyes fluttered open, taking in the wooden dresser and empty fireplace in her bedroom. She pulled her wet hand from between her legs, still breathing heavily as she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Alone again.
That night, Victoria found herself in the laboratory, uncomfortable with the distance between her and Innominatus.
She knew she shouldn’t, but she curled up on the table and lay with him, lit only by the soft amber glow of his machine’s flame, wishing she could feel the return of his touch.
All their important moments together would be lost. He wouldn’t even know her.
His body was stiff and cold as it pressed against her skin, but Victoria did not move.
This might be the last time she got to feel his closeness.
She lay along the narrow table beside him, pressing herself against his side as though warmth might be coaxed from marble if she held it long enough.
Her arm tightened across the cadaver’s torso.
A tear slipped from her lashes and disappeared into the hollow beneath his collarbone.
She couldn’t imagine finally getting to hear his voice, see his eyes, feel his touch, and have to say goodbye.
His skin was the color of old wax. Too still. Too perfect in its silence. She studied the profile of his face, the dark sweep of his lashes against unmoving cheeks, the mouth carved into quiet. She had rebuilt that mouth with her own hands. Sutured it. Smoothed it. Reshaped its edges.
Her fingers trembled as they traced the line of his jaw. The chill of him startled her, yet she did not pull away. Instead, she draped herself across his chest, aligning her breathing with a heart that did not beat.
When he had drawn breath, it had been long ago. Another life. Another woman’s memory. He was far too beautiful to have been without the love of another woman.
Her thumb slid across his lower lip. Cold. Unyielding. The wrongness of it made her pulse quicken. She knew she should recoil. Should rise. Should remember what he was—what she had done to him.
Instead, she leaned closer. Her mind screamed at her to stop.
She closed the final inch.
Her lips met his.
The contact was dreadful in its stillness. No intake of breath. No startled response. No warmth returning her own. Only the hard press of lifeless flesh beneath her mouth.
For a heartbeat she remained there, waiting—absurdly—for him to answer.
The silence struck her like a blow.
She tore herself away with a sharp gasp and nearly fell from the table at the sound of glass breaking.
Her hands flew to her mouth as if she could erase the contact, erase the choice, the fact that she had pressed longing into something that could not feel.
The glass dome of the cranial apparatus had shattered, and shards of black glass scattered across him and the table.
She stared at the face she had assembled, preserved, claimed. Horror bled slowly into something far more dangerous.
She did not regret it.