Heart of Frankenstein

by Lexi Post

  The snowball lowered and pressed against her opening. Holy sugar, he was going to put it inside her. Even at her thought, the snowball pressed into her opening, sending paradoxical fire through her veins.

  Another snowball appeared in his fingers and was pushed in to join the one melting inside her. The next came faster and was thrust inside just before a fourth followed. Her body felt on fire, even within her cold sheath, but he gave no respite as he moved his cock over her clit and stroked.

  Her sheath tightened on the cold hardness inside and her body tensed. He replaced his cock with his fingers, playing with her clit as her sheath tightened on the hard melt until her hips came off the bed and her scream filled the air.

  She floated in his arms in the warm waters of the Banjar hot springs, exhausted yet frustrated. Would he ever come with her? He had her nestled in front of him, so she couldn’t see him. He did that a lot. But how did she know that? Didn’t she just meet him on this trip?

  Confused, she pulled out of his arms and turned to look at him, but he was gone. She stood to call his name, but she couldn’t remember what it was. The steam from the baths grew thicker until everything turned bright white.

  She covered her eyes with her hand and shivered. Quickly, she crouched down into the warm waters and they came up to her neck, helping her relax.

  He stood in the snow, his body’s heat rising from him as the below-zero air hit him. Unfortunately, it didn’t take away the shock of Angel’s kiss. His whole being centered on the remembered feel of her lips and the touch of her tongue. He wanted that and more with every fiber of his soul…if he had one.

  He fisted his hands and closed his eyes, stealing himself against the hope trying to come to life. He didn’t deserve her. He was a monster, other than human.

  A voice rose inside him from his youth. But you were ignorant in what was good and bad, abandoned by the very man who created you, who should have nurtured your interest in all that was virtuous. He is the villain and you merely his tool.

  “No.” He shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thoughts that always tried to rationalize his crimes.

  He had read Paradise Lost in his first year of life. He’d watched the cottage family and learned about history, the villainy of man and the virtues of good people. Yet, he’d followed the path of revenge.

  A justified revenge against your creator, who turned away from you. A man who destroyed your only possibility for happiness when he dismembered your mate, the only other being who could be your equal in strength and immortality. You tried to reason with him, but he failed you.

  As if he could escape the immature reasoning of his past, he ran up his mountain, focusing on his steps, pushing his muscles, avoiding the slopes where a fall would be imminent.

  But what would it matter? Victor had created a being of immortality. If he fell, he would continue to breathe and grow hungry and be tortured by his own conscience. Did the good doctor know that would happen, or did he, and only he, have the knowledge of what could destroy him?

  If only Victor had.

  If only he’d never been brought into existence.

  Then Angel would be dead, frozen to the ground and buried beneath the winter snows or torn apart by wolves like your doomed mate.

  He stopped, his breathing barely heavy despite the high altitude. Once again, a sense that Angel could be his salvation churned in his gut. Could she give him the forgiveness he needed? Could he save her, all of her, including her hands and then find the peace he sought?

  And then watch her leave to return to her life.

  Even as he caught his breath, he resisted the urge to fight against the fact she would desert him. It was part of the sacrifice he had to make. It was necessary.

  But what if she didn’t want to leave? Again, the feel of her tongue on his own pushed to the forefront of his mind and with it the remembered feel of her body against his own as he warmed her back to life, but he refused to follow that thought to a happy conclusion. Fate had decreed that he—

  A scream from his cabin, too faint for a man to hear, caught his attention. Spinning around, he ran down the mountainside, his heart now beating faster than a woodpecker’s peck. Images of a bear breaking in, or worse yet, entering because he’d left the door ajar, filled him with fear. Reaching the cabin without mishap, he bounded up the steps and pushed the door open.

  Inside all was calm, Angel’s breathing even. Relief surged through him, and he sat in the chair next to the bed before his legs could buckle beneath him. Gently, he pulled the quilt up.

  Timber had said the medicine might cause bad dreams. A nightmare. That must have caused her yell, but it appeared to have passed. His own body relaxed as a direct result.

  Whether either of them accepted it, they were connected. No one he’d saved in his long life of reparation had been under his care for so long. Circumstances and fate had intervened this time, and he wouldn’t disrespect that.

  Angel’s kiss had been no more than a strong medicine acting upon her psyche. If she remembered the action, it would embarrass her. He would act as though it never happened.

  He folded his arms across his bare chest. It felt good to move about without a constricting shirt. That she hadn’t turned away in horror was a testament to her kindness.

  Curious, he rose and stood before the shard of mirror on his wall. He glanced at her before lifting his hair and examining the scar that crossed his forehead.

  Unlike the other stitches made by his creator, the one across his forehead was perfectly symmetrical, following the curve of his head exactly. It had faded so much over the years, almost blending in with his skin tone.

  Part of his rage in his first years of life was due to his lack of understanding of why people thought him a horror. He’d lived up to his monstrous outward appearance, going to great lengths to meet people’s expectations by committing monstrous acts. It hadn’t been until the object of his revenge, Victor, had died while chasing him down to kill him that he’d turned his thoughts inward.

  Dropping his hair, he combed it with his fingers to cover the scar again. Those stitches were a reminder of the genius brain he’d been given, much like the ones along his body bordered exceptional muscles.

  Even his hair had been chosen specifically, according to Victor’s journals. He was to be bigger and better than human. The only thing not in the journals was whether Victor had expected him to be immortal. Was that an accident or purposeful? He’d combed through every drawer and chest in Victor’s apartment where he’d been brought to life, but couldn’t find the answer. If only Victor had written down how his life could be extinguished, he would do it as soon as he’d achieved peace.

  After leaving the ship where his creator had finally succumbed to his own mortality, he’d planned to burn himself on a pyre. He’d even told the ship’s captain he would do so, but coward that he was, the minute the fire hit his skin, he jumped from the burning woodpile.

  His anguish over his failure had been the very worst moment of his existence. It had also set him on a new path. Somewhere deep inside him was the fear that he wouldn’t find the peace he sought before he lost all feeling. Today, if he were to step upon a burning pyre, it may well take an hour before he felt the need to escape.

  He turned to look at Angel in confusion. Her slightest touch, given of her own free will, never mind the influence of the medicine, had broken through the insensitivity of his lips and jolted him into a new awareness. Once again, fate was at work and it was further proof they were connected.

  It could be no more than as healer and the injured. He understood that and would have to make that clear if there were any other overtures from her. Those would make it difficult for both of them. He was the stronger one, the healthy one, and the one with the most life experience. He would resist.

  Walking toward the bed, he checked once more to be sure she breathed comfortably. Once assured of that, blindly he chose a book at random from his bookshelf and sat down. Opening the
cover, he stared at the title page. How to Make Love to a Woman.

  ~~*~~

  Angela enjoyed the sound of Sas’ raspy voice as he read the musketeer tale to her. It was so much more enjoyable to listen to than to read it herself. Luckily, they had started a new routine. He tended to her immediate needs in the morning then spent until lunch getting ready for winter.

  After feeding her lunch, he brought in enough wood for the rest of the day and night then settled in to read to her. The story was over five-hundred pages, so even though she read a little in the morning, it would take them forever to finish it.

  At night, he fed her dinner then they talked as he worked inside the cabin. “Talked” being a relative term. She talked and he listened for the most part. She only called it a conversation because she’d broke him of the habit of not answering questions he didn’t want to answer. Now he said “I decline to answer,” which was him saying something at least. It also cut out the long pauses in their “talks,” during one of which she’d actually fallen asleep.

  It had been almost three days of this routine, and she loved it, which surprised her. It was so simple compared to her normal life or even her vacations. It must have to do with Sas. He fascinated her. Strong and kind yet shy and sexy.

  There was only one problem. She stank. She wrinkled her nose as she lowered her face and took a breath. The mint leaves he’d been thoughtful enough to provide her with in the mornings may have helped her breath, but the only thing that had been washed on her body was her hands, feet and face.

  Her dilemma was that her hands were no closer to being useful than they were three days ago, which meant to get clean, he’d have to wash her…if he even would. She licked her lips at her problem. On one hand, she was much more than a little attracted to him and him washing her could be a very embarrassing experience for both of them. On the other hand, she had to bathe.

  Then there was the bathing itself. He still went outside and showered in the cold. She’d swear the man had ice flowing through his veins if his touch wasn’t so warm. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d gone out without his bearskin coat, some of those times without even a shirt.

  There was no way she could handle that cold, never mind having to—

  “What’s troubling you?” His change in tone caught her attention.

  She smirked. “It’s kind of personal.”

  He set down the book. “If you don’t care for the story, I can read you another.” His gazed flicked over the bookshelves before he cleared his throat. “Or I don’t have to read anything.”

  “Oh, no. The story is fine. It’s something else entirely.”

  From across the room, he actually met her gaze, which was a nice change, except for the fact that she was having a hard time not looking away. She caved and looked down at the quilt, which gave her another whiff of herself. There was just no way to get around it. She glanced up at him and grimaced. “I stink.”

  “You stink? I don’t understand. Is that a figurative term?”

  Great, now she had to spell it out. “Sometimes, yes, but in this case, no. I stink in as I smell like I haven’t bathed in over a week, which is actually the case.”

  His eyebrows rose up beneath his hair before he looked away and nodded. “Of course. I should have thought of that.” He rose and strode toward the kitchen.

  “No, you shouldn’t have. I should have, a lot sooner than this. You take excellent care of me.” She didn’t want him beating himself up over this like he had about the cabin cooling off.

  He opened the door to the pantry, but stopped at her comment. “I didn’t think of it sooner because your scent pleases me.”

  He disappeared through the door, which was good because she could feel herself blushing. Shoot, how would she get through some kind of bathing if all he had to do is tell her she smelled good?

  If only she could wait until her hands healed, but from the way they looked last time he cleaned them, it would still be awhile. At least the burning had grown less intense when she moved them.

  Noise coming from behind the cabin had her craning her neck. Sas’ cave was his storage and pantry. He actually told her all about it just the day before. It stayed very cool but not freezing which was perfect for storing potatoes and onions as well as meats and fish. He said it was well ventilated as well, so nothing grew mold.

  She couldn’t wait until she could stand on her own two feet and move around a little. She wanted to explore everything in the cabin. It would tell her a lot more about Sas than he did. She enjoyed being around a man who wasn’t always talking about himself for a change, but it would be a lot easier to know him if he was a little more communicative.

  A large pale pink square with rust on it came through the pantry door first. More of it appeared followed by Sas who carried it.

  She was too impatient to wait. “What’s that?”

  He set it on the floor facing her. “An old refrigerator.”

  An old refrigerator? She studied it before realizing it was missing the door. The sides were a pale pink with a good share of rust, but inside was white and smooth. It had to be from the nineteen-fifties or something. “What’s that for?”

  As usual, he didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted the old appliance onto its back. “This is what I use to wash clothes in the winter.”

  Now that was ingenious. “Where did you get something like that out here?”

  “I found it at the dump in Savik. Four-Point allowed me to place it on a sled and hook it to the back of his snow machine. I gave him a deer I’d killed in trade. He has to feed his wife as well as himself.”

  No wonder she enjoyed being with Sas. Life out in the wilderness was creative and the people who lived out here really worked together. It was a refreshing change from city life where people bashed windows over a simple parking space. And why? Because they didn’t want to walk so far. Just keeping warm out here was more effort than that.

  Sas moved to the kitchen and pulled out two large pots, far bigger than anything he’d used to cook with. They were the size of large lobster pots she’d seen when she’d travelled on the east coast of Maine.

  After filling them with water, he placed them on the wood stove and added wood to the fire. She watched him work, enjoying the movement of his muscles, especially when he lifted the heavy pots. When his biceps tensed, the veins on the inside of his arms stood out in stark relief. She was so happy his shirt tore on his way to Timber’s because it improved her view one hundred percent. Sas’ body made her want to sigh with desire.

  Not that she could act on that feeling. Right now, she was ridiculously weak. Once her feet were healed enough, she planned on doing squats and crunches and anything else to help rebuild her strength. Sas was certainly feeding her well enough to aid her in that direction.

  He disappeared into the pantry again and her curiosity grew. What did doing laundry have to do with—oh. She stared at the refrigerator then moved her gaze to the pots and back again. That would be her bathtub.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Angela swallowed hard. When she mentioned bathing, she’d thought maybe a wet cloth, some soap and exposing one body part at a time. Not this. As she studied the appliance, she had to admit it was just big enough to fit her, if she bent her knees. It looked a little deeper than a tub though.

  There had to be a way of tackling this task without getting completely naked and letting Sas wash her. Maybe he could tie plastic bags around her hands really tight at the wrists, but even as she thought it, her gut told her he’d never allow that.

  A part of her wanted him to feel as uncomfortable and turned-on as she would feel. She had no doubt he’d feel uncomfortable based on the way he walked out on her the other day when she’d kissed him, tongue and all, which she shouldn’t have done and wouldn’t have if she hadn’t been high on pain killers.

  The sad part was, she didn’t regret the action in the least. She just wished he’d responded in kind. It was torture to be in suc
h close proximity to a man, every day, alone with him, and not act on her inclinations. If she wasn’t such an invalid, she’d have followed that kiss with another and then some.

  And would she have been embarrassed by his rejection? Probably. He’d done her a favor by walking out. He’d made it clear he wasn’t interested without actually saying anything. Typical Sas. She couldn’t help smiling at that.

  He strode back in from the pantry with a bundle in one hand, a small package in the other, and a bucket hanging from his wrist. He set everything down on the table where he usually ate.

  “Are those my clothes?” The green colored woven yarn sandwiched between jean material and what looked like black sweats had to be her sweater.

  “They are.” Sas opened the brown paper-wrapped package. Inside was a square wrapped in plastic.

  Feeling a little happier to see her clothes, she couldn’t contain her curiosity. “What’s that?”

  “Soap.”

  “Oh.” And how would that actually be applied to her body? She could feel the heat in her cheeks. She would die of embarrassment.

  Sas picked up the bucket and set it in the sink. Moving the lever that allowed the mountain ice water to flow into his house, he began filling it. He’d explained to her how it all worked until the winter freeze stopped all water from the mountain. Before that happened, he said he filled plastic jugs with it and stored them in his cave pantry.

  When the bucket was full, he emptied it into the old refrigerator. He paused, examining the appliance.

  Maybe it leaked and they’d have to do something else. She could only hope. Then again “something else” might be more embarrassing.

  He pushed the fridge closer to the woodstove then returned to the kitchen.

  She licked at her lips, thankful that at least they had healed. Wishing her hands and feet were better wouldn’t make it happen, at least not in the next half hour.

  Despite her nervousness, she continued to enjoy the view of Sas emptying buckets of water into the makeshift tub. His naked torso, despite, or maybe because of the scars, was like the Aurora Borealis she witnessed her second night on the ship, sharp lines with waves of movement.