the rest is silence

He peered below, through the large shaft where Harlander's body lay at the bottom of the pit. His attention was drawn back to the doorway as he heard Evelyn's footsteps racing down the staircase.

"Evelyn, wait!" He shouted, keeping pace after her.

Before he could intervene, she was already standing at Harlander's side, taking in the grizzly scene. She flinched at Victor's touch as he reached for her arm.

"Evelyn, you must understand it was an accident," he rushed to explain. "He'd gone mad with disease—demanded I put his brain into my creation—he slipped—and I—"

"We've got to move him. We can't leave his body here."

Victor stumbled over his words for a moment, taken aback by how quickly she believed his story. He moved swiftly to assist with the body, suggesting the cold-box as a temporary tomb before procuring a more suitable burial site.

Evelyn let out a shaky breath once they'd made their way back to the laboratory. She looked down at her dress, the fabric that earlier had only traces of dirt from pottering about in the garden now stained a deep crimson, the benefactor's blood smudged across her azure skirt. She took another breath to steady herself.

She looked up as Victor placed a gloved hand on her forearm.

"Evelyn," he began, another flash of lightning illuminating the walls of the laboratory. "This storm may be my only chance. Can I trust you to stay back behind the doors?"

Without a word, she nodded in compliance, and made her way to the threshold. Far enough away to avoid accidental electrocution, but still close enough to observe.

She watched as he fastened the lightning rods in place, breath catching in her throat when he disappeared up towards the tower's spire.

The minutes passed in a blur while Victor prepared to bring life into his creation—turning gears, flipping switches, double and triple checking the rods.

Another crack of lightning shot through the sky and into the spire, crackling and fizzling down through the lightning rods and into the conducive plates attached to the body on the slab.

Evelyn shielded her eyes as sparks scattered across the room, loud booms erupting from now disjointed and blown out mechanisms. This is madness, the thought skittered through her mind.

All at once she heard Victor's frustrated voice echo throughout the lab as he pounded on his specimen's chest in desperation. She dared to push past the door and over the threshold.

Victor flinched when he felt Evelyn's hands on him, and he nearly collapsed into her, defeated and disoriented as she led him back to their chambers.

—

Evelyn didn't know what to make of Victor's experiment gone wrong. She'd never once doubted his abilities, didn't believe that he wouldn't be successful in his endeavors. Perhaps something had gone awry—a simple miscalculation, a wire—or nerve, even—not properly fastened. Or perhaps she'd been holding him in too high regard all these years. Maybe the madness was simply that. After all, she'd never been privy to his lectures in Edinburgh. Perhaps it truly was all just the ramblings of a madman.

A sigh escaped her as she tossed her soiled dress into a basket, along with Victor's button-down (he'd carelessly discarded it onto the floor before falling into bed and succumbing to exhaustion).

She folded her legs beneath her, tucking her nightgown up around her thighs as she sat on the edge of the bed.

In the candlelight Victor's features appeared serene, as if his mind was finally at ease while he slept. She ran her fingers through his matted curls, his skin still tacky with sweat. Something within her still wanted to believe he was in his right mind. But his recent carelessness toward her, a botched experiment, and that look in his eyes—reading meters and watching the sky with a wildness she'd never seen before—the unfamiliarity gave her pause.

—

The first rays of morning light skittered through the window panes, shadowed curtains fluttering gracefully across the stone floors. The last drops of rain still splattered the sills, reflecting daylight in tiny, pearled beads. Beyond, Evelyn could hear the waves crashing rhythmically across the rocky shoreline below. The sound lulled her into a dream-like space, somewhere between consciousness and sleep; she didn't notice the hands at her sides, nor the tender kisses adorning her navel.

A familiar sensation threw her into cognizance. She peered down to see Victor playfully kissing the crest of her hip bone, then her upper thigh, and then, noticing she was finally awake, he lowered himself further, lips gently parting at her core.

A gasp escaped her as she reached for him, delicate fingers entwining themselves within tousled, raven curls.

"Victor," she breathed, "you lustful fiend."

Undeterred, he only chuckled against her, sending ripples of goosebumps across her exposed skin.

Heat bubbled up from her belly, spreading across her frame like a wave. She rolled against him, fingers crumpling the sheets as the tension continued to build, her body begging for release.

She opened her eyes for a moment before blinking in rapid succession.

When it registered to her what she was seeing, she curled her legs up and began pushing Victor from between her thighs; however he only held tighter in response.

"Darling, stop," she pleaded. "Victor, there's—someone is watching!"

Her exclamation halted his pursuit and he sat up, spinning around with a gasp of disbelief.

At the foot of the bed, just beyond the fabric hangings, stood his creation, fully alive and reanimated before his eyes.

"Victor," Evelyn breathed, placing a hand on his shoulder, "you've done it."

She watched as he stood from the bed, cautiously raising a hand toward the Creature. With each shaky movement, they mirrored each other, until Victor stood before him.

The sun made him wince, but Victor's reassurance seemed to calm him. Evelyn's voice captured his attention when she expressed her astonishment, yet Victor forbade him to approach.

As she watched him, she couldn't help but feel an obscure familiarity, as if he'd been wandering in the recesses of her mind. His pale, marble-like skin, stitched together with patience and determination; his eyes—the very one she'd gazed upon in the laboratory—one human, one akin to an animal; his hesitant, curious expression as Victor hastily began leading him away from the bedroom and into the tower's lower chambers.

Evelyn stood from the bed and wrapped herself in a dressing gown, following a few paces behind them.

When they reached the tower's valve pit, she watched as Victor shackled him to a large, stone block, wrapping him in a red woolen blanket as he spoke soothing words to him. Evelyn, however, could hear the strain in his voice—the cadence that revealed he was just as scared as the Creature before him.

"You're leaving him down there?" Her voice broke as he ushered her up the stone stairway.

"It's for his safety," he waved her off, "and for ours."

He stopped when he noticed her no longer following him. Turning to meet her gaze, he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Evelyn," he began, placing a hand at her waist. "Darling, until I can properly observe him I cannot risk him bringing harm to not only himself, but to you or I. If something were to happen, I could never forgive myself."

The explanation pacified her concern, however a familiar pit had begun to resurface within her. A sense of impending doom shrouded her for the remainder of the day, following her from room to room like an apparition.

Victor did not object when she excused herself from dinner early to retire to their bedchambers. He bid her goodnight, saying he needed to look in on the Creature and that he would join her shortly thereafter.

—

That night, the uncanny dream that had plagued her for more than a year occurred once more. This time, the platform where the man had stood was empty, and the wolf stone left undisturbed.

The wind howled as a cold mist sprayed the ground, dampening her cloak as she wandered for what seemed like hours, until she came upon a twisting maze of catacombs. Within the tomb, was a figure crouched low to the ground. When she approached, he stood, chains clinking together as he did so. It wasn't until he stepped into the faint candlelight that she saw not just the now familiar man from her dreams, but the Creature himself.

You looked at him briefly before locking the doors, your heels clicking against the terrazzo flooring, each step confirmation of your annoyance.

"Really, it is!" His eyes widened with enunciation as he dug through his wallet to retrieve a crumpled, hole-punched card. "I've reached twenty-five books—see?"

The smile plastered across his face was enough to make your demeanor soften a little. The man truly was sweet, albeit a bit quirky. You raised your brow and took the card, punching a fifth hole and handing it back to him.

Silence fell between you as he continued to stare, an expectant look in his eyes.

"My…prize?" he asked coyly, his smile beginning to falter.

"Oh, of course," you realized. "We're all out of cards for Tesco, so it'll have to be Padella."

He paused, eyeing the card in your outstretched hand.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Grant?"

He exhaled, gaze darting from the card to your face. "N-No, it's just…I thought maybe we could…come up with an alternative?"

Your brow furrowed as you lowered your hand. In all the years of Steven visiting the library, this was a first.

"What sort of an alternative?"

"Well," he began with a coy laugh, "I thought maybe you could show me the books in the Egyptian archive—you said we could have a look when you had a moment. What better moment than now, yeah?"

Glancing down at your watch, you let out a stiff exhale. "Yeah, I suppose. Follow me."

—

The room housing the archives was much larger than Steven had imagined. Rows of shelves filled with boxes, books, and manuscripts. Temperature-controlled rooms branched off the main room, their contents hidden behind thick metal doors. The air smelled of old books—earth and leather, history and memories. He found it comforting, like when he'd wander the halls of the museum after hours, reading information placards that he'd read a thousand times.

You swiped your keycard at one of the doors and it opened with a metallic click.

"Anything in particular you wanted to look at?" you asked, stepping through the doorway and beckoning him to follow.

You didn't notice the way his eyes lingered on you when you spoke, observing, silently calculating.

"Um, I've been doing some reading about the Ennead—the nine major Egyptian deities. We actually have a new exhibit dedicated to them—they got the posters completely wrong, if you can believe it. They featured seven instead of nine—"

A smile tugged at your lips as you began thumbing through a box of manuscripts. It was endearing, charming even, the way he'd trail off on tangents about his interests.

You pulled a box from the shelf and set it on the table beside you, still thumbing through its contents. Steven's voice had trailed off, but you could feel his presence behind you, a feather-light touch on your waist.

"Mr. Grant…" your voice was candid, but firm.

His hand fell back and he ran it through his dark curls, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

You resumed your search, pulling a folder out to begin paging through its contents.

"Ennead…Ennead…" you mumbled, still flipping.

A hand reached out again, this time a light brush against your arm.

"Mr. Grant, we've spoken about this." You let out an exasperated sigh, palm flat against the table.

He recoiled once more, this time letting out a huff and running both hands through his hair. He wasn't the best at this sort of thing—making a move. But he'd told himself he was going to be assertive this time.

He bit his lip, eyes traveling across your frame. He noted the way your fingers splayed across the tabletop, how your pencil skirt hugged your hips, your tousled bun threatening to tumble from its elastic prison. If he stood at an angle and craned his neck a bit, he could see the nude lace of your bralette beneath your button down.

Had he ever let it slip that he was down bad for the whole librarian thing?

He swallowed hard again in an attempt to compose himself.

"There is no dessert without a fire," he whispered to himself like a prayer. He placed a hand on your waist again and gripped your wrist with the other, spinning you around to face him.

Your gaze found his. Dark eyes contrasting with the florescent lights, harsh shadows cast across his features. He almost didn't look like himself. Your breath hitched as you watched him lean forward and plant a chaste kiss against your lips.

"Mr…Grant…?" You barley managed the words.

His expression grew darker, hungrier. Eyes narrowed and a subtle smirk tugged at his lips.

"Keep calling me that?" He threw out the request with a nod, almost breaking character.

He kissed you again, this time with ferventness. You stopped him once to move the archive pages out of the way, before letting him resume kissing and nipping at your neck.

Pulling at the buttons of your top, he slid the fabric off your shoulders, tossing it aside. He lifted you onto the table, but paused for a moment.

"This is stable enough, yeah?"

"Mm-hm." You pulled him back, your hands playing with the hem of his shirt before pulling it over his head.

While he continued to kiss you, he took a moment to cup one of your breasts, pinching the nipple through the thin lace, eliciting a short gasp from you.

You felt a warmth press between your thighs and you instinctively nudged into it, making a low moan escape him.

"Darling, you can't do that," he feigned scolding you as he hiked up your skirt.

He lowered his hand, pressing two fingers against you, feeling the dampness of the fabric and gently circling around your core. Your breath hitched and you found yourself rocking into his touch.

"Mr. Grant," you breathed, lips hot against his ear.

You undid the button on his pants, letting them loosely hang at his hips. You could see his outline pressed against his boxers. You were surprised when he didn't stop you from shimmying them down and leaving him exposed.

The air in the room was cool, and the sudden temperature change made him gasp as you took hold of him and began gently working your hand along his length.

Your gazes met and he bit his lip again, eyes nearly fluttering shut as you continued.

"Darling, hmm, love," he stumbled over his words.

He felt a heat rise within him like a smoldering coil, tight within his abdomen and wrapping around his flank. Fighting the urge to give in, he stopped you to pull your panties down and ran two fingers along your warmth.

Oh, wow—no, keep it together, Steven—focus on the task.

He gripped your thighs, nudging himself forward, with what you decided was painstakingly too slow. You pushed yourself forward, wrapping you legs around him, which caused him to enter you faster than he intended. He tried holding back the moan that escaped him, to no avail.

"I told you, slow and steady," he breathed, hips bucking against you, driven by instinct.

You sighed, running fingers through his ink-black curls and rocking into him. "Stop breaking character, Stev—er, Mr. Grant—"

You let out a loud moan as your core ground against him with each thrust, the pace moving faster as he followed your lead, unable to hold back.

"If you keep this up…

…and keep calling me that…

…I'm not going to…

…last very long, I'm afraid."

He could feel the stitches already coming undone as you worked him over. The coil within him on the brink of snapping as it wound tighter.

This happened more than he liked to admit, his habit of arriving too quickly, to put it delicately; not that it bothered you much. You found it attractive, how you could make him unravel so easily. And besides, you knew he could be generous in other ways.

He dug his fingers into your back as if holding on for dear life. Sweat beaded across his brow and he moved a hand up to cradle the back of your head, kissing you with reverence. When he pulled away, he pressed his forehead to yours, his cheeks flush, mouth turned into a concentrated frown, hips still in rhythm.

"I'm—"

Before he could get the words out, he shuddered, the coil finally snapping as he pulsated within your walls.

He leaned against you, one hand on you thigh, the other on the table. He breathed slowly and deeply, head resting against your shoulder. Putty in your hands.

You traced your fingers along his back, feeling the muscles twitch beneath tacky, salt-covered skin.

"You're an absolute dream," he exclaimed, still catching his breath, "you know that?"

A breathy laugh escaped you as you kissed his shoulder, his forehead, his lips once more.

Perhaps you needed to find reasons to stay after hours with Steven more often.

—

Steven had insisted on walking you home. The night air was cool, a welcoming relief from the stuffy archives. He bought you a sausage roll from a street vendor and asked if he could hold your hand, still soaking in the afterglow bliss. He hadn't stopped smiling since you locked up the library for the night.

You stopped outside the door to your flat.

"Uh, funny," Steven mused, looking up at the building. "We live in the same block."

"Steven," you laughed and ran your hands from his shoulders up to his nape.

"Would you mind if I popped in for a cuppa, Mrs. Grant?"

A cheeky smile broadened across his face as he pulled you in for another kiss.

"Come on, love," you beckoned.

There was a pep in Steven that night, stepping into your flat. He couldn't think of anything better than curling up next to you as he drifted off to sleep. The scent of tea lingering in the air, sheets that smelled like you, and the warmth of your hand as your fingers played with his dark curls. You sighed and leaned into him, content to be in his arms. He opened his eyes, blinking steadily as he met your gaze. For the time being, his mind was content, and his heart full.