AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/alerted this story while I was curled up in a fetal position desperately fighting off writer's block. As always, I welcome any and all feedback.

THE CREATURE

He had never before been thankful that he did not have a name. But as he watched Lena walk across the lawn – storm across it, really – he sent his father a silent, bittersweet thanks. If he had a name, and Lena had used it in her pleas… if she had said one more word, he would have abandoned all control and lost his mind, and with it, all the honor and integrity he had struggled to build within himself since his return to humankind.

Eight years ago, his father had died on a cold, dark ship in the Arctic, surrounded by strangers, unloved and unmissed.

Victor had been flawed, terribly flawed, in his heart and in his mind. Those flaws had manifested themselves on his son's body, and then Victor's death had nearly destroyed his son's mind. He had been robbed of his vengeance, and at the same time, robbed of any chance of ever receiving Victor's forgiveness.

Half-mad with rage and sorrow, he had told those strangers that he would destroy himself alongside his father's body in a funeral pyre.

It was the only lie he had ever spoken. He had burned his father's body, yes, and he had spent several years travelling through Russia and Eastern Europe, learning new languages, acquiring new skills, and hiding from humanity. He became wild, and angry, and his travels inevitably led him South, as he began to become consumed by the need for comfort, with a burning desire to be home, to be in the only place where he had ever known any measure of happiness.

France.

He sighed, lifted his hands up and held them out before him, examining them in the dusky half-light of the gardening shed. In the eight years since his father's death, life had begun to reclaim the creature's body, a fact that had at first frightened him, but one that he had soon come to accept. He was built from death, but years of life had repaired the damage that both death and Victor Frankenstein had dealt. His scars, once red and painful, had faded to thick white lines. His skin, once pale, wrinkled and jaundiced had, through years of sun exposure and exercise, darkened and grown taut over muscle and sinew.

He no longer looked so blatantly dead, but he was still a monster. And not just because his eyes were still an unnatural, golden yellow. Not just because his skin was patched in places like some sort of hellish quilt, darker or paler depending on the corpse from which it had originated. No. Something deeper and more primitive than his vanity, his fear of rejection, kept him from showing himself to Lena. The deeply rooted knowledge that he was an unnatural creature, and a murderer, condemned by a hateful Father and an uncaring God, kept him hidden in the shadows. He did not deserve the light.

He leaned back against the door of the shed and closed his eyes, lifting his hands to his face. To the scar on his lip that she had kissed so reverently. When he had shoved her through the door of the shed, and whispered his departing words, he had seen the flash of anger in her eyes, in the curl of her lips. She would be sure to bring it up tonight.

He gritted his teeth and tried to push thoughts of Lena out of his head. The way she had felt, pressed up against him, the sounds she made when he kissed her. God in heaven, she was an intoxicating creature, and she didn't even know what that meant. She did not – could not – understand why he had to keep pushing her away as he did.

He knew what society expected of Helena. But society's rigid standards were not what stilled him when he so ached to leap upon her and devour her.

He glanced through the window again, to be sure that no one was watching or passing by. The house lay still in the afternoon sunlight, mocking him with its elegant lines and glittering windows. He frowned at the manor, and carefully made his way out of the shed, across the small patch of grass to the edge of the forest, and disappeared within it.

His home was a shadowed glen, two miles from the Dubois household, hidden deep within the woods. Once there, he settled himself down on a mattress of pine needles, and closed his eyes with a sigh. If he was going to spend the night arguing with Lena, he needed all the rest he could get.

HELENA

It was past midnight when she finally heard the telltale sounds of his presence. Lena stayed very still, fought to keep her breathing steady and deep, and waited. Whispers of fear still lingered in her body, fading echoes from the terror that had ripped through her an hour earlier. She had not been sleeping well these past few weeks, and that lack of rest had exacerbated her night terrors.

She had spent a great deal of time wondering at the fact that she slept better when he was with her. When she was a child, even her mother's calming presence could not free her from the grip of her nightmares. Physicians came from every corner of the civilized world to examine her, to watch her sleep. They gave her sleeping tonics, exotic herbs, fold remedies, even brandy and cognac. And while the medicines always put her right to sleep, they could never keep the nightmares at bay.

Her parents had long since despaired of ever seeing her cured, and they had done their best to comfort her on those long nights when the terrors were at their worst.

It had been Lena who had decided that she must be moved to the farthest wing of the house, away from the rest of her family, so that when she screamed, it would not wake them. It had been Lena who refused to keep a lady's maid in the servant's quarters that adjoined her bedchamber.

It had been Lena who had created the perfect setting for this strange and wonderful relationship.

"I heard you screaming," he whispered, and Lena felt the brush of his fingertips down her bare arm. She turned her body towards his touch, unconsciously craving more. He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I thought you might be awake."

Lena frowned at him, or in what she suspected to be his general direction. "If you heard me screaming, why didn't you come sooner?"

"I did," he replied, and she could hear the rustle of his cloak as he sat down in the chair next to her, the one carefully hidden behind the layers of heavy fabric that surrounded her bed. "Your brother was downstairs in the library. When you screamed, he came to make sure you were alright. I could not join you until he went to bed."

Lena smiled at the note of jealousy in his voice.

"Gregoire cannot make them go away, mon cher," she reminded him. He chuckled, and the sound made Lena's heart ache with the need to see him. To touch him. The smile faded from her lips. "Please come to England," she begged. The sudden change of topic brought on an instant, palpable silence. "Please do not make me suffer the entire summer without you."

He was quiet for a long moment, and then she heard the sound of his chair sliding back as he stood. He started pacing. Lena had to work very hard to keep from opening her eyes to see if she could follow his shadow.

"You are making this very difficult for me, Helena," he said in a low voice. "It would be incredibly dangerous for the both of us. I do not know the city. You do not know the servants. If we were caught…" He trailed off into silence, as if speaking the words aloud would bring down such a curse upon them.

"We would not be caught," Lena replied, ignoring his use of her full name, which was always a clear indicator that his temper was on the rise. "You are a ghost. If you do not want to be seen, you are not seen. The servants know that I do not keep a maid, and they do not come near my bedroom. My nightmares have always frightened them." She sat up, allowing the blankets fall around her waist. She folded her legs beneath her and waited, idly drawing the ribbon that tied her nightgown at her neck through her fingers.

Suddenly, he was there, right next to her, standing at the side of the bed. "Stop that," he snapped, and Lena felt his warm hand on hers for a brief, glorious instant, as he yanked her fingers away from the ribbon at her throat. Then his touch was gone. "Do not think to try and manipulate me through lust, Helena. You will only succeed in angering me."

"I was not trying to manipulate you," Lena replied, shocked by his sudden irritability.

He gave a short bark of laughter. "And in the shed today, when you would not forgive me unless I kissed you? What was that if not overt manipulation?"

"Desperation," she replied instantly, frowning in the direction of his voice. "Manipulation implies calculation, and you know very well that I cannot think straight when you are around."

This time he did not laugh.

"It is instinctive for you," he said. "Temptation is instinctive in all women."

Lena's mouth dropped open. "You think that because I am a woman I am some sort of… of harlot?!"

He sighed. "I do not think you are a harlot, Helena. I think that you are, by nature, seductive."

"That is absurd!" Lena snapped. "Of all people, I never expected this kind of chauvinism from you."

"Enough," he growled, pacing furiously alongside her bed. "I am not going to argue with you on the nature of women. I am far too ignorant, and you are too sheltered."

Helena's hands twitched, longing to grab the nearest hard object and hurl it towards him. Her heart was racing in her chest, and her face was flushed hot with anger. She had not felt such strength of emotion in years. It was alien to her. It frightened her. Suddenly, she wanted to scream at him, to claw at his eyes with her nails, to break something over his head.

You have no idea what I have been through, she screamed in her mind. Her hands trembled with anger, and forced herself to remain still, her voice soft.

"If your sole purpose for coming here tonight was to insult me, then get out," she said, her voice laced with venom. "You think I am sheltered? You have no idea what I have suffered, and I will not be blamed for something I did not do. You are so eager to think ill of me, so take your own advice and go."

"I think nothing of you that is not justified," he said, harsh and quiet. "You would have me be your slave if I allowed it. You excel in getting your way, especially when it comes to me."

Instantly, Lena threw back the covers and leapt out of her bed, her eyes wide open and blazing with fury. He froze, a few feet in front of her, a shadow within a shadow.

"If you want to blame me for something, blame me for being an infatuated fool," she snapped, taking a step towards him. "But don't you dare blame me for your own weakness, for your inability to trust me, and your bull-headed stubbornness." She took another step towards him, but he did not back away. He remained still and silent. "You are the one who denies me, who rejects me at every turn. You are the one who pushes me away. If you are so eager to be rid of me, then leave." She stopped, and waited to see if he would leave her then, and cast her into darkness forever. But he did not move.

The anger drained out of her, as if the words she had spoken had bled her of all her fury and hurt. She walked up to him and grabbed fistfuls of his soft cloak, as if she could possibly hold him there against his will. "But if you're hoping that I will push you away, you are wrong. Do not make the mistake of thinking that I will let you go easily," she said through gritted teeth. "Because I won't."

I can't.

The world seemed to freeze around them, as seconds ticked away in motionless silence.

And then he sighed.

"You will be the death of me, Lena," he said quietly, and he reached out and pulled her against him, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly. Lena felt heat flood through her, focusing on the places where her body was pressed tightly against his. She closed her eyes, pressed her head against his chest, and listened to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I cannot think straight when I'm around you. I did not mean to be cruel."

Lena sighed. "I know," she replied simply. "Men always act stupid around women."

He chuckled, and the sound vibrated through her. "I've noticed."

Lena could feel his hesitation, she could feel him withdrawing from her.

"Say it," she whispered.

He sighed. "You have made me a better man, you know."

Lena closed her eyes, and tightened her arms around his waist. "Don't be a coward," she said, ignoring the tears that were burning in her eyes. "Say it."

He reached up and brushed his fingers through her hair, the gesture so tender and loving that Lena couldn't hold back her sob.

"I'm sorry, Helena," he whispered, "but I cannot come with you."