Page 16 of Hooked On Victor
He wasn’t supposed to care. Connections were weaknesses. Attachments got people killed. He’d learned that lesson so thoroughly it had scarred over like the rest of him.
But here he was, sketching the line of her neck with a precision only obsession brought. The tiny loose strands that escaped her braid. The curve of her ear, small and stubborn.
He pressed the pencil too hard. The lead snapped.
Victor stared at the broken tip, breath rasping in the quiet.
Then he closed the book with deliberate care and let it rest on his chest as he slumped back against the couch.
He tipped his head back and stared at the cracked ceiling, the salt-damp stains that looked like spreading blood.
He could already feel it: the slow, dangerous pull toward something alive.
Not because she was part of his world.
Because she wasn’t.
She told herself she wouldn’t come back the next day.
She told the clinic she didn’t want the assignment extended.
She convinced herself he was dangerous in all the worst ways—emotionally, physically, magnetically. That nothing good would come from being near him any longer than strictly necessary.
But when she opened the door anyway, kit banging against her hip, she told herself she was just doing her job.
Victor was on the couch, shirtless again, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead in damp curls. He’d managed to drop his crutch at some point and was trying to reach the sketchbook that had fallen just out of arm’s length on the floor.
She watched him for a second, silent.
His jaw was tight with frustration, teeth bared in a grimace, but he refused to call for help.
Pride was a hell of a thing.
She sighed, rolling her eyes skyward. Then she stepped forward, boots thudding on the warped floorboards, and bent down to pick up the book. Her fingers brushed his for the barest moment—warm, callused, trembling just slightly.
It was leather-bound. Worn soft at the edges from travel and use.
Without asking permission, she flipped it open.
Sketches spilled across the pages.
Old cathedrals with onion domes, carefully shaded to catch the hint of golden crosses. Stone statues, their eyes hollow, mouths downturned. A ballerina poised beneath chandeliers, her arms curved with impossible grace. Winter palaces with grand facades cracking under frost.
She turned a page and froze.
It was her.
Drawn from memory. Hair tied back. Brow furrowed. Mouth slightly open, as if issuing some crisp command. The detail was startling. Almost too intimate.
She felt something in her chest twist.
“You drew me?” she asked. Her voice was low.
Victor didn’t meet her eyes. He stared at his hands instead, fingers flexing slowly.
“You wouldn’t stop circling my mind,” he muttered. “I figured maybe if I put you on paper, it would shut you up.”
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to feel objectified. Used.
