Page 18 of Hooked On Victor
Damn him for the way he looked at her. For the way his voice sounded when it cracked around her name. For the way he’d saidyou wouldn’t stop circling my mindand made it feel like a confession instead of a curse.
By the time she reached the edge of the cliffs, the first cold pinpricks of rain were spitting onto the windshield, blurring the lights from the rental’s windows into pale smears. The wind howled off the ocean in long, keening moans, rattling the old wooden porch.
She didn’t knock.
The storm broke the second she slammed the truck door. Rain sheeted over her in a single, brutal curtain, soaking her instantly, flattening her braid to her spine. She charged for the door, boots slipping on the wet planks, her breath harsh in her chest.
When she burst inside, the wind caught the door and slammed it shut behind her with a gunshot crack.
The room was dim, lit only by a single low lamp on the counter. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the smell of damp wood and old coffee clung to everything. Water dripped from her clothes onto the floor in steady patters that were almost indecently loud in the hush.
She was drenched.
Hair plastered to her forehead. Shirt clinging to every contour, cold and slick. Jeans soaked through, darkening to near-black where they molded to her legs. She was shivering before she even realized it, but it had nothing to do with the rain.
Victor was in the kitchen.
Barefoot.
Shirtless.
A towel slung over one broad shoulder, damp where he'd used it to scrub sweat off his neck. The muscles of his chestand stomach flexed as he turned, slow, deliberate, the old scars across his ribs catching the lamplight like pale paint strokes.
Steam curled from the kettle on the stove, swirling in slow spirals in the chill air.
When he saw her, he froze.
Their eyes met and held.
The rain pounded on the roof, thunder rolling low and endless, shaking the windows in their frames.
“You came,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
His voice was low, hoarse, like he’d smoked three packs on the drive there. Like he’d been saying her name all night under his breath.
Rose sucked in a breath that burned her throat.
Her heart was racing, her pulse stuttering in her ears so loudly she could barely hear the rain.
“I told myself I wouldn’t,” she managed.
Her voice cracked at the end.
He watched her carefully, eyes flicking over every inch of her ruined composure—her soaked clothes, the water dripping off her lashes, the flush high on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold.
He took a step forward.
No limp.
No crutch.
Just his body—bare, battered, healed enough to stand tall.
“Don’t do this,” she whispered, voice shaking.
He ignored it.
