Page 30 of Hooked On Victor
“We do this together.”
His jaw worked, eyes searching hers like he didn’t believe her. Like he wanted to.
“Even if it means running?” he asked hoarsely.
She felt her heart lurch.
“As long as we’re runningtowardsomething,” she whispered. “Not just away.”
Victor’s eyes burned.
He reached for her hand slowly, like she might vanish if he moved too fast.
He didn’t kiss her.
Didn’t smile.
He just laced his fingers through hers.
Held on tight.
And then, voice low and rough, almost to himself, he said:
“So be it.”
Chapter nine
Chapter 9 – Fire and Flight
Victor moved quickly, though it was obvious it hurt him. Every time he shifted weight onto his bad leg, there was the tiniest hitch in his breath, a sharp exhale he tried to swallow. But he didn’t stop. He limped from corner to corner of the little cabin with a strange, focused violence—yanking open drawers, scattering clothes across the floor, rifling through old military-style duffels with zippers that screamed in protest.
The whole place felt suddenly smaller, walls pressing in with the smell of cold damp and fear.
Rose followed him without asking questions at first. She forced her movements to be steady, deliberate, controlled—the opposite of his. She gathered fallen shirts, folded them tight, pressed air out of the layers and tucked them deep into his pack. The fabric was worn thin, smelling of him even under the bite of detergent.
She noticed how he checked under the floorboards by the stove, fingers prying the loose plank aside with a practiced jerk.The hollow clunk of wood against wood seemed too loud in the hush of the wind outside.
Her heart hammered when she saw what he pulled out: a black book bound in cracked leather. He held it like it was fragile, like it mattered more than anything else in the room. He slid it into a hidden zipper along the lining of his bag, fingers careful despite the urgency in his breathing.
She saw her own fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the next bundle of clothes. She forced them still, pressing cotton and denim into submission.
Her knuckles brushed against the edge of something familiar.
His sketchbook.
She paused.
It was battered, corners curled, the leather cover scuffed from travel and too many nights spent in bags and under pillows. She could still see the ghost of her own face on the last page he’d drawn—eyes too steady, mouth caught mid-command.
The weight of it made her chest ache.
She swallowed.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, voice too quiet at first. She forced it louder. “Victor.”
He didn’t stop zipping the main compartment of the bag, but he did look at her. His eyes were dark, focused, raw.
“You’re already helping me disappear,” he rasped. “Ask anything.”
