Page 35 of Hooked On Victor
Victor slumped back against the seat, breathing hard.
Rose unbuckled in one quick motion and twisted toward him. Her hair fell loose over her shoulder, wet strands sticking to her cheek. She snapped on the gloves from the kit, the latex squeaking loud in the hush.
“Take your shirt off,” she ordered.
He didn’t move at first.
Then, with a grunt of effort, he peeled the fabric up over his head.
It stuck to the blood on his ribs.
He hissed, baring his teeth when the dried edges tore open again.
The smell hit her immediately. Blood and sweat and salt. The car was too small to hold it politely.
Her breath caught.
Not just at the wound.
Or the dark, purpling bruises already blooming across his ribs like obscene flowers.
But at the ink that sprawled across his side.
A Romanov crest, black lines fine as calligraphy. A double-headed eagle, wings spread, claws clutching symbols she couldn’t name. A crown cracked clean through the middle. And at its heart, over his ribs, a tiny flame inked in faint, faded gold.
It looked old.
Painstaking.
Personal.
“Hold still,” she said softly.
He did.
But his eyes never left her.
She opened the kit with practiced fingers, the contents rattling. Alcohol pads. Gauze. Tape. Thread and needle in case it got that bad. She pressed a pad to the gash along his side, the blood slick and warm even through the sterile wrapper.
He flinched.
Just once.
“Breathe,” she ordered.
He exhaled, jaw ticking.
The rain drummed softly on the roof above them, steady, soothing if she let herself hear it that way.
She worked methodically, pressing gauze in tight, binding it with tape. The smell of antiseptic filled the car, sharp and biting, driving out the scent of wet pine and leather.
Every time her fingers brushed his skin, she felt it jump under her.
But he didn’t look away.
He watched her.
Every move.
