Page 38 of Hooked On Victor
“You’re insane,” he rasped.
She smiled faintly.
“No. Just hooked on a man with a death wish and a royal seal tattooed on his ribs.”
He laughed then.
Low. Hoarse. But real.
And in the hush of the dripping trees, the hunted Romanov leaned forward and kissed her like she was the only thing in his world that had ever made sense.
Chapter eleven
Chapter 11 – The House of Ashes and Flame
The safehouse wasn’t anything like Rose expected.
She’d imagined something modern and clinical, maybe a bunker, cold and steel-lined, with sterile white walls and humming generators. Something that felt prepared. Impenetrable.
But this was old.
Older than the lines on Victor’s face when he thought too hard.
It was a hunting lodge half-eaten by the coastal forest, huddled close to the cliffs north of the border where the sea met the land with teeth. Pines leaned over the slate roof, dropping needles that clotted the gutters, while salt spray from the unseen waves below crusted the windows in opaque white stains. Sea fog drifted in slow coils around the foundation, wrapping it in silence that felt deliberate.
Wind sang through the eaves with a mournful, keening note, like the house was trying to remember something.
Victor paused at the door, one hand hovering near the old brass handle. His eyes flicked everywhere before he pushed itopen—a hunter’s sweep, checking corners, shadows, the faint outlines of furniture. When he was satisfied, he stepped inside slowly, boots thudding on ancient timber.
He turned once, eyes finding hers in the fog. He nodded.
Rose followed.
The interior was dark, with walls of thick, uneven stone that swallowed sound. The floorboards creaked like they were admitting secrets. A wide, cold hearth yawned at one end of the main room, its interior black with soot that hadn’t been disturbed in years. Dust lay thick on the mantle.
It feltheavy.
Not with threat, but with waiting.
She shivered despite herself.
She let her bag fall from her shoulder onto the floor with a muted thump. The sound seemed too loud in the hush. She exhaled so hard it felt like deflating completely. She hadn’t realized until that moment that every muscle in her body had been locked since the attack—since the blood, the fight, the breathless escape.
Her fingers flexed open and shut, testing freedom.
Victor stood with his back to her, near the hearth, shoulders broad and starkly pale in the dim light. The bandage she’d so carefully wrapped was loose now, a faint smear of blood darkening the gauze. He wasn’t touching it. He just stared at the cold grate, as if daring ghosts to speak first.
She watched his ribs move with each breath.
They weren’t even.
She felt something crack inside her chest, brittle as dry bone.
She stepped forward. Careful not to creak the floor too loudly.
She laid her palm gently on his back, the skin warm and damp with sweat, the muscle under it tight as steel cable.
He didn’t flinch.
