Page 41 of Hooked On Victor
Pressed it.
Click.
A hidden panel shifted open.
Her heart stopped.
Inside was a bundle wrapped in stained oilskin. The smell of old paper and damp stone rushed out to greet her. She swallowed hard and eased the package out.
Her fingers shook as she broke the wax seal—the same crest Victor carried on his body like a warning and a promise.
Inside lay a brittle letter, edges browned, the ink faded but legible.
In Russian.
And in French.
She couldn’t read either fluently, but she recognized one thing scrawled clearly beneath the fold.
Viktor Alexandrov Romanov.
She turned slowly, back to the narrow bed where he lay tangled in the blanket, one arm thrown across the pillow, the pale lines of his scarred chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.
Moonlight painted him in silver and shadow.
He didn’t know this was here.
But someone had left it for him.
A message that had waited in silence longer than either of them had been alive.
And now it was in her hands.
Chapter twelve
Chapter 12 – Legacy in the Blood
The room was colder by morning, the hearth just a blackened mouth swallowing what little heat lingered. Damp sea fog pressed against the old, wavy glass of the windows, beading in rivulets that trickled down like tears. The wind had quieted to a low, restless moan, rattling the eaves and tapping a loose shutter in an uneven, syncopated rhythm.
Victor sat at the edge of the bed in the half-light, shirtless, bruised, and unmoving. His back was a lattice of old scars and new welts, the gauze at his ribs stained rust-red and peeling away at the edges. His head hung forward, damp hair falling into his eyes, breath fogging faintly in the chill.
Rose watched him from the doorway.
She felt the envelope in her fingers like it had weight beyond its slim size. The oilskin was cracked with age, stiff but pliant from decades of careful hiding. The wax seal had been broken last night under her thumb, but the shape of the Romanov crest was still pressed into its surface, accusing and proud.
She took one step forward.
He didn’t look up.
Another.
Close enough now to see the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his hands were splayed on his knees like he didn’t trust them not to shake.
She sat on the edge of the mattress beside him, the old springs groaning under the shift.
“Victor,” she said softly.
He turned, just enough that she could see the bruises beneath his eyes. The raw split on his lip. The guarded flicker behind his gaze that hadn’t left since the fight.
