Page 48 of Hooked On Victor
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy as lead.
Rose felt Victor go still beside her.
So still she could barely tell he was breathing.
“That’s not possible,” Victor whispered.
Nikolai didn’t look away.
“I had the DNA pulled from the signet ring in the safehouse,” he said evenly. “Matched it to a lock of Tatiana’s preserved hair in a reliquary in Paris. Your blood matches hers.”
Rose’s hand found Victor’s under the table.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t even blink.
Nikolai’s voice lowered, softer.
“You’re not just descended from nobility,” he said. “You’re the direct line of the Tsar’s eldest daughter. The legacy they tried to burn.”
Victor was pale now, his fingers white-knuckled around the edge of the table.
But behind his eyes wasn’t fear.
It was fury.
“All these years,” he rasped. “All the hiding. All the shadows. I didn’t even know who I was.”
Nikolai didn’t look smug.
He looked tired.
“You were never meant to,” he said. “That was the point. But the world is changing. The hunt is on again. And if the vault is opened by anyone else—if the truth is twisted—your bloodline dies for real.”
Victor sat there, chest heaving.
Eyes locked on Nikolai with something like hate and something like gratitude battling in the ruin of his expression.
Finally he exhaled.
Low. Shaking.
He looked at Rose like he was trying to memorize her face.
“Then we open it,” he said quietly.
He looked back at Nikolai.
“Together.”
Later that night, the hotel room felt too quiet.
Victor stood at the window, hands braced on the sill. His head was bowed, hair falling into his eyes, body lit by the amber glow of a bedside lamp that cast long shadows on the wall behind him.
Rose watched him from the bed, knees pulled to her chest, blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders.
The air between them felt like it was holding its breath.
