Page 5 of Hooked On Victor
She planted one hand on the gurney rail and leaned over Victor Roman.
She could smell him—blood, sweat, the bitter stink of gasoline and hot metal clinging to shredded leather. There was alsosomething older underneath it all—old sweat soaked into jacket lining, dirt ground into denim at the knees.
“Open your eyes,” she ordered.
He didn’t.
She grabbed his chin, fingers digging hard into stubble-rough skin slick with blood. She turned his head so the overhead light illuminated the mess of his brow. Blood trickled in a slow line along the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, collected at the corner of his mouth.
“Victor Roman,” she murmured, reading the word tattooed in stark block letters just under his ribs where his shirt had torn.
She didn’t know if that was his name or a fucking brand.
“Hey,” she barked.
One eye cracked open, lazy and dark, and then, unbelievably, that smirk twitched again.
She didn’t let go of his face.
“Stay with me,” she growled, thumb smearing blood off his cheek. “You’re not charming enough to die tonight.”
His eye wandered, unfocused, then blinked.
“That… an insult or… pep talk?” His voice was raw, thick with blood in his throat.
She didn’t bother answering. She just let go of his face so it lolled back to center and pivoted on her heel.
“Get me two large-bore IVs, twenty gauge minimum. Hang fluids. Draw for labs. Type and cross. CBC, CMP, lactate. Move!”
The words flew like bullets, sharp and practiced. The nurses jumped into motion.
She turned back.
He was still watching her.
And that pissed her off.
She stepped closer and peeled back what was left of his jacket with a rip of metal teeth scraping open. The zipper was ruined, twisted into a snarl that tore at her glove. She kept going.Underneath, the black t-shirt was soaked dark and tacky. She pressed along his ribs, fingers finding the giveaway dip and flex of unstable fractures.
His breath hitched.
“Hold still,” she commanded.
He did—but his teeth ground so hard she heard them creak.
When she pressed further, the bones moved. She felt it shift under her fingers with a sickening, wet grind.
He didn’t scream. He just made a low, animal sound, something that vibrated in the back of his throat like a threat.
She leaned over him so their faces were inches apart.
“Deep breaths,” she said quietly. “Slow. I need you to do this.”
He tried.
She heard the liquid in his lung. Crackles like a straw in a milkshake. Blood foamed pink at the corner of his lips.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
