Page 57 of Hooked On Victor
“Then the line holds,” he said simply.
That night, the inn on the hillside felt like a sanctuary built of old timber and sighing wind.
The room was small, the walls lined with cedar that smelled sharp in the warm air. The rain had softened outside to a gentle patter against the slanted roof, filling the silence with its own quiet music.
Victor lay on the narrow bed, the Tsarina’s crimson journal open across his bare chest. The fire in the small hearth cast a restless orange glow across his scarred ribs, making the Romanov crest inked into his skin flicker like it was alive.
Rose was curled beside him, head pillowed on his shoulder, one hand splayed flat over his heart. She could feel every beat—steady now, slower, sure.
His voice was a hush in the dark.
Russian syllables fell like prayer.
“? ????? ?? ???. ?? ??? ????? ???. ? ? ??????, ????? ?????? ????????? ??????? ?????.”
Then, voice tight, he translated:
“She says, ‘I fear for her. But she loves him. And I pray that love will prove stronger than blood.’”
He turned another fragile page with careful fingers, the old leather binding creaking.
He read again.
“? ???? ????? ??? ????. ? ??????, ? ???????, ???.”
His voice cracked.
“She wrote, ‘He has his father’s eyes. But I hope… he has my heart.’”
Silence followed.
Rose pressed her lips to the line of his jaw.
“She would have loved you,” she whispered.
He turned his head just enough to meet her gaze.
Eyes shining.
“You saved me,” he said, voice breaking again.
She smiled gently, brushing his cheek with her thumb.
“Again,” she whispered.
Victor swallowed.
Then he rolled toward her, their legs tangling, mouth finding hers in a kiss that was gentle at first.
Grateful.
Then hungrier.
He pulled back enough to whisper against her lips.
“You’re the only part of this legacy I want to carry.”
She huffed a soft, wet laugh.
