Page 66 of Hooked On Victor
Outside, the sea kept roaring.
But in here, there was just them.
No vaults.
No crowns.
Just a man and a woman and the quiet, desperate hope that surviving wasn’t the same as living.
And that maybe, just maybe, they could finally do both.
Chapter eighteen
Chapter 18 – The New Name
The cottage sat on the edge of the Brittany cliffs like it had been waiting for them.
Gray stone worn smooth by wind and rain, ivy clinging in thick, tangled vines that went silver in the salt-heavy dawn. The shutters were faded green, one hanging slightly askew, creaking gently in the sea breeze. No gate. No guards. No iron crest above the door.
Just a narrow path of rough-hewn stones winding from the road to the porch, where a weathered swing hung by thick ropes. It rocked slowly even when empty, moved by the Atlantic gusts that smelled of brine and wild thyme.
Inside, the walls were uneven plaster, pale with age, and shelves sagged beneath the weight of books. Old atlases with frayed covers. Russian poetry in soft leather bindings. Yellowed translations of letters no one had read in decades.
Near the hearth, a battered armchair sat permanently angled to face the fire as though someone had once read entire lives there and never left.
Victor had chosen it because it felt like it had survived.
Because he knew what that meant.
That morning, the sea was all shifting silver and pale blue, the light sharp and clear after a night of rain.
Victor stepped onto the narrow porch barefoot, the wood cold under his feet. A simple white mug steamed in his hands, coffee dark and bitter. He leaned against the rough timber post and closed his eyes for a moment, breathing.
Not hiding.
Just… breathing.
Letting the damp wind run its fingers through his hair. Listening to the gulls argue over a fish carcass on the rocks below.
Inside him there was no throne. No dynasty.
Only the steady beat of a man’s heart.
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
Rose sat curled on the swing in an old knit sweater of his that dwarfed her shoulders, knees drawn up beneath a plaid blanket. A battered notebook rested in her lap, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She was reading, pausing every so often to tap the eraser against the paper, brow furrowed in concentration.
She looked up when she heard the door click behind him.
Her eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Anything good in the news?” she asked dryly.
He handed her the mug, careful not to spill a drop on the blanket.
“Another scholar published a piece this morning. Confirmed the Romanov letters are authentic.”
She smirked over the rim of the mug as she sipped.
