Page 68 of Hooked On Victor
Victor’s name was there too.
Co-founder.
Not heir.
Not prince.
Just man.
That evening, as the sun folded itself into the Atlantic in a riot of molten orange and bruised purple, they dined at a narrow table pushed up against the window.
Two candles burned in old wine bottles, the wax melted into slow drips down the green glass.
They ate simply. Fresh bread. Mussels in white wine. A salad they’d chopped together, Rose’s knife clumsy in her hand because she wouldn’t admit she hated the texture of fennel.
They laughed when he teased her about it.
She flicked a piece at him and he caught it in his mouth with the smug precision of someone who’d lived too long without laughter.
When the plates were empty and the candles low, he reached across the table and took her hand.
Turned it over.
Pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist.
She didn’t giggle.
She went perfectly still.
The air thickened.
When he rose and came around behind her chair, she tilted her head to follow his motion, eyes heavy.
He scooped her up with ease, blankets and all, her laugh dying against his shoulder as she buried her face in his neck.
But it wasn’t lust alone that made her cling.
It was awe.
That this man, with all his ghosts, had chosen to stay.
He carried her to their bed—a wide oak frame beneath the sloped roof beams, the quilts layered against the sea chill.
He laid her down like he was afraid she’d break.
He stripped her slowly, every button a ritual.
Every kiss a confession.
She whispered against his mouth:
“Your Highness.”
Her eyes glinted with wickedness.
He growled low in his throat, pressing her back into the mattress, teeth grazing her collarbone.
“Say that again.”
