Page 9 of Hooked On Victor
Victor let his eyes flick down to her grip on his wrist. The skin was pale, dotted with tiny freckles that seemed incongruously delicate given the iron in her fingers. Her thumb pressed against the radial bone with enough force that he felt a small spike of pain, a promise she wasn’t bluffing.
“I don’t like needles,” he rasped.
His voice sounded alien to him. Rougher than usual, hollow, scraped raw from screaming or maybe the suction tube.
She didn’t even blink. “And I don’t like arrogant patients undoing my work,” she shot back immediately. “Guess we both have problems.”
He felt something dangerous curl at the edge of his mouth. A smile.
He let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t caught on his ribs like a jagged hook. Pain rocketed through his chest, sharp enough to steal his breath. He winced hard, every muscle in his torso seizing.
She didn’t relax her grip. She didn’t look sympathetic.
Instead, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched.
“Yeah,” she said flatly. “Don’t be funny. You’re not built for it right now.”
Victor ground his teeth and sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to center himself. The smell of antiseptic invaded his nose again, undercut with the faint scent of her shampoo—something cheap and herbal, like rosemary or tea tree.
He glanced at the tubing still feeding fluids into his vein.
“You stitched me up?”
Her lips tightened minutely, the only sign of exasperation.
“I did,” she confirmed, letting go of his wrist and checking the line instead. She tugged the tape slightly, just enough to make sure he felt it.
He didn’t flinch. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
She went on clinically. “Would’ve preferred to staple your mouth shut too, but no one approved that part.”
Victor’s smile widened, even as it trembled with pain.
He watched her move around the bed with practiced efficiency. She checked the IV drip, adjusted the heart monitor with one hand while the other pinched at the wire to make sure it was properly attached to his chest. The electrodes tugged at his skin, hair yanked uncomfortably.
He waited until she paused, straightening, arms crossing over her chest in a move that pushed the V of her scrub top tighter against her collarbones.
“What’s your name?” he asked, voice low.
She didn’t answer immediately.
He watched her eyes flick over him—taking in the damage she’d mended, the bruises turning ugly shades of violet and sick yellow along his ribs. He felt laid bare in that gaze, not just the injuries but everything else too.
Finally she spoke.
“Nurse Pepper.”
He felt something stir in his chest that wasn’t just pain.
“That your real name,” he drawled, voice catching, “or something out of a comic book?”
She didn’t even blink. “Real enough to write on your chart. Don’t test me, Roman.”
He heard the emphasis.
He felt his jaw tighten, involuntary.
“You read the tattoo,” he said, voice dipping lower, rougher.
