Page 56 of Viktor's Temptation
Every inch of it bore her loving touch. She had sanded, painted, and decorated the rooms with care. The soft gray couch was her first big furniture purchase, and she’d sewn the cheerful yellow, orange, and green pillows herself to brighten the space. The curtains were made of simple drop cloths, with a vibrant yellow fabric trim she’d added one afternoon. Her tinykitchen had been a haven, drenched in sunlight every morning. She’d painstakingly painted the cabinets lemon yellow, creating a cheerful space to sip coffee before heading to the hospital. Even the back deck had been a labor of love—she’d replaced the rotting boards, painted them a soft brown, and stenciled a decorative pattern in the center.
But now, looking at it, her pride soured. The yard was unkempt, the grass overgrown, and the fallen leaves smothered her flowerbeds. Warren hadn’t lifted a finger to maintain anything in her absence.
“Are you ready?” Viktor asked, his voice low and steady beside her.
Gracie stepped out of the SUV, her gaze fixed on the house. The sight of Warren’s pickup truck in her driveway made her chest tighten. He hadn’t even mowed the grass, much less taken care of anything else. “He’s home,” she muttered, more to herself than Viktor.
Inside, the front door wasn’t even locked. She pushed it open, and the sight that greeted her made her stomach turn. Her once-cozy family room was a disaster zone. Beer bottles and greasy pizza boxes cluttered every surface, while chip bags and food wrappers littered the floor. Her carefully sewn pillows were smeared with filth, used as makeshift napkins.
“Unbelievable,” she whispered, her voice trembling with anger.
Viktor stepped in behind her, his presence grounding her as she moved through the house. The dining room wasn’t much better—her once-pristine table buried under unopenedmail and even more beer bottles. But it was the kitchen that broke her heart.
Her lovely lemon-yellow cabinets were hidden beneath piles of dirty dishes. The counters were sticky and cluttered, and the trash can overflowed onto the floor, which was caked with dried mud.
“What a pig,” Viktor snarled, his disgust palpable.
Gracie didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She was already heading upstairs, each step heavy with purpose. When she reached her bedroom, she froze.
Warren was sprawled out on her bed, snoring loudly. The sheets were rumpled and filthy, and the air reeked of unwashed laundry. Muddy work boots sat at the side of the bed, adding to the desecration of her sanctuary.
She didn’t wake him. Not yet. Instead, she began methodically gathering all of his clothes, pulling them from the closet and dirty piles scattered around the room. She carried the mess downstairs, her movements efficient and unyielding.
With grim determination, she knotted each piece of clothing so tightly that Warren would never be able to untangle them. She shoved the twisted garments into a trash bag, marched outside, and dumped them into the back of his truck.
Viktor leaned against the porch, his arms crossed as he watched her with amused curiosity.
Her eyes flicked to the truck. It was Warren’s pride and joy, spotless and freshly washed—a stark contrast to the state of her home. Gracie tilted her head, a wicked smile forming.
“No, this won’t do,” she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else.
Before Viktor could comment, she strode to the back of the truck, bent down, and lifted it effortlessly. With a satisfied grin, she began dragging it out of the driveway and down the street.
Viktor chuckled as he followed her. Every now and then, he murmured soothing words to the wide-eyed neighbors watching from their windows, planting the suggestion that nothing unusual was happening.
Two blocks away, Gracie stopped in the middle of an intersection. She lowered the truck with a thud, then knelt beside each tire, pinching holes into the rubber with her newfound strength. The air hissed out in loud protests until the truck rested flat on its rims.
She straightened, brushed her hands together with finality, and nodded. “That should do it.”
Viktor clapped slowly, his laughter rich and low. “An interesting punishment,” he remarked. “You’re far more merciful than I would be.”
Gracie turned to him, her lips pressed into a determined line. “Oh, I’m not finished,” she said, her tone dangerously calm.
Viktor’s eyes gleamed with interest. “I eagerly await your next move,” he replied, his voice tinged with admiration.
Gracie walked past him, back toward the house, her steps deliberate. She wasn’t just reclaiming her space—she was reclaiming herself. And Viktor? He couldn’t have been prouder.
Stomping up the stairs, Gracie looked around. Warren was still sound asleep, snoring the day away. She glanced down at his boots and…decided to tie the laces in knots as well. After that, she looked around for the keys to his pickup. When she found them on her nightstand, amid empty bottles of beer and old fast food wrappers, she snapped the back of the key fob open. With deft fingers, she pulled the battery out, then reconnected the parts. She tossed the small, disk-like battery into the trash.
“What’s next?” Viktor asked, watching her from the doorway.
His voice seemed to alert the sleeping slug that something was amiss. Warren’s body jerked, then his head swiveled. Because of the way he’d slept, the idiot had bedhead in a way that caused half of his hair to stand up straight while the other half was matted against his skull.
“Wha…?” he grumbled, then pulled a hand around to rub his face. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded of Viktor, the first person he saw since Gracie was on the other side of the bed. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”
“Yourhouse?” Viktor challenged. “I thought this house was owned by Gracie Andrews.”
Warren shuffled around, pushing the sheets out of the way as he sat up. “She died and left her house to me.”
