Page 1 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)

Chapter one

The roar of the Ducati wasn’t just noise; it was Victor Roman’s absolution.

The wind knifed at his chest through the half-zipped leather jacket, chill and sharp, the scent of damp pine flooding his nose.

The sky overhead was bruised and bleeding, streaks of burnt copper slashing into deep violet where the sun was sinking behind black mountains.

He twisted the throttle, forcing the bike to scream.

It wasn’t enough to go fast; he wanted to go too fast, to push the edge until it crumbled.

The Pacific Northwest road was slick with evening dew, two narrow lanes snaking around cliffs that plunged into shadowy ravines.

Fir trees rose on either side like sentinels, their needles black in the dusk.

Victor’s eyes narrowed behind the visor. He felt every vibration of the Ducati in his spine and teeth. The engine was a savage thing between his legs, wanting to kill him if he let it. He wouldn’t let it, not yet.

His heart hammered in time with the pistons. Short dark hair stuck to his forehead inside the helmet. He exhaled hard, steam fogging the visor for an instant before the rushing wind cleared it.

He was running. He knew it. Running from them. From himself.

Even with the engine roaring, he could almost hear the men in tailored coats and black gloves, speaking softly in Russian, laying out what they’d do to him if they caught him.

He could smell the acrid tang of gunpowder, see blood pooling on cheap linoleum.

Memory pressed at him like a blade at his ribs.

He snarled and twisted the throttle further.

The front tire hummed along the centerline. A pothole loomed and he jerked the handlebars to dodge, feeling the chassis shudder. The rear wheel skipped, fishtailing for half a heartbeat before biting back down.

“Easy, suka,” he growled at the bike, breath ragged.

A switchback appeared ahead, tighter than he remembered. He leaned in, pressing his knee out, the boot sole scraping asphalt. He felt the gravel at the edge slide under him, treacherous as any enemy.

The Ducati howled.

And the road gave no forgiveness.

He caught the shoulder wrong. The front tire lost grip on the fine spread of loose gravel.

The world went sideways.

There was no time to correct. He felt the handlebars jerk out of his grip, metal slamming against his gloves. The bike bucked under him like a wounded animal. His vision spun.

For an instant it was all sound and color: the grinding scream of metal on pavement, the thunderous impact of the Ducati bouncing, the violent white slash of his own headlight carving circles in the dark.

Then he was airborne.

He felt his stomach lurch.

Time slowed.

He saw the road twist away under him, the fir trees a blur of black teeth against that dying sky. He had time for one useless thought: fuck.

Then the ground rose up and hit him.

He landed on his shoulder first, something popping with a wet crunch. Pain tore up his side in a white-hot bolt. His helmet cracked against the pavement with a thunderclap, vision flickering black at the edges.

Momentum carried him over. He rolled once, twice, the world flipping over itself, darkness and twilight trading places in dizzying reels. Gravel ripped his jacket open, tore at his skin.

He finally slid to a stop on his back.

Silence slammed down, so heavy it felt like being buried.

He lay there, chest heaving, fighting for breath that wouldn’t come. Each inhale was broken glass. His ribs felt like someone had split them with an axe. His mouth filled with a coppery tang. He coughed, spat, saw the blood splatter his cheek shield.

Somewhere off to his right, the Ducati lay on its side, smoking quietly. He heard the gentle ticking of the engine cooling. The headlight shone crazily into the trees, illuminating dark, wet branches that seemed to leer back at him.

The cold was creeping in from the pavement. He felt it in his bones, like death licking at his heels.

He blinked up at the sky, watching the last of the violet fade to black.

“So this is how they’ll find me,” he whispered, voice ragged.

It wasn’t the men in black coats who arrived.

First it was just more silence, broken by the wind rustling branches overhead. Then a distant rumble of an engine.

Headlights stabbed through the trees.

He tried to turn his head and the world spun sickeningly. Pain pulsed behind his eyes.

The vehicle slowed, tires crunching gravel.

A battered old pickup truck wheezed to a stop at the side of the road. Doors slammed, and boots thumped the ground.

He heard cursing.

“Jesus Christ—are you fucking kidding me?”

A woman’s voice. Sharp, exasperated, almost furious.

He tried to focus. His vision doubled and tripled, settling on a shape moving toward him.

Red hair. Tied up in a messy bun. Scrubs under a flannel shirt. She looked like she’d just walked out of an emergency room and into hell without blinking.

She knelt beside him with a grunt, pressing two fingers to his neck.

“Pulse,” she muttered. “Good. That’s something.”

He tried to speak but blood bubbled at his lips.

“Don’t move,” she snapped. “Don’t you fucking move.”

Victor blinked slowly. Her face hovered inches above his. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Sharp green eyes that didn’t soften for him.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

He tried. The world kept tilting.

“Stay awake. Stay the fuck awake.”

He coughed again, a wet sound.

“Shit.” She slapped his cheek lightly. “Talk to me.”

“Bike…” he rasped.

“Yeah, I see it. It’s a goddamn paperweight now.” She leaned back, glancing at the wreck. “You crash trying to be cool or just naturally stupid?”

He would’ve laughed if he could breathe.

Instead he sucked in another jagged breath, and white-hot pain shot through his ribs. He let out a strangled groan.

She turned back, eyes narrowing. “Where does it hurt?”

“Every…where,” he managed.

“Fantastic.” She didn’t even roll her eyes. She was too busy assessing him, fingers pressing along his ribs. He nearly blacked out when she hit a broken spot.

“Fuck,” he gasped.

“That’s what I thought.” Her voice was dry, but her hands were steady.

He felt her ripping open what was left of his leather jacket. Cool air hit his side. She cursed when she saw the blood soaking through his black t-shirt.

“Goddammit.” She pulled something from a side pocket in her scrubs. A cheap penlight. She flicked it in his eyes, watching his pupils. “Concussed but alive.”

He tried to focus on her. Her face was smudged with dirt, sweat sticking red hairs to her temple. She smelled like antiseptic and old coffee.

“Who… the fuck… are you?” he slurred.

“Your fucking guardian angel apparently.”

He wanted to laugh again. He settled for a shuddering breath.

She ignored his noises, pressing a folded cloth hard against his ribs. He bucked, cursing in Russian.

“Oh, good—foreign cursing. That’s new. Stay with me, Ivan.”

“Victor,” he hissed.

“Victor. Great. Don’t die on me, Victor.”

He glared at her, blood running from his nose.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah? Glare all you want, tough guy. I’m not letting you bleed out in the middle of Bumblefuck nowhere.”

He winced as she pressed harder.

“You’re gonna need a hospital,” she said.

“No…”

“Yeah. Yes. I don’t know if you noticed, but you’re leaking.” She sniffed. “Ribs are fucked, probably a punctured lung. I’m not dragging your corpse to my clinic.”

He felt darkness curling in. He fought it.

“Hey!” She slapped his cheek again, harder. “Don’t you dare.”

He blinked.

“Look at me,” she ordered. “You got family? Someone you want me to call so they can watch you be a dumbass?”

He managed to bare his teeth. “No.”

“Shocker.”

She shifted, reaching for a battered old phone she’d dropped in the dirt. He heard the crackle of her cursing as she tried to get signal.

“Fucking dead zone. Of course.”

He let out a low, broken laugh that turned into a choking sound.

Her eyes flicked to his face, worried despite the scowl.

“Breathe, dammit.” She shoved a hand behind his neck, propping him up just enough to keep his airway clear.

He sucked in air, each breath a blade.

She didn’t let go.

“You keep those goddamn eyes open,” she said.

He obeyed. Barely.

Above them, the trees sighed in the wind, black needles brushing each other like skeletal fingers. The Ducati’s headlight cast them in weird, monstrous shapes.

She glanced at it, then back at him. “You know, you’re paying for my fucking tetanus shot after this.”

He choked again, but this time it was close to a laugh.

Her lips twitched. Just for an instant.

Then she was all business again, checking his pulse, leaning in so close he could see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

He felt the ground vibrating under them as a distant vehicle approached—maybe help, maybe not.

He didn’t care.

He just kept staring at her, memorizing her face in case it was the last thing he ever saw.

And she didn’t look away.