Page 18 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)

Chapter eighteen

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.

“Still no idea who leaked them?”

He snorted, settling against the post, arms crossed.

“Not a clue. Some say it was a descendant of the Tsar trying to stir up sympathy. Others think it was the KGB playing chess in the dark.”

She raised an eyebrow, expression as dry as salt.

“And what do you think?”

He went quiet, turning to look at the sea.

Waves struck the cliffs below in slow, heavy impacts, sending up bursts of white spray. The water glowed turquoise in the shallows, steel-gray farther out, all of it restless and uncontained.

He watched it for a long moment before he spoke.

“I think…” He exhaled. His shoulders dropped. “I think it doesn’t matter anymore.”

She watched him carefully.

Not with worry.

With understanding.

She smiled then. Softly.

She set the mug down on the rail.

“You really mean that.”

He met her gaze, and something in his eyes settled.

“I do.”

Inside the cottage, the rooms were low-ceilinged and filled with light that changed hour by hour.

Books covered every surface.

Stacks of first editions rescued from dusty shops in Paris.

Russian poetry marked with Rose’s careful notes in the margins.

Victor’s old sketchbook, the one with her face drawn in pencil and smudged by his thumb.

A ledger lay open on the dining table, scrawled in Rose’s precise, firm handwriting.

Founding Documents of the Silenced Voices Trust.

The new foundation.

Quietly registered in her name.

Dedicated to preserving forgotten histories—not to rethroning them.

Uncovering.

Documenting.

Remembering without repeating.

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.”

She laughed, breath hitching as his hands traced her ribs.

“No,” she gasped. “I like Victor better.”

He paused.

Looked at her.

Really looked.

And the breath he let out trembled.

He kissed her so deeply she forgot to breathe.

They moved together slowly.

Not like lovers in a rush to possess.

But like people who had fought to deserve it.

His fingers traced every scar.

Hers threaded through his hair, grounding him when his breath stuttered.

When he pressed inside her, it was careful.

Gentle.

Reverent.

She met him thrust for thrust, lips parting on quiet moans that seemed to hush the wind itself.

They didn’t speak.

They promised.

With every movement.

Every tremble.

Every breath.

When it ended, it wasn’t with fireworks.

It was with silence.

With the slow thud of two hearts finding the same rhythm.

Later, as their breathing slowed, she lay against his chest.

Fingers drawing idle patterns through the dark hair there.

She spoke softly, words careful in the hush.

“So what name do I put on our new legal documents?”

He turned his head to look at her, eyes half-lidded, soft in the candlelight.

He smiled.

“Victor Roman.”

Simple.

Strong.

Hers.

She nodded once.

Let it settle over them like a benediction.

Outside, the waves crashed endlessly against the cliffs.

Above them, the stars blinked in cold brilliance.

The world didn’t know it—but a legacy had been rewritten here.

Not by kings.

Not by crowns.

But by two people who refused to let the past decide their future.

By love.