Page 2 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)
Chapter two
The ER doors banged open with an angry squeal of old hinges, and Rose Pepper didn’t even flinch.
The harsh fluorescent lights overhead flickered for a heartbeat before settling into their steady, sterile glare, humming with that electric buzz that made everything feel just a little more anxious.
She could smell the familiar cocktail of antiseptic, sweat, and fear before the gurney even crossed the threshold.
They rolled him in hard, wheels rattling over cracked linoleum that smelled faintly of bleach and age.
He was strapped down with old leather restraints that dug into his biceps, the canvas of the gurney darkening in irregular blotches of blood.
She tracked those spots automatically, noting where they spread fastest, cataloging the way the color seeped and pooled.
Victor Roman.
She didn’t know that yet—not really. But she knew enough in the half-second her eyes skimmed him.
Leather jacket shredded like he'd crawled through a shredder, one shoulder peeled nearly off his frame.
Black hair matted to his forehead with dried blood and sweat, strands sticking to skin already taking on the ashen cast of shock.
There was a jagged split over his right brow, skin hanging in a sloppy flap, leaking blood that had clotted into a thick black smear across one closed eyelid.
But even half-conscious, he had the gall to turn his head slightly as they wheeled him in and crack open one blood-caked eye.
She saw it.
That smirk.
It was so faint most wouldn’t have noticed. But she was trained to see micro-expressions—the tightening at one corner of his mouth, the barest twitch of dark eyebrows.
Cocky son of a bitch.
She didn’t slow down as she moved alongside the gurney, gloved hands brushing against the rails, matching their pace.
“Vitals?” she snapped.
The paramedic on the near side was breathing hard, face shining with sweat under the too-warm overheads.
His gloved hands trembled on the gurney’s frame.
“BP’s dropping—ninety over fifty. Tachycardic.
GCS fourteen. Suspected rib fractures, possible lung involvement. Open scalp laceration. He’s combative.”
“Combative?” she asked flatly.
He gestured helplessly. “He tried to punch me in the rig. Even half-dead.”
Rose snorted, pulling up her gloves tighter. The latex snapped against her wrist, loud in the hush that settled when she stopped walking.
She planted one hand on the gurney rail and leaned over Victor Roman.
She could smell him—blood, sweat, the bitter stink of gasoline and hot metal clinging to shredded leather. There was also something older underneath it all—old sweat soaked into jacket lining, dirt ground into denim at the knees.
“Open your eyes,” she ordered.
He didn’t.
She grabbed his chin, fingers digging hard into stubble-rough skin slick with blood. She turned his head so the overhead light illuminated the mess of his brow. Blood trickled in a slow line along the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, collected at the corner of his mouth.
“Victor Roman,” she murmured, reading the word tattooed in stark block letters just under his ribs where his shirt had torn.
She didn’t know if that was his name or a fucking brand.
“Hey,” she barked.
One eye cracked open, lazy and dark, and then, unbelievably, that smirk twitched again.
She didn’t let go of his face.
“Stay with me,” she growled, thumb smearing blood off his cheek. “You’re not charming enough to die tonight.”
His eye wandered, unfocused, then blinked.
“That… an insult or… pep talk?” His voice was raw, thick with blood in his throat.
She didn’t bother answering. She just let go of his face so it lolled back to center and pivoted on her heel.
“Get me two large-bore IVs, twenty gauge minimum. Hang fluids. Draw for labs. Type and cross. CBC, CMP, lactate. Move!”
The words flew like bullets, sharp and practiced. The nurses jumped into motion.
She turned back.
He was still watching her.
And that pissed her off.
She stepped closer and peeled back what was left of his jacket with a rip of metal teeth scraping open.
The zipper was ruined, twisted into a snarl that tore at her glove.
She kept going. Underneath, the black t-shirt was soaked dark and tacky.
She pressed along his ribs, fingers finding the giveaway dip and flex of unstable fractures.
His breath hitched.
“Hold still,” she commanded.
He did—but his teeth ground so hard she heard them creak.
When she pressed further, the bones moved. She felt it shift under her fingers with a sickening, wet grind.
He didn’t scream. He just made a low, animal sound, something that vibrated in the back of his throat like a threat.
She leaned over him so their faces were inches apart.
“Deep breaths,” she said quietly. “Slow. I need you to do this.”
He tried.
She heard the liquid in his lung. Crackles like a straw in a milkshake. Blood foamed pink at the corner of his lips.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
“Language,” he slurred, blood bubbling with the word.
She exhaled slowly. “Don’t make me punch you unconscious.”
He bared his teeth in what might have been a grin.
She pressed the gauze to his split brow again. Blood soaked through immediately, sticky and hot against her glove. She leaned closer, voice dropping.
“You got a name?”
He exhaled hard, eyelids fluttering. “Victor.”
She looked at the tattoo again.
“Roman,” she said flatly.
He blinked slowly.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Noted.” She peeled the gauze off. It was soaked black. She pitched it aside. “Resident!”
The gangly kid startled.
“Get the thoracic trauma kit. Now.”
“Yes, Dr. Pepper!”
She heard the snickering at the name from one of the new nurses. She didn’t even glance at them. She just kept one gloved hand on Victor’s sternum, feeling the frantic thud of his heart under battered bone.
“Stay with me,” she said again, quieter this time.
His eyes rolled.
“Victor,” she snapped.
He jerked, eyelids cracking.
“That’s it.”
He was breathing faster now, shallow, wheezing.
She felt the sweat start under her arms, the humid thickness under the plastic gown sticking to her back.
“Pressure’s dropping!” one of the nurses shouted.
“I can see that.” She glanced at the monitor. Numbers red and screaming.
She turned back to Victor and grabbed his jaw again. Blood smeared across her glove and his face.
“Listen to me. I don’t care what you did or who you are. But you’re not dying on my fucking table.”
He blinked, the movement sluggish.
“Don’t… make… promises,” he rasped.
She didn’t answer.
Instead she dug her thumb into the hollow under his jaw, pressing the carotid gently, feeling the fluttering, thready pulse.
“Still here,” she said under her breath.
He let out a choking cough. Blood sprayed her gown. She didn’t even flinch.
The resident skidded back into view, the trauma kit rattling in his hands.
“Lidocaine,” she ordered, reaching out.
He fumbled, almost dropped it. She caught it out of his hand with a snarl.
She didn’t wait. She stabbed the needle deep into the intercostal space. Victor made a strangled, pained bellow, arching on the table. Two nurses pinned his shoulders. His eyes went wild, pupils blown wide, teeth bared in a bloodied snarl.
She didn’t blink. She didn’t apologize.
“You want to breathe, you let me do this.”
His chest hitched. He made a sound like a dying animal but went limp enough to let her finish.
She guided the resident’s trembling hands, watching the incision open with a wet rip. Blood welled immediately.
“Don’t stop,” she hissed.
Air hissed out around the tube as it slid in, the release of pressure a nauseating sound in the sterile room.
Victor sagged hard against the table. His breathing stuttered, then evened out fractionally.
The monitor calmed.
She heard the beep slow, become steady.
Victor’s eyes flickered.
He was still glaring at her.
She didn’t look away.
“Vitals stabilizing,” the resident announced, voice cracking.
Rose didn’t break eye contact with Victor.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” she murmured.
He swallowed thickly. Blood was smeared across his teeth. His lips twitched.
“Cockroach… huh?” he rasped.
She grabbed a fresh wad of gauze and wiped his mouth without ceremony.
“Survival instincts of one,” she confirmed, voice dry.
He let out a sound that might have been a laugh.
“Sweetheart… I’ve been called worse.”
“Good,” she said, pressing gauze to his brow again, more gently this time. “Then you’re not fragile.”
He shuddered with pain but didn’t look away.
She felt her stomach twist.
She’d seen worse.
But not like this.
Not the way he watched her, like he was memorizing everything. Not with those eyes that didn’t beg or plead but measured. Calculated.
She wiped the blood off her glove onto the side of the gurney and turned away sharply.
“Get him ready for CT,” she barked.
Behind her, Victor Roman lay silent, chest rising and falling in sharp, pained jerks under new white bandages.
She didn’t look back.
Because she wasn’t sure she wanted to see him watching her anymore.