Page 3 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)
Chapter three
Pain was the first thing to greet him when he clawed his way to consciousness.
A hard, insistent ache that seemed woven into the fibers of his body, as if the mattress itself had conspired to grind broken glass into his ribs.
Even before he opened his eyes, he was aware of the throb in his leg—a deep, ugly pulse like a second heartbeat—and the tight band of agony wrapping his chest whenever he breathed.
His eyelids felt like sandpaper. He forced one open with effort, the fluorescent glare of the overhead fixtures slicing into his skull like scalpels. He groaned and squinted against the brightness.
The ceiling above him was white, but aged, hairline cracks spreading from the center fixture like a spiderweb someone had tried to paint over half a dozen times. He tracked the lines with his gaze, unfocused, noting how they trembled with the small quakes of his breathing.
The room smelled like antiseptic and something floral, sharp enough to make his nostrils twitch. Lavender, he guessed distantly, though it was the industrial kind, meant to disguise rot and fear, not soothe anything real.
Definitely a hospital.
Victor Roman clenched his teeth. He hated hospitals. Hated the way they hummed with restrained panic, the hush that wasn’t true silence but a waiting quiet, ready to explode at any moment with screaming and alarms.
He let out a slow exhale that scraped his lungs raw. The beeping of a heart monitor accompanied it, obnoxiously regular. He turned his head slightly, wincing as pain rippled through his torso, each broken rib screaming in protest.
And there it was—the IV line, clear tubing snaking into his arm. The tape felt too tight on his skin, medical adhesive biting at the small hairs of his forearm.
He glared at it.
Slowly, deliberately, he moved his hand, fingers curling around the line, ready to rip it out. He’d done it before. More than once. He’d watched nurses turn white and flinch when he sprayed his own blood onto their scrubs.
But this time he didn’t get the chance.
A hand snapped around his wrist, fingers strong, pressing tendons against bone.
“Touch that line,” said a voice just above him, low and clear, “and I’ll sedate you just for fun.”
It was a woman’s voice. Firm. Dry. Unimpressed.
He turned his head with effort, the muscles in his neck pulling like overstretched cables. The movement sent another bolt of agony across his ribs.
And there she was.
Her.
Hair braided this time, not the messy bun he half-remembered from the side of the road.
The braid was loose, wisps of vivid red escaping and catching in the harsh light like embers.
She wore clean navy scrubs, the neckline marked by a faint ring of dampness where sweat had soaked in.
There were circles under her eyes that even concealer couldn’t hide, evidence of too many hours on shift.
Her gaze was flat as polished stone.
“Don’t test me, Roman,” she added, voice uninflected.
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.
“I read your entire file,” she replied coolly, brushing hair back behind one ear with a latex-gloved finger. “Once we realized you didn’t carry ID. ‘Roman’ was all we had. Now it’s just your nickname until you decide to tell us the truth.”
He felt something cold flicker in his gut.
Most people wouldn’t have noticed it—the way his breathing stuttered for half a second, the slight recoil of his shoulders against the stiff hospital pillow. But she caught it. Her eyes sharpened fractionally.
He leaned back, exhaling carefully so as not to aggravate his ribs.
He studied her. Really studied her.
Most people cracked under this look—his eyes locked on theirs, unblinking, dissecting them with slow deliberation. He watched for the twitch of nerves, the small shift of the feet, the swallow, the way pupils darted for an exit.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t look away.
She just waited, arms folded, weight evenly balanced on both feet.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
He didn’t know yet if that made her stupid, or the most interesting person he’d met in years.
He felt something old, something he thought had fossilized in him a long time ago, twitch in his chest.
Not the pain.
Something worse.
She turned, finally, checking the monitor again, pressing one button to silence its too-loud beep. The movement sent her braid shifting over her shoulder, the red catching the light in shades that reminded him of blood drying in the sun.
Victor wet his lips, the copper taste stubborn on his tongue.
“You saved my life,” he said softly.
It wasn’t gratitude exactly. It was something rawer. Recognition.
She paused with her finger on the monitor.
She didn’t turn back to him immediately.
He watched her shoulders tighten slightly under the loose fabric of the scrubs.
Finally she spoke.
“I know,” she said. Her voice was flat, controlled. Then softer, under her breath but not soft. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Victor stared at the side of her face.
He couldn’t see her eyes, but he didn’t need to.
He could hear it in her voice.
Not fear.
Warning.
And in that sterile white room with its spiderweb cracks in the ceiling, the stink of antiseptic mixing with artificial lavender, and the steady beeping of the monitor that told him he was, impossibly, still alive—Victor Roman let himself sink back into the pillow.
The pain didn’t leave.
But for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like the only thing in him worth noticing.