Page 7 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)

Chapter seven

Rose woke slowly, clawing her way up through thick, dream-heavy dark.

For a long moment she didn’t even open her eyes, just lay there listening to the world beyond the walls.

Rain tapped gently at the window, softer than the battering of last night’s storm, like fingers drumming with uncertain apology.

She could hear distant thunder still, low and rolling, fading further away with every second—an old grudge finally losing its voice.

The smell in the room was a mix of clean damp air, salt from the cliffs below, and the grounding bitterness of black coffee somewhere close.

She inhaled deeply, the breath catching in her throat as it pulled memory with it.

Her ribs expanded against the weight of the blanket draped over her bare skin.

It was heavy, worn thin in places but warm, and it smelled unmistakably of leather, old cedar, and him.

It was too intimate, too unguarded. The scent wrapped around her like arms that hadn’t asked permission.

Her body ached in quiet, relentless reminders.

Thighs sore from bracing around his hips.

The tender burn between her legs that made her flinch with the memory of how thoroughly he’d filled her.

Even her lips felt bruised from the way he’d kissed her like a man starved.

She shivered once, a slow ripple that wasn’t entirely from the chill in the room.

She forced her eyes open.

The light was thin and gray, sneaking through old glass streaked with condensation.

She could see the mist rising outside where the cliffs fell away to the sea, the whitecaps flashing in the breaks of cloud.

The wind rattled the window frame in gusts that whistled along the seals, leaking cold drafts that raised goosebumps on her arms.

She turned her head carefully against the pillow.

The other side of the bed was empty.

But not cold.

The sheets were wrinkled and warm, the impression of his body still there like a question she wasn’t ready to answer.

Her heart thudded once, hard and unsteady.

Victor’s bed.

The thought wasn’t subtle. It crashed through her like a wave hitting rocks, cold at first but leaving behind a flush of heat.

She felt it everywhere.

Not regret.

Not even shame.

Just an uneasy knowledge settling deep in her ribs that she’d crossed something last night. Stepped over a line she couldn’t pretend wasn’t there.

This wasn’t a mistake she could walk away from cleanly.

She lay still for another moment, listening to the wind and the softer hush of the rain, trying to let it soak her in calm. It didn’t work. Her pulse fluttered high in her neck, too aware of the emptiness beside her, too aware of how badly she wanted him there again.

Finally she moved.

The blanket rasped over her skin, sending a shiver through her. She sat up slowly, rolling her shoulders, wincing at the soreness in her back. She gathered the edge of the sheet around herself like a shield, pressing the fabric to her chest and looking around the room.

It was small. Spare.

Not unlived in, but intentional in its lack of clutter.

A single old dresser with one drawer slightly askew. A battered chair in the corner with a button-up shirt draped over it. The walls were bare except for one thing: a sketch tacked beside the window, its edges curling from damp air.

She squinted at it.

An Orthodox church, onion domes rendered in meticulous pencil strokes, shaded to suggest gleaming gold without a drop of color. The lines were careful. Loving. Haunted.

Victor’s work. She didn’t need to ask.

The weight in her chest deepened.

At the foot of the bed, her clothes were folded.

Neat. Ordered.

She stared at them.

The sight felt like a punch she hadn’t braced for. It was such a small thing, but it spoke volumes in a voice she didn’t want to hear. Care she wasn’t sure she’d earned.

She bit her lip, looking away, blinking against the sting in her eyes.

With a short breath she let the sheet drop and reached for his t-shirt instead.

It was slung over the chair carelessly, black and soft, the collar stretched from too many wears.

She pulled it over her head, feeling the cotton settle against her skin like an embrace she hadn’t asked for but couldn’t refuse.

It fell to her mid-thigh, dwarfing her frame.

Smelled even more like him.

Salt. Soap. Sweat.

Memories.

She shut her eyes tight for a second before shaking her head and padding barefoot across the warped floorboards toward the door.

The kitchen was only a few steps away.

She paused in the doorway.

Victor was there.

Barefoot on the cold tile, shirtless as always, body a map of old scars and new bruises. He stood with one hand braced against the counter, the other cradling a chipped white mug. His hair was damp, darker at the roots, sticking up in places like he’d run fingers through it without thinking.

Steam drifted from the kettle on the stove.

The whole space smelled like coffee—dark, bitter, grounding.

When he heard the floor creak, he turned slowly.

Their eyes locked immediately.

He didn’t grin.

Didn’t smirk.

He just looked at her.

Steady. Measuring.

Like she was something precious he was afraid to break.

“Morning,” he said finally.

His voice was low and hoarse, thick with sleep and something rougher.

Rose shifted her weight. One bare foot pressed flat on the cold floor, the other curling slightly to keep balance. She reached up automatically, tucking damp hair behind her ear, fingers trembling just enough for her to notice and hate it.

“Morning,” she echoed, her voice quieter than she wanted.

He watched her carefully.

She felt like he was dissecting her with his gaze—every bruise, every slip of her breath, every thought she tried to hide.

Finally, he dropped his eyes to the mug.

“I, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I cook.”

Her brow arched.

He raised the spatula he’d set down beside him, as if to prove it.

“Just eggs,” he admitted.

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself.

“And coffee?”

He nodded, holding up the mug. “Strong enough to wake the dead.”

He turned, poured her a cup with careful, almost delicate movements. The kettle rattled as he set it back down. The smell hit her instantly—burned, rich, the bite of caffeine promising something like normalcy.

He handed it to her.

Their fingers brushed.

He didn’t let go right away.

Neither did she.

The contact was small. Stupid. It burned all the same.

They stood there breathing, the rain a hush against the roof, the wind combing through the old boards.

Victor finally exhaled.

Rose felt the heat of it ghost across her collarbone.

She took the mug fully, wrapping both hands around it so she wouldn’t grab him instead.

“So,” she said finally, her voice scraping low.

He waited.

She swallowed.

“What happens now?”

The question cracked the quiet like thunder.

He didn’t react immediately.

He set his own mug down carefully, fingers lingering on the ceramic. Then he wiped his palms on the old towel hanging from the handle of the stove.

He leaned back against the counter.

Arms crossed over his chest.

The posture was defensive, but his eyes were anything but.

He watched her with that same, steady, raw honesty that had unraveled her last night.

“Most women leave,” he said simply.

She took a breath that trembled on the way in.

“I’m not most women.”

His mouth quirked, but it wasn’t a smile. Not really.

“No,” he said. Voice soft. Resigned. Grateful.

“You’re not.”

Silence spread between them again.

But it wasn’t empty.

It was heavy.

Full of everything they weren’t saying.

He picked up his mug again, sipped, set it down with slow precision. Like he needed something to do.

When he spoke, his voice was different.

Lower.

Sharper.

“Do you know who I am, Rose?”

She blinked.

Her fingers tightened on the mug.

“You’re Victor Roman,” she said carefully, voice rising with each word. “You wreck bikes and sketch cathedrals and hide behind your smirk when you’re scared.”

He let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh.

Then he shook his head once.

“No.”

The word dropped like a stone into water.

He pushed off the counter.

Came closer.

She didn’t move.

His eyes didn’t waver.

“That’s the version I let people see,” he said, voice cracking just slightly.

Her chest ached.

She didn’t drop her gaze.

“Then who are you?”

He paused.

Breathing hard.

Fingers flexing at his sides.

Finally, with a rough exhale:

“My real name is Viktor Romanov.”

Silence.

Deep. Crushing.

Rose felt the world tilt under her.

The name echoed in her head.

Romanov.

Her heart pounded, uneven, loud enough she was sure he could hear it.

“As in… the Romanovs?”

He nodded.

Slow. Deliberate.

“As in descended from the last Tsar of Russia. As in the secret someone’s been hunting for a very long time.”

She set her mug down carefully.

It rattled once.

She didn’t notice.

“You’re serious.”

He didn’t answer with words.

He just looked at her.

Let her see the years in his eyes.

The weight of bloodlines.

The exhaustion of running.

The guilt of surviving.

She saw him then.

All of him.

The reckless drifter with the crooked grin.

The prince buried under the scars.

And the hunted man who had let her into his bed, maybe without meaning to let her into anything else at all.