Page 8 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)

Chapter eight

The rain had stopped by morning, but the sky was still a dull, bruised steel when Rose parked in the clinic’s gravel lot.

The storm’s passing had left everything scrubbed raw and damp—the pines that lined the edge of the property glistened wet, their dark needles dripping onto puddles that mirrored the overcast sky in uneven ripples.

She sat behind the wheel for a moment longer than necessary, watching those ripples shiver and spread.

She hadn’t planned to work today.

She hadn’t even planned to move .

After last night—after everything Victor had told her—her head was still swimming. The weight of that name sat heavy on her tongue. Romanov. The last Tsar’s blood, stubbornly alive in the man who had touched her like she was the only real thing in his world.

It should have scared her more than it did.

But what rattled her more was the way it didn’t scare her enough.

Routine. She needed routine.

So she’d forced herself out of his bed before dawn, pulled on clothes that felt too stiff and clinical after the loose softness of his t-shirt, and driven the empty roads with the windows cracked to let in the cold.

Now she flexed her fingers on the steering wheel, willing them to steady.

She pushed the door open.

The chill slapped her immediately, the ocean wind cutting through her scrubs like a reprimand. The gravel crunched under her sneakers as she walked briskly inside.

The clinic smelled like disinfectant and tired coffee.

She was grateful for it.

Needles and gauze. Blood pressure cuffs. Charting. Sterile things that made sense.

By midmorning she’d settled into the rhythm of it, moving between exam rooms, checking vitals, asking rote questions that didn’t ask anything of her .

She let the quiet beep of the thermometer, the steady hiss of the blood pressure cuff, the muted hum of conversation from the waiting room all sink in like white noise.

She was halfway through logging vitals for an old rancher with a stubborn cough when she heard the call from the front desk.

“Hey, Pepper?”

The receptionist’s voice was calm enough, but there was an edge under it.

Rose paused, glancing up from the chart.

“Yeah?”

“There’s a guy out here asking for a Victor Roman.”

Rose’s spine went cold.

She blinked once, forcing her voice even. “Did he give a last name?”

“No.” A pause. “But he said it like he didn’t need to. Foreign. Accent. Sharp suit. Doesn’t blink enough.”

The blood in her veins felt like it turned to slurry.

She wiped her hands carefully on her scrub pants, forcing them to stop shaking.

“I’ll be right there.”

She closed the chart. Too carefully.

Then she turned and walked to the front desk, each step deliberate, her sneakers squeaking just slightly on the polished floor.

The man at the counter didn’t belong here.

He stood out like an unspoken threat.

The clinic’s battered chairs and old posters made him look even sharper by contrast. His coat was tailored, black wool with crisp shoulders that fit perfectly. His hair was dark, slicked back neatly, not a strand out of place. His shoes were polished to a mirror sheen despite the mud outside.

But it was his stillness that set her teeth on edge.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t check his phone. Didn’t tap the counter.

He just waited , patient in the way of something predatory.

His eyes flicked to her when she approached.

Black. Flat. Unreadable.

He didn’t smile in greeting.

But when he spoke, his voice was smooth enough to pour.

“I’m looking for someone,” he said. “Victor Roman. I was told he was brought in here after a motorcycle accident.”

The words were careful. Measured.

Rose didn’t let her expression flicker.

“We don’t release patient information without authorization,” she said evenly.

He watched her.

There was no anger in his eyes. Just calculation.

“Of course.” His mouth shifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “But if he’s here, please tell him Nikolai stopped by.”

Her pulse tripped.

He must have seen it.

Because that not-smile turned razor-thin.

“Tell him,” he said softly, “that the past is tired of being forgotten.”

She felt her stomach drop away.

Then he turned on his heel with smooth, effortless grace and walked out the door without another word.

The glass rattled in its frame as it shut.

For a moment she just stood there, her breath scraping too loud in her ears.

The receptionist blinked at her.

“Uh. Friend of yours?”

Rose didn’t answer.

She forced herself to breathe.

To stand straight.

To move .

She turned on her heel and walked back to the nurse’s station, heart pounding, vision tunneling a little at the edges. She stripped off her gloves with deliberate precision, dumped them in the bin.

Then she grabbed her coat.

She didn’t say goodbye.

Twenty minutes later she was back behind the wheel, hands shaking harder than they had that morning.

The sky was clearing in ragged patches, but the clouds still hung low and mean on the horizon, smearing the sun into a dull smear of silver.

She drove too fast, tires spitting gravel on the shoulder.

Victor’s rental came into view like something out of a nightmare.

She didn’t even bother killing the engine fully. She slammed the truck door behind her so hard the window rattled in its frame.

She was halfway up the porch steps when the door yanked open.

Victor was there.

He looked like he hadn’t sat down all morning.

His eyes raked her face, scanning every twitch, every tremor, reading her like a language only he spoke.

“You saw someone,” he said.

His voice was dead calm. Which was worse than yelling.

She swallowed.

“At the clinic,” she managed. Her voice broke and she didn’t care. “A man asking for you. Said his name was Nikolai. Told me to tell you—”

She closed her eyes, repeating it exactly.

“The past is tired of being forgotten.”

Victor swore under his breath in Russian.

It sounded like a prayer you didn’t want answered.

She watched every muscle in his body lock up. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“I know him?” she asked, voice brittle.

He nodded once. Sharp.

“Not well,” he said. His jaw flexed hard. “But he knows me. And if he’s here—others will follow.”

She took one shaky step forward.

“What do they want?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Me dead,” he said coldly. “Or silent. Preferably both.”

He turned from her, stalking to the window. His movements were too precise, too deliberate. He twitched the curtain aside, eyes scanning the tree line like he expected to see muzzle flashes.

For the first time since she’d met him, she saw fear on his face.

Not for himself.

For her.

She felt it like a punch to the ribs.

She swallowed hard.

“I can go,” she said, voice quiet. Cracking. “If it’s safer for you—”

He turned so fast she flinched.

“No.”

The word snapped like a whip.

Then he caught himself.

His eyes closed.

He exhaled, voice dropping.

“No,” he said again, softer this time.

“If they think you mean something to me, they’ll use it. I’d rather have you where I can protect you.”

Her throat closed.

She stared at him.

“You do mean something to me, Rose.”

He didn’t say it like a confession.

No grand flourish.

Just truth, delivered with the weight of a man who didn’t know how to make it pretty.

Her vision blurred for a second.

She didn’t run.

She crossed the floor instead, boots thumping heavily on the old boards.

She stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin, the tension rolling through him in sick waves.

“Then let me help,” she said.

Her voice didn’t shake this time.

“We do this together.”

His jaw worked, eyes searching hers like he didn’t believe her. Like he wanted to.

“Even if it means running?” he asked hoarsely.

She felt her heart lurch.

“As long as we’re running toward something,” she whispered. “Not just away.”

Victor’s eyes burned.

He reached for her hand slowly, like she might vanish if he moved too fast.

He didn’t kiss her.

Didn’t smile.

He just laced his fingers through hers.

Held on tight.

And then, voice low and rough, almost to himself, he said:

“So be it.”