Page 9 of Hooked On Victor (Hooked #3)

Chapter nine

Victor moved quickly, though it was obvious it hurt him.

Every time he shifted weight onto his bad leg, there was the tiniest hitch in his breath, a sharp exhale he tried to swallow.

But he didn’t stop. He limped from corner to corner of the little cabin with a strange, focused violence—yanking open drawers, scattering clothes across the floor, rifling through old military-style duffels with zippers that screamed in protest.

The whole place felt suddenly smaller, walls pressing in with the smell of cold damp and fear.

Rose followed him without asking questions at first. She forced her movements to be steady, deliberate, controlled—the opposite of his.

She gathered fallen shirts, folded them tight, pressed air out of the layers and tucked them deep into his pack.

The fabric was worn thin, smelling of him even under the bite of detergent.

She noticed how he checked under the floorboards by the stove, fingers prying the loose plank aside with a practiced jerk. The hollow clunk of wood against wood seemed too loud in the hush of the wind outside.

Her heart hammered when she saw what he pulled out: a black book bound in cracked leather. He held it like it was fragile, like it mattered more than anything else in the room. He slid it into a hidden zipper along the lining of his bag, fingers careful despite the urgency in his breathing.

She saw her own fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the next bundle of clothes. She forced them still, pressing cotton and denim into submission.

Her knuckles brushed against the edge of something familiar.

His sketchbook.

She paused.

It was battered, corners curled, the leather cover scuffed from travel and too many nights spent in bags and under pillows. She could still see the ghost of her own face on the last page he’d drawn—eyes too steady, mouth caught mid-command.

The weight of it made her chest ache.

She swallowed.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, voice too quiet at first. She forced it louder. “Victor.”

He didn’t stop zipping the main compartment of the bag, but he did look at her. His eyes were dark, focused, raw.

“You’re already helping me disappear,” he rasped. “Ask anything.”

She hesitated only a heartbeat.

“Why now?” she asked. “Why—after all this time—would someone want you dead?”

He exhaled slowly, the sound scraping his throat.

He didn’t answer at once.

Instead he moved to the table, bracing himself with both hands splayed on the scarred wood. For the first time since the panic started, he stilled. His shoulders were tense, the thick muscles along his back coiling as he forced himself to breathe.

And then, without lifting his head, he began.

“My family was supposed to die in 1918,” he said.

The words dropped into the room like lead.

He raised his head a fraction, eyes locking on hers. There was nothing evasive in them now. No grin. No careless spark. Just history. Just ruin.

“Tsar Nicholas II. His wife. His five children,” he said, voice flat. “Executed in a basement by men who wanted to wipe out the last trace of the monarchy. Most believe they succeeded.”

Rose felt the chill run up her spine, even though the small stove crackled faintly with embers behind them.

She nodded slowly. “The Romanov massacre. I remember learning about it in school. The bones. The rumors of Anastasia surviving.”

Victor’s mouth twisted, humorless.

“There’s always a story,” he said roughly.

“A missing duchess. A whisper of survival.” He flexed his hands on the table, the tendons standing out white.

“In my case, it wasn’t the immediate royal family that lived.

It was a cousin. A quiet one. Far enough removed not to be noticed, but close enough to carry the blood. ”

He pushed off the table with effort, turning toward the next drawer. She watched the way his hand shook before he willed it steady to pull it open.

Inside was a narrow wooden case. He ran his thumb along the seam. He didn’t open it.

She didn’t ask what was in it.

He closed it with a click that sounded final.

“I’ve lived most of my life as a ghost,” he continued. His voice was lower now. Tired. “My name passed through Europe like a myth. There were always rumors. But I kept low. Moved often. Changed paperwork. Changed accents. I became the kind of man who’s easy to forget.”

Rose’s hands were folded on the back of the chair in front of her. She could feel her heart beating in her palms.

He turned enough to see her face.

“But there are people,” he said. His eyes darkened. “Ancient bloodlines. Leftover power brokers. Families that built new wealth on old betrayals. They believe if the Romanov line ever publicly resurfaced, it would threaten everything they built in its place.”

She felt the words sink in. Heavy. Oily. Real.

“Old enemies,” she said softly.

He nodded once. Slow.

“Old debts,” he corrected. “Old fears. Some of them are descendants of Bolsheviks who signed the orders. Some from the royal court itself—families that turned traitor to survive. They buried their shame with the Romanovs. If the name came back from the dead, so would all the guilt they thought they’d outrun. ”

He clenched his jaw hard enough she heard his teeth grind.

“And then there’s Rasputin.”

The name landed in the small room with a chill.

Rose felt herself tense.

“You’re not serious,” she breathed.

Victor’s laugh was flat. Ugly.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” he said. “The man wasn’t just some drunken mystic. He was a manipulator. A predator. He convinced the Tsarina he could save her son. He made the entire court paranoid. When the empire fell, that paranoia didn’t die with it.”

He turned fully to her now. His eyes were black in the dim light.

“There are people who believe he cursed my family,” he said. “That anyone who carries Romanov blood will either fall to madness or meet a violent end.”

She shivered.

The wind outside howled suddenly, rattling the windows in their frames.

“Do you believe it?” she asked, her voice small.

He didn’t answer immediately.

He blinked, slow. Once.

“I believe in people who believe in it,” he said finally. His voice cracked. “And that makes them dangerous.”

She exhaled. Her breath felt shaky in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was fear for him, or for herself, or both.

She took one careful step forward.

“But you’re not mad,” she said quietly. “And you’re not dying.”

He held her gaze.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Finally he shook his head, something loosening in his shoulders.

“No,” he said, voice low. “But they don’t know that yet.”

Outside, the wind moaned louder.

The trees leaned and creaked under the force of it, their black shapes writhing against the gunmetal sky.

And then—

Glass shattered.

The world snapped into chaos in half a breath.

Victor lunged forward just as the kitchen window behind the stove exploded inward in a spray of glass shards that caught the pale light. A figure in black vaulted through the wreckage, a blade gleaming wicked and curved in his gloved hand.

Victor met him halfway.

The impact was loud, fleshy.

One of Victor’s fists landed in the man’s side with a crunch of ribs giving way. But the intruder didn’t slow. He pivoted, the knife slashing in a tight arc. Victor twisted, but not fast enough—steel bit flesh along his ribs, blood spraying warm onto the old wood floor.

Victor roared in pain and fury.

He grabbed Rose with his free hand and shoved her hard behind him.

She stumbled, skidding against the floor, breath knocked out of her lungs.

Victor didn’t give her time to get up.

He surged back at the intruder like a cornered animal, both hands out, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting until bones cracked. The knife clattered across the floor, spinning under the table.

The intruder snarled, slamming a knee into Victor’s injured thigh.

Victor buckled.

But he didn’t drop.

He punched the man in the throat so hard the sound was wet and choked.

Blood hit the floor in thick, obscene drops.

Rose didn’t think.

She grabbed the heavy cast-iron kettle off the stove, its bottom slick with grease, and swung it with all her weight.

It connected with the intruder’s skull with a sickening thunk .

He crumpled immediately.

Victor didn’t hesitate. He followed him to the floor, pressing a knee into the man’s throat, his own blood dripping onto the black clothes below.

The man thrashed once.

Then went still.

Victor stayed there, chest heaving, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and blood, his lip split and leaking red onto his teeth.

Rose scrambled to his side.

Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely grip his arm, but she forced them still.

“Victor,” she gasped, voice cracking. “We have to go. Now.”

He turned his head to her slowly.

Eyes wild.

Focused.

He swallowed, blood dripping off his chin.

“Are you sure?” he rasped.

She stared at him.

Really stared.

Took in the blood. The bruises. The fear behind his rage.

“I’m sure,” she whispered. Her voice didn’t shake this time.

“You’re not alone anymore. And I don’t care what your name used to be. I’m not letting you die here.”

Victor closed his eyes, exhaled like he was in pain.

And then he nodded once.

Sharp. Final.

They both stood.

And they didn’t look back.