Page 1 of The Maverick

1

VANESSA

Vanessa Ellington held the letter between her fingers like it might sprout fangs and bite her.

The paper was thick, textured, expensive. The kind reserved for wedding invitations or last wills. The handwriting, however, was careful. Precise. Too precise. Not elegant. Not casual. Like whoever wrote it wanted her to know they’d taken their time.

She read the lines again, stomach twisting even as her lips curved in a practiced smile.

Marks already scarred her wrists; the rope was a memory her body wouldn’t forget. She wanted him to see it—to know she hadn’t healed, not because it hurt, but because it still belonged to him.

That was fromSins of the Flame.A scene buried in chapter fourteen of a manuscript still locked in a password-protected folder on her laptop. Not published. Not printed. Not shared… with anyone.

And here it was, quoted back to her, word for word.

She leaned back on the soft leather couch in the submissives’ lounge at The Iron Spur, lifted the note in one hand, and deadpanned, “Either someone hacked my hard drive, or I’ve developed telepathic fans.”

Across from her, Keely stared with wide eyes and a teacup frozen midair. “That’s not funny.”

Vanessa shrugged, despite the tickle of unease crawling up her spine. “It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not.” Roxie plucked the letter from her fingers, scanning it with a frown. “There’s no return address.”

“No postmark, either,” Evangeline added from the corner, arms crossed over her chest. “Someone hand-delivered this.”

“I mean, I have a mailbox. I’m not living in a cave.” Vanessa reached for the letter again. Her hands didn’t shake. She wouldn’t let them. “Maybe it’s someone from the club.”

Keely’s lips pressed into a line. “That’s worse.”

Evangeline stood and crossed the room, graceful and lethal in her black corset, black thong and thigh high black boots. “Have you shown Gavin?”

Vanessa snorted. “Because that wouldn’t get blown into a full-scale op with aerial surveillance and body doubles.”

“He’s your security contact for a reason.”

“And I’m a grown woman who knows how to handle a fan with boundary issues.” She folded the paper in half and tucked it back into the envelope. “It’s just a quote. Creepy? Yes. Threatening? No.”

Roxie raised an eyebrow. “Creepy how?”

“It’s from a scene where the heroine’s kidnapped by a man who thinks he owns her.” Vanessa raised her hand to ward off further questions, wishing she’d kept the whole thing to herself. “And that book also includes a vampire hitman and a magical cock ring. Should I be on the lookout for supernatural jewelry, too?”

That earned her a few chuckles. The club was like that—dark humor was a shield everyone wore. But Vanessa could still feel their concern hanging in the air, thick and uncomfortable.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, more firmly. “Probably just a bored reader who got their hands on an old ARC.”

“You haven’t sent out ARCs for this book,” Roxie reminded her.

Vanessa ignored that part.

She left the club around midnight, blowing kisses and waving off worried glances like she wasn’t already mentally cataloguing her security cameras and double-checking her deadbolts. The Iron Spur always made her feel secure. She could be sharp-tongued and bratty and still know she was completely and utterly safe.

But the comfort wore off somewhere around the tenth mile of the empty road. By the time she pulled into her driveway, unease had shifted into something more solid. Not fear. Not yet. But close enough to keep her pulse ticking faster than it should.

She unlocked the front door of her Spanish-style cottage and stepped inside. Her nose wrinkled immediately. The air was… different. Not foul. Not spoiled. Just... off.

She paused in the entryway, keys still in hand. The lights were still set to the dim, warm hue she liked. Her slippers were in place by the hall bench. Nothing looked disturbed.

But the silence felt wrong.

---