Page 13 of The Maverick

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you just order me to sit?”

He looked up now. Slowly. The blue in his eyes darker than she remembered, a glacial calm behind it.

“I told you to sit,” he repeated. “Whether or not you do is your call. But I’ve got ground rules to go over, and I’m not chasing you around the damn kitchen while I do it.”

Her jaw flexed. “You make it sound like I’m a misbehaving pet.”

“No,” he said, rising from the table. “You’re not. You’re a woman with a sharp mind and worse habits, who needs to know how this works while you’re under my protection.”

She crossed her arms. “So that’s what we’re calling it now? Protection?”

“You’re in my house, under my roof. Until we eliminate the threat, I’m responsible for your safety. And that means you’ll follow rules that aren’t negotiable.”

“I didn’t agree to rules.”

“You did the second you called me.”

He stepped closer, not threateningly, but with a certainty that filled the space between them. He didn’t posture or puff up. He didn’t need to.

And damn if her body didn’t react before her brain did.

That steady presence, the way he looked at her like he could peel every layer back with a single command—it made her spine straighten and her blood heat in equal measure.

“Fine,” she said. “Lay them on me. Let’s hear the sacred rules of Saint Hawke.”

He didn’t blink at the sarcasm. Just listed them off like bullets.

“One: You don’t go anywhere alone. That includes the front porch and the damn mailbox. Two: If someone contacts you in any way—email, text, social media—you tell me immediately. Three: You delete nothing or clean up anything you think might be relevant. Four: You stay in this house, unless I take you out of it.”

“Wow.” She sipped her coffee. “And people say I’m bossy.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not interested in what people say. I’m only interested in keeping you alive.”

She rolled her eyes. “You make it sound like I’m being hunted.”

His face stayed steady, but his voice dropped. “You are.”

She froze. Just for a second. Then lifted her chin. “You always knew how to kill a mood.”

“I’m not here for a mood, Vanessa. I’m here because someone broke into your house, quoted something from an unpublished manuscript, and left without a trace. That doesn’t happen unless someone’s watching closely. You’re not dealing with a casual creeper. This is deliberate. And it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

She hated that her stomach twisted at his words. Hated even more that he was probably right. He might be right, but that didn’t mean she was about to roll over and make it easy for him.

“So you expect me to just sit here in your fortress and wait for permission to breathe?”

“I expect you to act like your life’s worth protecting,” he said evenly. “And if you can’t manage that, I’ll do it for you.”

Her skin flushed, a slow burn starting beneath the surface. She wasn’t used to being handled—not any more. She handled others—readers, critics, even Doms she played with at the club. She knew how to take control with a smile and a whip-smart tongue.

But Hawke didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. He just waited, still as stone, until she either folded or escalated. She hated that about him; she always had. She hated how much she wanted to see what it would take to make him lose that control.

“I haven’t decided if you’re an arrogant bastard or just the world’s most high-functioning control freak,” she said, stepping closer.

His eyes dipped to her mouth, then back up.

“I can be both.”

“I’m not one of your soldiers.”

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