Page 22 of The Maverick

Hawke was up before the sun.

Not because he hadn’t slept—he had. Deep and uninterrupted, Vanessa curled against his chest like she’d belonged there all along. But the moment light began to cut across the ridgeline, his body snapped back into work mode. Protector. Strategist. Sentinel.

He moved quietly through the cabin, barefoot on cold wood floors, eyes alert as he checked the cameras first and then the file Reed had sent overnight before heading out to check the perimeter.

When he returned, he noticed Vanessa’s laptop was where he’d left it, untouched since she’d fallen asleep. She had neatly folded her scattered clothes and placed them on the edge of the dining table.

She hadn’t said a word about what they’d done. Hadn’t needed to. But this morning, he had hung back. Not out of guilt. Not out of regret. Hawke didn’t regret control. Not when it kept people alive.

But he needed to observe her now. Watch how she moved. Gauge what walls had gone back up. She’d given him everythinglast night—her mouth, her body, her submission—but the fight in her wasn’t gone. It lay coiled, sleeping beneath her skin.

And he needed her sharp. She couldn’t fall apart now.

When she emerged from the bedroom around eight, her hair was damp and coiled at the base of her neck, a fresh bruise blooming at the base of her throat. His mark. She was wearing another one of his shirts and a pair of leggings she must’ve found in her overnight bag.

He didn’t speak, and she didn’t look at him right away.

She poured herself some coffee, padded across the floor, and dropped into the armchair near the fireplace. Then she lifted her gaze, met his.

“You always stare at people this early in the morning?”

He kept his voice level. “Only when I’m trying to figure out if they’re about to self-destruct or make coffee.”

She sipped. “I can do both—the two are not mutually exclusive.”

“They are in my house.”

That earned a slight lift of her eyebrow, but she didn’t argue. He stepped away from the wall where he’d been leaning and dropped into the chair across from her. No table between them. No distance that would make either of them feel too safe.

“I need a list,” he said.

Vanessa didn’t flinch. “Of what?”

“Even though we’re going to focus on Brenner, I want the names of every submissive scene partner you’ve had in the last two years. Anyone you rejected. Anyone who asked and you declined. Anyone who lingered too long at your author table or tried to cross lines outside of the club.”

She took another slow sip before answering. “You think it’s someone I scened with?”

“I think whoever this is has a fantasy about you that feels personal. Like they’ve constructed a shared past that never existed.”

“That’s not rare.”

“True. But this one’s been close. In your space. Watching. He’s studied your schedule, your writing style, your triggers.”

She frowned. “Triggers?”

“The quotes he picked. The scenes. It’s not random. He knows which ones carry weight.”

Vanessa set the mug down on the floor beside her and curled her legs under her. “I don’t keep a journal of ‘guys who couldn’t take a hint.’ Some of them only showed up once. Some never touched me at all.”

“I don’t need the entire roster. Just the ones who felt off.”

She exhaled slowly. “Okay. There’s a guy named Brent who used to follow me out of the club. Security warned him off eventually. A scene partner named Mark—he was fine at first, but then he started pushing outside the negotiated limits. Tried to surprise me with gifts. I shut it down fast.”

“Last names?”

“No idea on Brent. Mark went by Mark Langston. But I don’t think that was real.”

Hawke made a mental note. “Anyone else?”

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