Page 31 of The Maverick

“I think if we do this right, he’ll show his hand. Or make a mistake.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t back down. “This is a stupid idea.”

“It’s calculated.”

“It’s dangerous.”

He stepped close enough for her to feel it. “So am I.”

Her breath hitched, just for a second. She didn’t move away. He waited. Gave her time. But this wasn’t a negotiation.

“He wants a performance,” she said. “You want to give him one.”

“I want him to believe he’s winning. Just long enough for me to pin him to the ground and break every illusion he has.”

Vanessa studied him like she was searching for cracks. When she didn’t find any, she rolled her eyes. “Of course your plan involves theatrics. How very dominant of you.”

His mouth curved just slightly. “We won’t push too far. But we make a scene. We control the narrative. Not him.”

She didn’t answer right away. “What kind of scene?”

He hesitated.

She noticed. “I don’t think I like that pause.”

“It’s controlled,” he said. “Public. Minimal risk.”

“Hawke…”

He met her eyes. “Violet wand.”

She stilled. Completely. Of all the implements at the club, it was the one that had always made her hesitate. Not because of the potential for pain. But because of what it represented—giving up control in ways she hadn’t before. Trusting someone to stimulate, push, manipulate her body’s reactions with precision she couldn’t anticipate.

“I thought you said minimal risk,” she whispered.

“You’ll be safe. Every second.”

“I hate not knowing what it’s going to feel like.”

“I know. That’s why we use it.”

Her gaze flicked down. Not submission. Not retreat. Just consideration. Fear didn’t rule Vanessa. She didn’t get spooked. But he saw the part of her that flinched at blind surrender. That had always been the line they walked.

He could have picked something else. Could’ve chosen cuffs or rope or something softer, but he needed her trust, and she needed to take it back.

After a long pause, she looked up. “Fine. One scene. One hour. Then we leave.”

He nodded once. “Done.”

Two hours later, they stepped into the Iron Spur.

The club smelled like leather and heat and low music. The dungeon floor hummed with energy—bodies moving, murmurs of Doms checking in, subs lining the walls with practiced poise. It had always felt like home.

But tonight, Vanessa’s shoulders were straight and tight, her eyes scanning the shadows like she expected a monster to crawl out of one.

He kept his hand on the small of her back as they walked. Not just for appearance. For contact. For her. For him.

Gavin nodded once from his perch above the floor. Security was already in place. Cameras checked. Dawson was behind the wall with the facial recognition running in real time. Jesse was in the crowd, mingling like always, but wired for audio.

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