Page 45 of The Maverick

Then she pulled away. “Go write the next chapter, Hawke.”

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He turned, walked out, and locked the door behind him. Then he pulled out his phone, opened the secured group thread, and typed:

We have a leak. Lock everything down. I want a list of everyone with access to the network—Silver Spur and the club—internal logs and all non-staff activity for the last six months. I don’t care who it is. If they’re on site, I want eyes on them. Now.

He hit send. Then he climbed into his truck, the night pressing thick around him, and drove out of the compound with a single thought repeating in his head like a war drum:

This story doesn’t end the way Brenner wants. It ends when and how I say it does.

Hawke was ready to write the final page.

11

VANESSA

Vanessa sat on the edge of the futon, legs crossed beneath her, her fingers curled around a chipped ceramic mug of coffee that had long gone cold. The safe room was quiet, a little too quiet now that Keely and Roxie were gone. They’d left not five minutes ago, Keely dragging Reed out with a look that promised there would be bruises if he argued, Roxie slipping into Gavin’s orbit like she belonged there.

Vanessa didn’t move—not when the door clicked shut behind them... not when the quiet settled like a weight across her chest. And not even when the monitor showed a familiar face outside the reinforced steel door. Only when it opened—when he stepped inside—did she breathe again.

Hawke. He stood in the doorway, still dressed in black from head to toe, that damn field jacket slung over one shoulder, jaw shadowed with scruff. No one else could fill a room with silence like he could. She didn’t need a report to know what he’d found—or hadn’t.

He crossed to her without speaking and crouched in front of her.

“All clear?” she asked quietly.

“No sign of anyone near the cabin,” he said. “Security measures untouched. No trip alarms. No trace.”

“But?”

“But I still don’t like it.”

She reached for him then, hand curling into his collar, tugging him closer until his forehead pressed to hers. Her voice came out tight. “He tried to kill Charles.”

“I know.”

She hadn’t meant to say it like that. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. But there was something hollow under her ribs now, something sharp and gnawing and getting louder every hour.

“I keep trying to make it feel normal again,” she whispered. “But I can’t turn it off. Not the waiting. Not the watching. Not the part of me that’s just… bracing.”

“You’re not supposed to turn it off.” Hawke pulled back enough to meet her eyes. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

Vanessa’s throat tightened.

He stood and held out his hand. Just one simple gesture. No command. No coaxing. Just presence. Steady. Certain. Hers if she wanted it.

She didn’t hesitate.

He led her to the back of the vault area, which they had made more comfortable to cater to those in the lifestyle. There were no cameras in this space, only two monitors set into the walls—one showed the entrance to the vault and the other the entrance to this room. There were no microphones. All that was there was a private bath, an enormous bed with its own padded restraint system, as well as two wardrobes. One contained fet wear in various sizes and a place to store streetwear clothing. The other, a smorgasbord of various tools and implements—floggers, whips, gags, vibrators, violet wands, etc.

But for Vanessa, the most important thing in the room was the man who had never once made her feel less than whole.

He didn’t speak as he unzipped the hoodie she was wearing. Slow. Deliberate. He unzipped it completely before pushing it down her arms, baring her to the waist and then tracing the line of her collarbone with his thumb.

“You’re carrying too much,” he murmured as he slowly removed the rest of her clothing.

She nodded.

“And you’re still trying to control the fallout.”

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