Page 63 of The Maverick

“Vanessa,” Connie said, her voice bright and a little breathless. “I’ve got news.”

Vanessa tucked her knees beneath her and smiled. “The good kind or the brace-yourself kind?”

“Oh, definitely the good kind. The manuscript you sent? Your editor called it your best work yet. She wasn’t wrong. They’re offering a three-book deal. Major money, and I mean major money upfront and Netflix wants to option it.”

Vanessa blinked. “Wait… what?”

“Your voice is sharper. Stronger. They said you’re writing like someone who has finally made peace with who she is and what she wants.”

The door creaked open behind her. She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. The sound of Hawke’s boots on the hardwood was unmistakable. Measured. Heavy. Intentional. He walked like a man who owned the surrounding space. Because he did. He’d earned it.

Vanessa looked up across the room. Hawke stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with that steady, unreadable gaze that always made her feel like the most seen woman in the world.

“Vanessa?” said Connie. “We need to talk.”

Vanessa grinned. “Later,” she said before ending the call.

“You’re not where I left you,” he said, voice low, roughened from the cold and laced with amusement.

Vanessa smiled without looking at him. “I moved six feet.”

“That’s four more than I like when I’m not in the room.”

She turned now, watching him cross to her. He still wore the black thermal and jeans he’d worked in earlier, sleeves pushed up, forearms streaked with sawdust. There was an axe mark on the side of one boot and a fresh cut across his knuckle. Her gaze caught on the latter.

“You didn’t use gloves again.”

He stopped in front of her and reached down, catching her chin between his fingers. “Is that how you greet your Dom?”

She tilted her head. “By fussing over his hands?”

“No,” he said, tugging her to her feet. “By kneeling.”

Her stomach flipped. “Now?”

“You’re done writing.”

Vanessa’s body reacted before her brain could catch up. That was what he’d trained into her these past few weeks—not obedience, not compliance. Instinct. Safety. She slid off the window seat, sinking gracefully to her knees on the hardwood floor, palms resting lightly on her thighs, head bowed.

“Good girl,” Hawke murmured.

Heat bloomed low in her belly.

His hand slid into her hair, his fingers tightening just enough to tilt her head back. “How many chapters today?”

“Three.”

“Any of them about him?”

Her pulse jumped. “No, Master.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not in the story anymore.”

Hawke bent, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “Exactly right.”

She shivered.

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