Page 64 of The Maverick

Three weeks had passed since her abduction… three weeks since he rescued her from that hell and put her in a van that felt more like a sanctuary than transport. Three weeks of being wrapped in blankets, kissed awake from nightmares, and told—firmly, repeatedly—that she was safe. That she was his. That no one would ever get near her again.

In those three weeks, Vanessa had learned the difference between protection and power. Between fear and surrender.

Hawke had taken her into his home. His bed. His arms. His heart and his soul.

Some days she woke curled against his chest, tangled in flannel and his scent, her fingers fisting the hem of his shirt like she still needed to hold on. Other days, she rode him to sunrise while he whispered filthy praise in her ear and told her how proud he was she survived.

In all things and in all ways, she belonged to him. And the funny thing? It hadn’t made her smaller. It made her stronger.

He stood over her now, and she looked up at him, her breath shallow. “Are you going to take me to bed?”

“No,” he said. “I’m going to remind you what your place is.”

“And where’s that?”

His hand slid down her jaw, thumb grazing her lips. “At my feet. In my bed. On your knees. Wherever I damn well decide.”

She smiled. “That’s a lot of places.”

“Then you better stay hydrated.”

She laughed, breathless.

He helped her up, sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her to the bedroom without another word. It would be hours before either of them came out again.

Later that night, Vanessa stood just inside the doors of the Iron Spur, dressed in a fitted black corset Hawke had laced himself, a black steampunkesque miniskirt and a collar so unmistakably his that no one dared meet her eyes for long.

The choker was new and nothing short of exquisite—an intricate collar of round-cut emeralds, gleaming white pearls, each one smooth and perfectly matched in luster. Tiny diamonds shimmered between the pearls, catching the light with every subtle movement. At the front, nestled at the hollow of the throat, hung a striking pendant: an ornate, stylized H, its curves encrusted with pave-set diamonds, bold yet elegant, unmistakably his.

The back clasped with a delicate platinum lock—small, feminine, but unyielding. Its design was clever, discreet, almost like jewelry… almost. The kind of lock that whispered claimed, not just adorned. And when it fastened, it did so with a satisfying click—final, intimate, unbreakable.

The last time she walked into the Spur, while most people knew her reputation, few had known her. Now, she was his, and that’s all anyone needed to know.

Hawke stood behind her, one hand at her waist, the other guiding her forward through the lounge. The air buzzed with music, soft moans, and the unmistakable rhythm of surrender and command. But every sound dulled compared to the steady beat of her heart.

The Doms nodded at him with subtle deference. The subs watched her with curiosity and envy. But no one touched. No one even reached.

She didn’t walk beside a man who would ask permission. She walked with the one who owned the room by presence alone.

As they passed the main scene floor, she heard someone new to the club whisper, “Is that her?”

Vanessa didn’t look, but she smiled.

Because yes. It was. She was back. And she was his.

She didn’t know how long she’d stood in the middle of the Iron Spur lounge, fingers curled loosely in Hawke’s as the world buzzed around them. Time had slipped sideways the moment she walked through those doors again, back into the place where it all began. This time it felt like the beginning of something she hadn’t dared imagine before.

The music changed, a slower beat threading through the air, and she felt Hawke shift behind her. His hand slid from her waist to her lower back, firm, directing.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low and sure.

Vanessa turned her head slightly, enough to meet his eyes over her shoulder. “Not really, but I trust you and will do as you command.”

He led her past the main stage and through the velvet curtain onto one of the smaller stages. Smaller than the main dungeon, more intimate. The space was dimly lit, shadows dancing acrossdark wood and stone, the scent of smoke and sandalwood curling through the air. Two chairs for the safety monitors sat in the corner, a cabinet of carefully arranged tools against the back wall, and a long, padded bench at the center of the room.

Fire play wasn’t new to her. She’d written it, studied it, seen it performed. But this… this would be the first time she gave herself to it. To him.

As soon as he walked her up onto the stage, the rest of the world vanished.

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