Page 7 of The Maverick

She stared at his hand for a long second. Suspicion. Fire. That impossible pride that made her impossible to manage—and impossible to forget.

Then, finally, she placed her hand in his.

Hawke didn’t allow himself a breath of relief. Didn’t allow himself anything except forward momentum. He wrapped his fingers around hers, firm but steady, and led her toward the front door without another word.

Her fingers twitched in his, a silent protest, but she didn’t pull away. He took that for what it was: a crack in the armor she’d spent years welding into place.

He stepped into the misty morning, scanning the quiet street without breaking stride. Light fog clung to the ground, softening the edges of the trees and the small front yard. Visibility was down. Good for his exit strategy, bad for a clean sweep. Whoever had left that letter—whoever had breached her space—wasn’t out here now.

If they had been, Hawke would’ve found them. He walked her to the passenger side of his truck, opened the door, and waited.

Vanessa arched an eyebrow. “Chivalry or control?”

“Both.”

She snorted and climbed in. No thank you, no hesitation, just pure Vanessa. Stubborn, elegant, untamed. The door shut with a satisfying click, and he circled around to the driver’s side. Hawke tossed her bag in the backseat and slid behind the wheel.

“You’re lucky I trust you,” she said as he pulled away from the curb.

“No,” he replied, eyes on the road. “You’re lucky I don’t need your permission.”

She didn’t respond, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the way her jaw twitched. Fire and fury. That was Vanessa. Never went quietly. Never obeyed without a fight.

It was going to be hell having her in his space, and he was going to love every minute of it.

“You didn’t arm the complete system last night.”

“I didn’t expect company,” she said, voice dry.

“You got lucky.”

She bristled beside him. “I didn’t call you for a lecture.”

“You didn’t call me until the situation was already in play. If I hadn’t shown up…”

“But you did.”

That clipped response told him exactly how hard she was working to hold the walls up. If she hadn’t been terrified, shewould’ve kept sparring. Teasing. Lashing out like a good brat trying to provoke the Dom in the room—or the truck. But this wasn’t about the club. Not anymore.

He glanced at her as he drove. She sat rigid in the seat, hands clenched together in her lap, jaw tight. Defensive posture. Every muscle on high alert.

“Seatbelt,” he said.

She clicked it in without looking at him. “Happy?”

“No.”

He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to. He was driving a truck at five a.m. with a woman who hadn’t spoken to him in two years sitting beside him because someone had invaded her home. No, happy wasn’t even in the neighborhood.

“You always drive like you’re in an op?” she asked, glancing at the speedometer.

He turned onto the highway. “You want me casual, or you want me effective?”

She didn’t answer. Not out loud. But the way her fingers tightened on the armrest gave him his answer.

They drove in silence for several minutes, the kind of silence that was full of unspoken things—questions neither of them was ready to ask, and truths they weren’t ready to dig up. Not yet.

But it burned. The proximity. The unsaid. The fact that her scent was the same—vanilla and cedar and something darker—and that just being near her still affected him in a way nothing else did.

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