Page 5 of The Maverick

She laughed, short and humorless. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t just bark orders and expect me to heel.”

“I’m not asking you to heel, Vanessa. I’m telling you to obey and to stay alive. There’s a difference.”

She stared at the empty crystal glass in her hand, then set it down.

“I don’t like being told what to do.”

His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You used to love it.”

Heat flushed her skin, unwanted and immediate. “That was a long time ago,” she said.

“Not long enough to forget how you sound when you surrender.”

The bourbon burned hotter in her chest now. “This isn’t a game,” she said.

“I’m not playing. I never played with you.” Hawke crossed to her, leaned down so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. “You’re not safe here. I will not argue with you about that.”

She swallowed hard. “You still think you can control everything.”

“No. But I can control this.” His voice went cold. “I’m taking you out of here. You can pack a bag, or I’ll throw one together for you. Either way, you’re coming with me.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I won’t let you.”

She should’ve been furious. She should’ve pushed back. Instead, her heart beat just a little faster.

“You’re a fucking neanderthal, you know that?” she whispered.

His eyes locked with hers. “And you always loved it.”

That—right there—that was the moment she knew she was going with him. Not because he demanded it. Not because he made the call. But because deep down, a part of her still trusted him more than anyone else.

Even when she didn’t want to. Even when it terrified her.

2

HAWKE

Hawke crossed the room again, checked the camera feed on her wall monitor. Front and rear doors were clear. No sign of movement near the perimeter, but that meant little. Whoever had done this knew her schedule, knew how to get in without a trace, and knew how to mess with her head.

It was calculated. Personal. A message disguised as a quote.

He hated it had worked.

Footsteps creaked overhead, and he imagined her in the bedroom—probably throwing clothes into a bag with more irritation than organization. If she packed that stubborn attitude of hers, he’d have to deal with it for the next seventy-two hours at minimum. Longer if this asshole didn’t make a mistake soon.

She came back down with a bag slung over her shoulder, face flushed, green eyes narrowed. She was furious. Good. Furious was better than terrified. Furious meant she hadn’t shut down yet.

“You don’t get to dictate where I sleep,” she said, brushing past him toward the door.

“I’m not dictating. I’m informing you.”

She spun around. “Oh, well in that case, by all means?—”

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