Page 54 of The Maverick

13

VANESSA

The first thing Vanessa registered was the floor—stone-cold and unforgiving beneath her bare skin. Not smooth. Not polished. Stone. The air smelled of furniture polish and damp leather, and something more metallic underneath. She blinked hard to clear the haze from her vision, but the low, amber lighting cast long shadows and a pounding headache felt as if she’d been drugged. Not heavily, but disoriented. Precision work.

Her heart jackhammered against her ribs as she pushed up slowly to her elbows. Her arms trembled under her, knees scraped and raw. Her mouth was dry, her lips cracked.

Then her eyes adjusted.

The dungeon wasn't real. Well, it was, but it wasn’t. It was a replica—an uncanny imitation of a room she had described inSubmission & Fire, right down to the high-beamed ceiling, the stone floor, and the cross on the far wall draped with red silk cuffs. Her breath caught as her gaze flicked to the table beside it.

Polished wood. Implements she had once written about with almost painful detail. Not toys used by a Dom to bring pleasure. These had been the villain’s tools. The ones she’d deliberately turned brutal. Symbolic. For fiction.

Not real… except now they were.

“Do you see it?”

The voice sent a chill down her spine. Vanessa whipped her head to the side, too fast, and the world tilted. She caught herself before falling fully, her hands splaying across the floor as she steadied her balance.

Then she saw him.

Miles Brenner stood across the room, just outside the shadows. Trim build. Short brown hair. Clean-cut, like a tech consultant from a suburban office park. He looked painfully normal. Except his eyes—too bright, too focused, glittering with something sharp and wild.

“I made it exactly like your book,” he said softly. “Do you remember the chapter? Twenty-one. Scene three. The one where he finally takes her home.”

Vanessa’s throat closed.

He stepped closer into the light. Jeans, boots, black thermal. Nothing flashy. Nothing dramatic. But in his hand, he held the book. The pages were dog-eared, covered in notes—some of them scribbled in black ink, others highlighted. A corner was torn.

She didn’t speak.

He strolled to the edge of the dungeon table and ran his hand along the wood like it was a lover.

“You twisted it, of course,” Miles said, smiling faintly. “Changed the ending. Watered him down. Made him... palatable. You turned him into Hawke.”

She didn’t mean to speak. But the name tumbled out, cracked and breathless. “Where is he?”

Miles’ expression didn’t shift, but his grip on the book tightened. The sound of paper crumpling was unmistakable.

“Always him,” he said softly. “Even now.”

Vanessa shifted, trying to assess her injuries. Nothing broken. No restraints, except for the one on her ankle. That was worse.

“You drugged me,” she said.

Miles shrugged. “A little ketamine derivative. Just enough to keep you calm during transport. You’ll be clear soon. That’s the beauty of the blend.”

She forced herself upright, spine straightening even as her knees protested. “Why, Miles?”

He blinked. “Why what?”

“Why take me?”

His jaw clenched. “Because you wouldn’t see me.”

Vanessa stared at him, heart hammering.

“You saw him. You let him touch you. Scene with you. Fuck you in front of an audience.” His voice darkened. “I was there. At the club. That night.”

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