The Maverick (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #3)

Chapter 1

1

VANESSA

V anessa Ellington held the letter between her fingers like it might sprout fangs and bite her.

The paper was thick, textured, expensive. The kind reserved for wedding invitations or last wills. The handwriting, however, was careful. Precise. Too precise. Not elegant. Not casual. Like whoever wrote it wanted her to know they’d taken their time.

She read the lines again, stomach twisting even as her lips curved in a practiced smile.

Marks already scarred her wrists; the rope was a memory her body wouldn’t forget. She wanted him to see it—to know she hadn’t healed, not because it hurt, but because it still belonged to him.

That was from Sins of the Flame . A scene buried in chapter fourteen of a manuscript still locked in a password-protected folder on her laptop. Not published. Not printed. Not shared… with anyone.

And here it was, quoted back to her, word for word.

She leaned back on the soft leather couch in the submissives’ lounge at The Iron Spur, lifted the note in one hand, and deadpanned, “Either someone hacked my hard drive, or I’ve developed telepathic fans.”

Across from her, Keely stared with wide eyes and a teacup frozen midair. “That’s not funny.”

Vanessa shrugged, despite the tickle of unease crawling up her spine. “It’s a little funny.”

“It’s not.” Roxie plucked the letter from her fingers, scanning it with a frown. “There’s no return address.”

“No postmark, either,” Evangeline added from the corner, arms crossed over her chest. “Someone hand-delivered this.”

“I mean, I have a mailbox. I’m not living in a cave.” Vanessa reached for the letter again. Her hands didn’t shake. She wouldn’t let them. “Maybe it’s someone from the club.”

Keely’s lips pressed into a line. “That’s worse.”

Evangeline stood and crossed the room, graceful and lethal in her black corset, black thong and thigh high black boots. “Have you shown Gavin?”

Vanessa snorted. “Because that wouldn’t get blown into a full-scale op with aerial surveillance and body doubles.”

“He’s your security contact for a reason.”

“And I’m a grown woman who knows how to handle a fan with boundary issues.” She folded the paper in half and tucked it back into the envelope. “It’s just a quote. Creepy? Yes. Threatening? No.”

Roxie raised an eyebrow. “Creepy how?”

“It’s from a scene where the heroine’s kidnapped by a man who thinks he owns her.” Vanessa raised her hand to ward off further questions, wishing she’d kept the whole thing to herself. “And that book also includes a vampire hitman and a magical cock ring. Should I be on the lookout for supernatural jewelry, too?”

That earned her a few chuckles. The club was like that—dark humor was a shield everyone wore. But Vanessa could still feel their concern hanging in the air, thick and uncomfortable.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, more firmly. “Probably just a bored reader who got their hands on an old ARC.”

“You haven’t sent out ARCs for this book,” Roxie reminded her.

Vanessa ignored that part.

She left the club around midnight, blowing kisses and waving off worried glances like she wasn’t already mentally cataloguing her security cameras and double-checking her deadbolts. The Iron Spur always made her feel secure. She could be sharp-tongued and bratty and still know she was completely and utterly safe.

But the comfort wore off somewhere around the tenth mile of the empty road. By the time she pulled into her driveway, unease had shifted into something more solid. Not fear. Not yet. But close enough to keep her pulse ticking faster than it should.

She unlocked the front door of her Spanish-style cottage and stepped inside. Her nose wrinkled immediately. The air was… different. Not foul. Not spoiled. Just... off.

She paused in the entryway, keys still in hand. The lights were still set to the dim, warm hue she liked. Her slippers were in place by the hall bench. Nothing looked disturbed.

But the silence felt wrong.

She eased through the living room, every instinct telling her to stop, go back, call someone. But pride was a stubborn thing, and so was her temper. This was her house. Her space. She wouldn’t be driven out by paranoia.

Except for her books… she stopped in front of the massive built-in bookshelf that dominated the east wall of her main room. She organized her author copies with a precision bordering on obsessive-compulsive. She organized them by series with perfectly aligned spines. But now, someone had pulled three spines forward in the bottom row. Just enough to notice. Just enough to say, ‘I was here.’

She felt a chill run down her spine. There were no signs of forced entry. No broken windows. Nobody had tampered with the locks. But someone had been here. Someone who knew enough to leave a breadcrumb and not a mess.

Slipping over to the massive kitchen island, she grabbed a butcher knife. She knew the line about not bringing a knife to a gunfight, despite that, it was all she had. Holding the knife steady in front of her, she checked every room. The kitchen. The office. The upstairs bedrooms and her own. Everything looked untouched. Her laptop was still on the desk, the screen dark. When she opened it, her files were intact. Nothing stolen. Nothing changed. Except everything.

She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, clutching the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles ached. Even so, the worst part wasn’t that someone had broken in. It wasn’t even the note.

It was the fact that whoever did this had quoted her own work back to her.

That was intimate… calculated… personal.

After ensuring there was no one in her main bedroom and attached bath, she closed and locked herself in, moving toward her bed. Before crawling onto it, she retrieved the antique vanity chair and wedged it under the door.

Vanessa stayed awake the rest of the night, curled on her bed with a blanket and her phone in her hand. The lights stayed on. So did the cameras, which she cycled through again and again—pausing on each feed, scanning shadows for a shape that didn’t belong.

Nothing.

She made it to sunrise before she admitted the truth to herself… she was out of her depth. There was only one person she could call. Well, actually there were five, but she knew herself well enough to know that there was only one she would call.

She stared at the contact name on her phone for a long time. Hawke Turner. She hadn’t spoken to him in two years. Not since everything between them had imploded.

Not since he’d offered her everything, and she’d walked away.

Because she hadn’t trusted him.

Because she’d been afraid to need him.

Now she was dialing his number without thinking. The phone rang once. Then twice.

Then… “Vanessa.”

Her breath caught. He hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t asked who it was.

Just her name. Low. Commanding. Steady. Of course, he still had her number.

“I need you,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence stretched, thick and full of too many memories.

“I’m on my way.”

“You don’t know where I am.”

“I do.”

“You what?”

Click. The call ended. He hung up.

Vanessa stared at the phone for a long second before setting it down and whispering, “Of course you do.”

She should be furious. Offended. Alarmed. Any rational woman would be. But she wasn’t rational. Not when it came to Hawke.

The moment she’d heard his voice, she knew one thing with absolute certainty. Whatever was coming—whatever danger she’d just stepped into—he wouldn’t let it reach her, and that was the part that scared her most.

The sound of his boots on the porch made her breathe easier, but her heart beat faster.

Vanessa unlocked the door and flew down the stairs, screeching to a halt in order to compose herself. Standing just inside the front door, she braced one hand on the wall to quiet her breathing. She wasn’t someone who wrung her hands or chewed her lip waiting on a man. But Hawke wasn’t just a man, and this wasn’t just another call for help.

She peeked at the small security feed just to the left of her door to confirm it was him. The porch light illuminated Hawke—broad shoulders beneath a black jacket, his dark hair wind-ruffled and damp from the drizzle that had started just before sunrise. He walked like he was on a mission, like the world narrowed down to a single point and he owned it.

The moment she opened the door, his gaze locked on hers—sharp… piercing… controlled. God help her. She forgot how to breathe for a second.

“You said ten minutes,” she said, her voice sounding too even, too controlled, too forced.

“Made it in eight.” He stepped inside, scanning the space before she could shut the door. “Where’s the letter?”

“How do you know about the letter?”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You don’t really think everything that’s said in the submissives’ salon stays in the submissives’ salon, do you?”

He had a point. Hawke always had a point. Vanessa stepped aside and gestured toward the dining table without answering; he was already moving. He didn’t take off his jacket. Didn’t sit down. Just crossed to the envelope like he was walking into an active crime scene.

She followed a few steps behind, watching as he pulled the note free with gloved hands. Of course, he wore gloves. Of course, he came prepared. Hawke didn’t half-ass anything. That was part of the problem.

“You don’t look surprised,” she said.

“Because I’m not.”

He turned the paper sideways, examining the handwriting with a critical eye. His face remained unreadable. He was always so damn hard to read unless he wanted you to know exactly what he was thinking. Then, it was a piece of cake.

“How long have you been watching me, Hawke?” she asked.

His eyes didn’t lift. “Long enough to know you’ve had four stalker-level fans…”

“Readers,” she corrected automatically.

He looked up. He was not amused. “Fine. Four stalker-level readers in the last five years. Two harmless. One delusional. One... this one.”

Vanessa folded her arms. “I can take care of myself.”

His gaze flicked to her at the kitchen island, noticing the missing butcher knife and back to her. “No, you can’t. Not this time.”

She bit down on the flare of indignation in her chest. “Just because I don’t run to a cop or the nearest bodyguard every time someone crosses a line doesn’t mean I’m incompetent.”

“I never said you were incompetent. You didn’t call me because you needed backup,” he said, folding the letter carefully and sliding it back into the envelope. “You called me because something inside you knows this one’s different. This isn’t some reader-boy with a fantasy. This is escalation.”

“I thought maybe it was a hacker,” she said, quieter now. “Someone who got into my system and pulled a file.”

“Doubtful. I know you had Silver Spur not only install your security system but upgrade the security on your computer. Could someone have hacked their way into your files? Yes, but it’s unlikely. The other, more reasonable possibility, is that it was someone with access to your home.” He walked to her bookshelf, crouched, and touched the pulled-forward copies. “You didn’t move these?”

“No.”

“Any cleaners? Handymen? Club friends over recently?”

“None. Not here.”

He nodded and stood, taking in the room again with a slow, methodical sweep. “He wanted you to find it. That’s deliberate. That means he’s watching for your reaction. He’s studying your behavior.”

“So, what? You think he’s nearby?”

“I think he’s already been inside your head,” Hawke said, turning to face her. “Now he wants inside your life.”

Her fingers curled into fists. “I should have seen this coming.”

“No,” he said, sharp. “You don’t get to blame yourself. Not when the asshole out there made a conscious decision to target you.”

“That’s not how the public will see it.”

“To hell with the public.” His voice dropped. “I’m not here to protect your brand, Vanessa. I’m here to protect you.”

That shouldn’t have made her chest go tight, but it did. She hated how easily his voice could slide under her skin. How safe it still felt to hear her name from his mouth.

“I didn’t call you for a lecture,” she muttered, brushing past him toward the kitchen.

“Good. I didn’t come here to give one.”

She opened a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of bourbon, and poured two fingers into a glass.

Hawke leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s a bit early, don’t you think? You planning to drink to try to get some sleep or to forget someone is stalking you?”

“God, you’re an asshole. If I’m going to drink, it’ll be because I don’t want to talk about how you somehow knew where I was two seconds after picking up the phone.”

His stare didn’t flinch. “I’ve been keeping tabs.”

“You don’t have that right.”

“I never gave a damn about having the right. I cared about keeping you safe.”

She took a long sip. “You’re still an arrogant bastard.”

He took a step toward her. “And you’re still the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress who needs saving, Hawke.”

“Never said you were.”

“You showed up like you’re ready to move me into a panic room.”

His voice dropped an octave. “If I thought that would keep you breathing, I’d carry you there myself.”

Her breath caught, and she hated how easily he could do that to her. With just a few words, a look, he could undo the armor she’d spent years perfecting.

“You don’t get to protect me now after walking away,” she said, voice quiet but sharp.

“I didn’t walk.”

Vanessa stilled. “No, you ran.”

Hawke watched her for a moment, then stepped back, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, we need to secure this place.”

“I’ve got cameras. Locks. Alarms.”

“And he still got in.”

She had no argument. He paced the perimeter of the room like he was taking inventory. Paused at each entry point. Checked the window seals. Every move he made was efficient, precise, calculated. The soldier in him had never faded.

She sat on the edge of the couch, bourbon in hand, watching him. “I’d forgotten that you always come prepared.”

“Only for the important clients or ones I care about.”

The silence after that was thick. Heavy with everything that had been unspoken between them for years. She looked away first.

“So, what’s your plan?” she asked, swirling the last of the bourbon in her glass.

“You’re coming with me,” he said.

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.