Chapter 2
2
HAWKE
H awke 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?—”
“Vanessa.”
Her mouth snapped shut. He stepped in, took the bag from her shoulder, and dropped it near the door. Not harshly. Not carelessly. Just enough to remind her who was in charge now.
“I’m not leaving you here. That’s not up for discussion.”
“I don’t need you to protect me like some hostage in stilettos.”
“You’re not a hostage. You’re a target. And that makes you my priority.”
“Still sounds a lot like control.”
“Because it is,” he said. “Control keeps people alive. It’s what stops mistakes. It’s what separates the people who walk away from a threat and the ones who bleed out because they didn’t want to listen.”
Her nostrils flared. “This is about more than the stalker.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “It is.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Not even a little.”
“Really? Because you’re acting like dragging me out of my home and barking orders is just your idea of foreplay.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t have to.
“If I wanted foreplay,” he said low, “you’d already be on your knees, and I wouldn’t be doing it in the middle of a crime scene.”
She flushed a deeper shade of red, but she didn’t step back. Didn’t drop her gaze.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still fighting battles you don’t have to fight.” He paused. “I told you once—you call me, you get me. That includes the parts you don’t like.”
“Like the part where you take over my life?”
“Like the part where I make damn sure you don’t get killed because you’re too proud to admit when you need backup.”
She broke eye contact then, just for a second, and that was all the confirmation he needed. He saw it in the tightness of her jaw, the way her hands fisted at her sides. The fear was there. Just buried under all that defiance.
He let it sit between them for a beat. Then he laid it down, steady and calm.
“We can go over the rest of the rules when we get to my place,” he said. “You do exactly what I tell you.”
She crossed her arms. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I take your phone, and we go into silent mode until this is over.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.” His voice stayed calm. “Because I’d rather have you pissed at me and alive than cooperative and dead.”
She stared at him like she wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. He never could tell with her. That unpredictability was part of what made her so addictive. Vanessa wasn’t easy. She didn’t bend. But when she finally surrendered, it was complete.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered.
He picked up her bag and opened the door, offering her his hand.
“You’ll know when I begin to enjoy it, Nessa.”
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, she would’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.
“You been writing?” he asked finally.
She glanced at him, suspicious. “Yes. Obviously.”
“Still selling out releases?”
“Every time.”
He nodded. “Good.”
Silence again. This time, heavier.
“You been watching my career, Hawke?” she asked, voice too light.
“I’ve been watching everything.”
Her laugh was low and humorless. “Right. Because you never walk away from a mission.”
His grip tightened on the wheel. “You’re not a mission.”
She didn’t argue, and that was almost worse.
When they turned onto the gravel road leading to his house, she leaned forward slightly, taking it in. The two-story timber cabin rose out of the trees like it had grown organically from the scenic countryside itself—rugged, reinforced, and unapologetically private. No neighbors. No passersby. Just them and the woods and the wind.
“You still living like a man on a watchlist,” she muttered.
“I still live smart,” he corrected.
“You still live alone.”
“I still live prepared.”
He parked and cut the engine. Vanessa didn’t move. She looked out at the tree line, the faint glow of security lights tucked into camouflaged posts, the slow rise of the hills beyond.
“You get bored out here?” she asked.
“No.”
“Must be easy, keeping everything under control when no one else is around.”
He turned his head, met her gaze.
“I don’t need silence to keep control. I need focus. You coming here doesn’t change that.”
She blinked. “Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
He stepped out and walked around the truck. Opened her door again. She hesitated just long enough to register it as defiance, then climbed out.
Inside the house, she stopped just past the threshold, scanning the space like a wary cat in unfamiliar territory.
The open floor plan exposed everything. Kitchen, dining, living room, all anchored around a massive stone fireplace. Polished wood floors. Warm lighting. Clean lines. Nothing flashy, but nothing soft.
It was Hawke’s world. No clutter. No chaos. Every object in its place.
She dropped her purse on the entry bench, arms still crossed.
“Bedroom’s upstairs. End of the hall on the right.”
She lifted a brow. “Is that where you sleep?”
“No, I’m across the hall.” He crossed to the kitchen, tugging off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. “You hungry?”
“No.”
“Tired?”
She gave him a look. “You offering me a snack and a nap like I’m a child?”
“I’m giving you options. You’ve been on edge for hours. You need rest before we get to work.”
She folded her arms tighter. “You still think I’m a delicate, fragile little thing?”
“I think you’re wired too tight to think clearly, and you don’t have the luxury of falling apart. That means we regroup, we plan, and we find the bastard who got into your house.”
Vanessa turned away. Walked toward the stone fireplace, then back, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or sit down.
“You’ve already decided how this plays out,” she said. “You’ve already mapped out the next seventy-two hours.”
He didn’t deny it. “I don’t operate without a plan.”
She faced him again, expression unreadable.
“And if I refuse to play by your rules?”
He crossed to her slowly. Stopped just a few inches away. “Then I’ll remind you how good it can feel when you don’t.”
Her eyes flashed. That challenge. That anger. That heat. It was still there. Still simmering, even now. She didn’t step back. She never had.
“Don’t make this about the past,” she whispered.
“It’s not. But I’m not pretending we don’t have one.”
Vanessa looked up at him, and in that moment, she wasn’t just guarded or combative. She was scared. Pissed. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
And he was all in.
“You’re staying,” he said, voice firm. “Until this is over.”
Her lips parted, ready to argue.
He leaned in. Not touching. Not teasing. Just close enough that she could feel what was between them.
“And while you’re here, you follow my lead. No games. No fighting me for the sake of it. You do that, I keep you safe. That’s the deal.”
She stared at him for a long, pulsing second.
Then she walked past him, toward the stairs.
“You don’t have to like it,” he said. “But you’re here now. And I’m not giving you room to run.”
Her voice softened. Just barely. “Is that what you think I did? Two years ago?”
He looked at her, really looked. Hair wild from the wind. Face pale from exhaustion. But still proud. Still defiant.
“You didn’t run, Vanessa. You walked. Calm. Controlled. Dead behind the eyes.”
She looked away. “I had my reasons.”
“I’m sure you did.” He headed for the kitchen, pulled two mugs from the cabinet. “We can unpack that later. Right now, I want food in you and a few hours of sleep before we start digging.”
“I’m not a civilian,” she called after him.
“No. You’re a brat with control issues who thinks sleeping with a blade under her pillow makes her invincible.”
He heard the soft huff of disbelief from the living room. “You don’t know me anymore.”
“Maybe not,” he said, pouring the coffee. “But I still know what you need.”
Silence followed that. Thick and loaded.
He brought her the mug, handed it over, fingers brushing hers.
“Drink. Shower. Nap. We start at noon.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” she said setting the mug down.
“You didn’t have to.”
She held his gaze for a beat.
“Fine. But don’t think for one second this means I’m staying.”
Hawke leaned closer, voice quiet and firm.
“You’re staying until I find out who’s doing this. And when I do, you’re going to watch me make him regret ever touching your name.”
Vanessa stared at him, fire in her eyes, defiance in every inch of her posture. He’d known what he was walking into when he answered that phone. He just hadn’t expected to want the fight this badly.
“I’ll take the shower first,” she said without looking back. “Try not to map out my life while I’m gone.”
Hawke watched her move up the stairs with clipped, deliberate steps. Even now, she was trying to maintain control. Trying to pretend this was her choice, not his. He watched her go, watched her hips deliberately sway as she disappeared up the stairs, and knew exactly what this was going to be… absolute hell.